Earle Walcott - The Apple of Discord

Moon Ying

Colonel Wharton Kendrick leaned back in his chair, stroked his red side-whiskers reflectively, and looked across the table with an expression of embarrassment on his round ruddy face. For the moment his command of words had evidently failed him.

As embarrassment and failure of language were equally foreign to his nature, I was confirmed in a growing suspicion that there had been an ulterior purpose behind his cordial invitation to luncheon. The meal had been a good one, and he was paying for it, and so I felt that I owed him my moral support. Therefore, I returned such a look of encouragement as might properly express the feelings of a fledgling attorney toward a millionaire who was the probable source of active litigation, and waited for him to speak.

"See here, Hampden," he said at last; "you know something about my row with Peter Bolton, don't you?"

"The Bolton-Kendrick feud is a part of my very earliest recollections," I admitted. "When I was a small boy I was convinced that it was quite as much a part of the institutions of the country as the Fourth of July. You may remember that my father took something of an interest in your affairs."

"Good old Dick Hampden–the best friend a man ever had!" And there was a note of tenderness in his voice that touched my heart-strings. "It was a sad loss when he went, my boy. Well, then I needn't go into the beginning of the feud, as no doubt he explained it all to you."

"I should like very much to have an account of it at first hand," I replied. In spite of my familiarity with the quarrels between Bolton and Kendrick, I had never solved the mystery of the beginning of the feud. Its origin was as deeply buried in the haze of historic doubts as the causes of the Trojan War. I had heard it assigned to a dozen different beginnings, ranging from a boyhood battle for the possession of a red apple to a maturer rivalry for the hand of the village belle, who had finally bestowed herself on a suitor whose very name was forgotten. None of the explanations seemed adequate. The first could scarce account for the depth of hatred that each felt for the other. As for the last–imagination refused to picture Peter Bolton in the figure of a sighing swain; the caricature was too monstrous for credit. Therefore, I spoke hopefully, as one who sees the doors of mystery ajar. But Wharton Kendrick shrank from the task of enlightening me, and with a shake of his head he replied:

"Well, there's no need to go into it all now. It began back in the Ohio village where we were born–long before the days we heard of California–and it'll end when one of us is carried out feet foremost."

"I hope you're not expecting anything of that sort," I said.

"No, I can't say that I am. I'm expecting something, and I don't know what it is. But what I want to know is this: Have you any objections to doing a bit of secret service?" The manner in which he plunged through his sentence, and the air of visible relief on his face when he had done, told me that this was what he had been leading toward.

"Well, that depends. You know there are some things considered unprofessional–"

"Even in the law!" said Wharton Kendrick with a jovial laugh. "Oh, thunder! What would the game be if we didn't pretend to have rules? Well, I don't think this is anything that would get you on the black books, though some of you fellows are so confounded touchy that I've shied away from mentioning it to you. I want you to keep an eye on Bolton for a while, and find out what he is up to."

"That sounds as though you wanted a private detective agency," I said dubiously, with distrust of my ability to fill the bill.

"If I had wanted one I should have sent for it," replied Wharton Kendrick dryly. "I've had enough experience of them to know that I don't want them. I want you because I must have some one I can trust."

I murmured my thanks at this expression of esteem. It was the more gratifying as, like the rest of my father's old friends, he had carefully avoided giving me his legal business, with a wise but annoying preference for having me try my 'prentice hand on the litigation of strangers. So at this I professed my entire willingness to be of service.

"That's good," he said. "Now, I've had warning from a source I trust that Bolton is fixing up some sort of surprise for me. I want you to find out what it is. Six months ago I got the same sort of hint that came to me this morning, and I forgot all about it. Then one day I got a jolt that cost me a cool hundred thousand dollars when I found that Bolton had taken the Golden West Land and Water Company away from me. He got hold of some of the stock that I thought was in safe hands, and I had to pay four prices to get it. I've a notion that the thing is more serious this time."

Something in his voice suggested alarming possibilities.

"Do you mean that Bolton is plotting against your life?"

"Oh, I don't say that. But, oh, thunder! You wouldn't put it beyond him, would you?"

"Not beyond his morals, perhaps; but I should certainly put it beyond his courage."

"Oh, P. Bolton isn't the man to go gunning for any one. But he hasn't any scruples against getting another man to do it for him. That's why he owns the Miroban mine."

"You don't mean to say so? I never heard of that."

"I suppose not. You're too young to remember the murder of the Eddy boys. They had located the Miroban mine, and one day they struck it rich. Bolton put in a claim that he had bought it from a prior locator, and pretty soon they were all tangled up in litigation. One night somebody poked a double-barreled shot-gun through a window in the Eddy boys' cabin, and filled them full of buckshot. There was a good deal of excitement about it for a while, but nobody could find out the man who did the shooting, and we were all too busy in those days to waste much time hunting criminals. When the talk died down, Bolton was found in possession of the Miroban."

"And you think–"

"I don't know who pulled the trigger, but I know well enough that Bolton pointed the gun."

"Old Bolton is a more interesting character than I had supposed," I confessed.

"You'll have a chance to get better acquainted with him," said Kendrick, "but I can't promise you that he improves on acquaintance." He smoothed his ruddy cheeks, and ran his fingers through his side-whiskers, and then continued: "You'd better not come to see me till you have something important to report. You'll find it easier to get hold of things if the old spider doesn't know that you are in my employ. Send word around to my office when you want to see me. I suppose you'll want some money. You needn't spare expense. I guess this will do for a starter." And, reaching into his pocket, he brought up a handful of twenties and passed them over. And in this pleasant way began my active relations with the famous feud that was to shake San Francisco to its foundations.

Several days of cautious but diligent inquiry followed before my industry was rewarded with an insight into Peter Bolton's purposes. Then a lead of much promise opened, and I sent word to my employer that I was prepared to make a progress report.

"Come around to the office to-night–nine-thirty," was the reply; and prompt to the minute I mounted the stairs of the California Street building in which Wharton Kendrick kept his business quarters, and knocked at his private door.

At his brusk "Come in," I entered, and found him seated behind his wide desk busily running over a bundle of papers. The gas-light fell on his ruddy face and was reflected in glints from his red side-whiskers with which he eked out the fullness of his cheeks. He was indeed a handsome man, and carried his sixty years with the ease of forty.