A Cousin's Conspiracy: or, A Boy's Struggle for an Inheritance

He examined the watch, and decided that its value was probably not far from a hundred dollars. In fact, the old man had bought it in St. Louis, and had selected a high-priced article.

It did occur to Burns that perhaps he had better remain satisfied with what he had got, for the watch would probably bring him fifty dollars at a sacrifice sale; but the temptation to stay was too strong.

“It would be a sin to give up such a fine chance,” he reflected. “There’s next to no risk, and I may get two hundred dollars.”

Then he began to consider what he would do in that case. He decided that he would go to San Francisco, and see what pickings he could find there.

He had already found out that mining men and others in the far West were more careless about their money than those in the East, probably because money came easier.

“I did well when I came out here,” he said to himself in a tone of congratulation. “I’ll make hay while the sun shines.”

Meanwhile, though he did not know it, his visit was expected, and preparations were being made to receive him.

After supper Luke Robbins came to the store and held a conference with Ernest.

“I am going to pass the night with you, lad,” he said.

“I wish you would, Luke.”

“I want to help you do the honors to my old friend Burns.”

“Perhaps he won’t call.”

“If he knows what’s best for him he won’t, but he will be like the foolish moth, and won’t be contented till he has singed his wings. I will look about me and see where to bestow myself for the night.”

Ernest occupied a bed in the rear of the store, just behind one of the counters. It was near a window in the rear of the building.

“I’ll take that bed, Ernest, and you can find another place.”

“Shall I fasten the window?”

“No. I am going to make it easy for my friend, Burns, to get in. Whether he will find it as easy to get out will be another matter.”

Nothing was said to the miners about the presence of a thief in the settlement. At that time there was no toleration for thieves. The punishment visited upon them was short, sharp and decisive. The judge most in favor was Judge Lynch, and woe be to the offender who ventured to interfere with the rights of property.

Had Luke breathed a word about Burns, half a dozen miners would have volunteered to stand guard, and would thus have interfered with Tom Burns’s visit.

“I want to keep all the fun to myself, Ernest,” said Luke. “We’ll give him a lesson he won’t soon forget. If I told the boys they’d hang him up in short order. I don’t want to take the fellow’s life, but I’ll give him a first-class scare.”

It was about ten minutes of twelve when Tom Burns, leaving his place of concealment, walked with eager steps toward the mining settlement. The one street was not illuminated, for Oreville had not got along as far as that. The moon gave an indistinct light, relieving the night of a part of its gloom.

Burns looked from one cabin to another with a wistful glance.

“I suppose some of these miners have got a lot of gold-dust hidden away in their shanties,” he said to himself. “I wish I knew where I could light on some of their treasure.”

But then it occurred to him that every miner was probably armed, and would make it dangerous to any intruder.

So Tom Burns kept on his way. He was troubled by no conscientious scruples. He had got beyond that long ago. Sometimes it did occur to him to wonder how it would seem to settle down as a man of respectability and influence, taking a prominent part in the affairs of town and church.

“It might have been,” he muttered. “My father was a man of that sort. Why not I? If I hadn’t gone wrong in my early days, if I had not been tempted by the devil to rob the storekeeper for whom I worked, and so made myself an outcast and a pariah, who knows but I might have been at this moment Thomas Burns, Esq., of some municipality, instead of Tom Burns, the tramp? However, it is foolish to speculate about this. I am what I am, and there is little chance of my being anything else.”

So he dismissed the past, and recalled the work he had set for himself.

Everything was still. In the mining village probably there was not a person awake. It was like a dead town. Everything seemed favorable to his designs.

There was the store. He could see it already. And now there was nothing to do but to get in and take the money, which he had no doubt was waiting ready to his hand.

Perhaps he might be fortunate enough to secure it without waking the boy. He hoped so, at any rate, for he was not a desperate or cruel man. He did not wish to injure Ernest unless it should be absolutely necessary.

Arriving at his destination, he paused to reconsider.

He did not expect to enter by the front door. He did not as yet know whether there was any other. But at any rate there must be a window somewhere, and he preferred to get in that way.

He walked around to the rear of the store, and there he discovered the window. He had been afraid it might be blockaded with shelves, that would make entrance difficult, but fortunately this did not appear to be the case. He stood at the window and looked in.

The faint moonlight did not enable him to penetrate the interior very far, but he could make out something. There were goods of various kinds scattered about, and he could just see a recumbent figure on a bed near the counter.

“That’s the boy,” he said to himself. “I wonder if he is asleep.”

There seemed to be no doubt on this point.

But for the indistinct light Tom Burns might have thought the outstretched figure rather large for a boy. But he only glanced at it furtively.

The next thing to consider was whether the window was fastened. In that case he would have some difficulty, though for this he was prepared, having an instrument by which he could cut a pane of glass, and, thrusting in his hand, unfasten the catch.

But through some strange inadvertence, apparently, the window was not fastened, and much to his relief he had no difficulty in lifting it.

He was as careful as possible, fearing lest he might stumble over some article, and by the noise betray his presence.

What if there was a dog inside? This thought brought alarm to the burglar. In that case his visit would probably be a failure. He remembered, however, with a feeling of relief, that he had seen no dog about during his visit to the store during the day.

Now that he had passed through the window, and was fairly in the store, he looked round for the money drawer. He had not seen the safe, or probably he might not have entered the store at all, for he was not expert in breaking open safes, and at any rate it would be a matter of time and difficulty. So he was looking about when, as he passed by the bed, he felt himself seized by the leg. Evidently the sleeper had awakened and discovered his presence.

Burns got down on his knees and grasped the recumbent figure by the throat.

“Lie still, or I’ll choke you!” he said fiercely.

But as he spoke he felt the rough beard of a man, and with dismay he realized that he had tackled a more formidable foe than the boy for whom he was prepared.

He felt himself seized with an iron grasp.

“I’ve got you, you rascally burglar!” were the words he heard, and gave himself up for lost.

“Who are you?” he asked faintly.

“I am Luke Robbins, and I know you of old. You are Tom Burns!”

CHAPTER XXXI

THE ADVERTISEMENT

If there was anyone of whom Tom Burns stood in fear it was Luke Robbins. When he found himself in the grasp of his dreaded enemy, he grew weak with terror.

It was no longer a question of successful robbery. It was a matter of personal safety.

“Well, what have you to say for yourself?” demanded Luke, tightening his grasp.

“Have mercy on me, Mr. Robbins! Don’t kill me!” ejaculated Burns, half choked.

“What did you come here for?”

“I – I had no money, and – ”

“You thought you could get some here?”

“Ye-es,” faltered Burns.

“You thought you would be more than a match for the boy. Well, you have no boy to deal with.”

“I know that very well,” confessed Burns.

“How long have you been in Oreville?”

“I only came this morning.”

“You have improved your time,” said Luke dryly. “You have stolen a gold watch, besides making this attempt at robbery.”

Tom Burns could not deny it, though he was surprised at Luke’s knowledge.

“Hand over that watch!” said Luke in a tone of authority.

“Will you let me go if I do?”

“I will make no conditions with you. Hand over the watch!”

Burns drew it from his inside pocket and handed it over.

“Humph! So far so good. Now how about that dollar you took to buy eggs?”

“It is the only money I have, except a few pennies. Please let me keep it.”

“If I tell what you have done to the miners you won’t need any more money,” said Luke grimly.

“Why not?” asked Burns, trembling.

“Why not?” repeated Luke. “Because they will hang you to the nearest tree. You won’t need to trouble about money matters after that.”

“You won’t give me up, Mr. Robbins,” pleaded Burns, in an agony of terror. “I – I am not fit to die. Besides, I am a young man. I am not yet forty. I will turn over a new leaf.”

“It’s high time you did. It is a long time since you earned an honest living.”

“I know it, Mr. Robbins. I have been a bad man, but it is not too late to reform. If you’ll let me go I will leave Oreville to-night, and I will never trouble you again.”

“It isn’t me you have troubled. It is the boy. You robbed him, or tried to do it, at Oak Forks, and now you have turned up here.”

“I didn’t know he was here.”

“You didn’t know I was here, or I think you would have given the place a wide berth.”

“I am very sorry for what I did, and if you’ll only spare my life, I’ll promise to reform.”

“I haven’t much faith in your promises, but I’ll leave it to the boy. Ernest, what shall I do with this man?”

Ernest had come forward, and was standing but a few feet from Luke and his captive.

“If he promises to reform,” said Ernest, “you’d better give him another chance, Luke.”

“I am not sure that I ought to, but it is you to whom he has done the most harm. If you give him over to the miners we shall never be troubled by him again.”

Tom Burns turned pale, for he knew that life and death were in the balance, and that those two – Luke and the boy – were to decide his fate.

Ernest could not help pitying the trembling wretch. He was naturally kind-hearted, and at that moment he felt that he could forgive Burns all that he had done.

“Since you have left it to me, Luke,” he said, “let him go.”

“It shall be as you say, Ernest.”

As he spoke he released his hold, and Tom Burns stood erect. He breathed a deep sigh of relief.

“May I go?” he asked submissively.

“Yes.”

Before leaving he turned to Ernest.

“You are a good-hearted boy,” he said, “and I shall not forget that you have saved my life. If I am ever able to do anything for you, I will do it. You will find that Tom Burns, bad as he has been, knows how to be grateful.”

“I think you mean what you say,” returned Ernest. “I hope you will keep your promise and will turn over a new leaf. Is it true that you are penniless?”

“Not quite. This is all I have.”

Burns drew from his pocket a handful of small change – less than a dollar in all – and held it out for inspection.

“Then I will help you along.”

Ernest took from his pocket a five-dollar gold piece, and offered it to the tramp.

“That is more than I would do for him,” said Luke.

“It is more than I deserve,” replied Burns, “but you won’t be sorry for your kindness. If ever you see me again, I shall be a different man.”

He passed out of the window, and they saw him no more.

Luke and Ernest said very little of their night’s adventure, but the gold watch and the Mexican dollar were returned to the man from whom they had been taken.

Six months passed. Oreville had doubled its population, the mines had yielded a large sum in gold-dust, and the store presided over by Ernest was considerably enlarged.

His services had been so satisfactory that Horace Ames, whose time was taken up elsewhere, had raised his share of the profits to one-half.

At the end of six months, besides defraying his expenses, Ernest found himself possessed of a thousand dollars.

“Luke, I feel rich,” said he, when his faithful friend came round for a chat.

“You’ve done better than I have,” rejoined Luke. “The most I have been able to scrape together is four hundred dollars.”

“I will give you a part of my money, so that we may be even.”

“No, you won’t, Ernest. What do you take me for?”

“Mr. Ames has been very liberal, and that is why I have got so much. I don’t feel that I ought to have so much more than you.”

“Don’t bother about me, lad; I feel rich with four hundred dollars. I never was worth so much before, though I’m almost three times your age. And I wouldn’t have that but for you.”

“How do you make that out, Luke?”

“Because I never had any ambition till I met you. I never thought of saving money; as long as I got enough to eat I cared for nothing else. I should have died without enough to bury me if you had not set me the example of putting something by for a rainy day.”

“I am glad if I have done you any good, Luke, for you have been a kind friend to me.”

A week later Luke came into the store, holding a letter in his hand.

“Here is a letter for you, Ernest,” he said. “I was passing the post-office just now when I was hailed by the postmaster, who asked me if I would take the letter to you. I didn’t know that you had any correspondents.”

“Nor I, Luke. I think it is the first letter I ever received. Whom can it be from?”

“From some one who knows you are here. It is post-marked St. Louis.”

“Well, I can easily discover who wrote it,” said Ernest, as he cut open the envelope with his penknife.

He turned at once to the signature, and exclaimed, in great surprise, “Why, it’s from Tom Burns.”

“The man who tried to rob the store?”

“Yes.”

“He has probably written to ask you for some money.”

“No, Luke, you are mistaken. I will read it to you.”

The letter started thus:

Ernest Ray: You will probably be surprised to hear from me. Let me begin by saying that I have kept the promise I made to you and Mr. Robbins when you let me off six months ago. I have turned over a new leaf, and have been strictly honest ever since, as I promised you I would be.

I won’t trouble you with an account of my struggles to get along. I will only say that I am employed at present as a waiter at the Planters’ Hotel, and though I can’t save up much money, I am able to live comfortably. But you will wonder why I am writing to you. It is because I have seen your name mentioned in an advertisement in one of the St. Louis daily papers. I inclose the advertisement, and hope it is something to your advantage. I have taken the liberty to write to Mr. Bolton, telling him where you were six months since, and I now write to you so that you may communicate with him also. Yours respectfully,

Tom Burns.

The advertisement appended ran thus:

Information Wanted. – Should this meet the eye of Ernest Ray, some time residing at Oak Forks, Iowa, he is requested to communicate with Benjamin Bolton, Attorney at Law, 182 Nassau Street, New York City.

CHAPTER XXXII

MR. BOLTON AS A HUSTLER

When Benjamin Bolton left the house of Stephen Ray with a hundred dollars in his pocket, it was his clearly defined purpose to find the boy who had been so grossly wronged, and force the present holder of the Ray estate to make restitution.

Only a few hours previous he had been nearly penniless. Even now, though he was provided with a sum of money that made him feel comparatively rich, he knew it would not last long.

He provided himself with a respectable suit of clothing, and took the next train for New York. He had been in the metropolis two or three times in the course of his life, but knew no one there.

While other paths might be open to him, for he was a man of education and worldly experience, he felt that he should like to get back into his own profession. He flattered himself that if properly started he could make himself valuable to an established attorney in the way of hunting up cases, and taking part in any legal work that might be intrusted to him.

But how could he, an unknown man, recommend himself to any lawyer whose standing and business would make a connection with him desirable? Perhaps in any other business there would be less difficulty in making a start.

But Mr. Bolton was resolute and determined, and fortune favored him.

Within thirty miles of the city a stout gentleman of perhaps fifty entered the car and sat beside him. He looked like a well-to-do business man, free from care, but for the anxious expression on his face. He appeared like a man in trouble who stood in need of advice.

The train had gone several miles before he decided to confide in the quiet man who sat beside him. He had already taken stock of Bolton in furtive glances.

“There is something on his mind,” thought Bolton. “He looks as if he wished to speak to some one.”

He addressed a casual remark to his companion, who instantly responded.

“I don’t like to trouble you,” he said, “but I am somewhat perplexed.”

“My dear sir, if in any way I can help you I shall be glad to do so,” answered Bolton. “I am a lawyer – ”

“Are you?” said the other eagerly. “I want to meet a good, honest and smart lawyer, who will undertake a case for me.”

Bolton pricked up his ears. This seemed to be a providential opportunity, of which he resolved to avail himself.

“I should not like to praise myself,” he said modestly, “but I think you will find me faithful to your interests.”

“No doubt of it, sir. Are you a New York lawyer?”

“I am about to connect myself with a law firm in the city,” answered Bolton, hoping that this statement might prove accurate.

“Then you will be able to help me.”

“State your case, if you don’t mind.”

Bolton took out a small memorandum-book, and, pencil in hand, sat ready to take down the important points.

“Twenty years ago my father died, leaving an estate of fifty thousand dollars. It was divided equally between my sister Martha and myself. I married, and Martha for the last twenty years has been a member of my family. Being a spinster, with only herself to provide for, her property has doubled, while I, having several children, have barely held my own. Of course I expected that my children and myself would inherit Martha’s money when she died.”

“Very natural, sir, and very just.”

“Well, Martha died last August. Imagine my dismay when her will was opened and proved to bequeath her entire estate to various charities in which she never took any particular interest when living.”

“Do you suspect anyone of influencing her to this disposition of her property?”

“Yes, she had various conversations with a collector for these societies, who resided in the town during the summer, who sought an introduction when he learned that she was a lady of independent fortune. He called frequently, and flattered my sister, who had lately shown signs of mental weakness.”

“Did she cut off your family entirely in her will?”

“Yes, she didn’t leave even a dollar to any one of my children, though one of my daughters was named for her.”

“Was the collector entitled to a commission on sums secured for the societies which he represented?”

“Yes, that is the cause of his zeal. He would make a very handsome percentage on an estate as large as my sister’s.”

“But for him would she have been likely to cut off her relatives?”

“No. We should probably have received every dollar.”

“Do you think the collector cherished any matrimonial designs with reference to your sister?”

“I did think so at one time, but Martha’s condition as an invalid led her to discourage his attentions, though she was evidently flattered by them.”

“Of course you wish to break the will?”

“Yes. Do you think it can be done?”

“Upon the basis of what you have told me I should think the chances were greatly in your favor.”

His companion brightened up very perceptibly at this assurance.

“Have you ever been employed in any similar cases?” he asked.

“My dear sir, I have a very important case of the kind on my hands at this moment. The amount involved is quarter of a million dollars.”

Mr. Bolton rose greatly in the estimation of his new client after this statement.

“Is the case at all similar?”

“Hardly. It is the case of a will concealed, or rather suppressed, and acting upon a will previously made. I cannot go into details, as I wish to keep our enemy in the dark.”

“I understand. Have you your card with you, so that I can call at your office?”

This was a puzzling question for Bolton, but he was equal to the occasion.

“Tell me what hotel you propose to stop at, and I will call upon you at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“I don’t know much about the New York hotels.”

“Then let me recommend a house,” naming a comfortable but not expensive hostelry on upper Broadway.

“I will go there.”

“I think you have not yet mentioned your name.”

“My name is Ephraim Paulding.”

Bolton noted it down in his memorandum-book, and soon after the train ran into the station at Forty-second Street.

There was no time to lose. Bolton made inquiries and obtained the name of a successful lawyer, with an office at 182 Nassau Street. He did not wait till the next day, but made a call that same evening at his house on Lexington Avenue.

Mr. Norcross, the lawyer, entered the parlor with Bolton’s card in his hand, and a puzzled expression on his face.

“Have I ever met you before, Mr. Bolton?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“Please state your business.”

“I should like to enter your office. I am a lawyer with fifteen years’ experience.”

“I should hardly think so, considering the strange proposal you are making.”

“I am quite aware that it seems so, but I can make it worth your while.”

“How?”

“By bringing you business. I can put in your hands now a will case involving an estate of fifty thousand dollars, and further on probably a much more important case.”

“You seem to be a hustler.”

“I am.”

“Where has your professional life been spent?” asked Norcross.

“At Elmira. Now I wish to remove to this city. It will give me a larger and more profitable field.”

“Give me some idea of the case you say you can put in my hands.”

Bolton did so. His terse and crisp statement – for he was a man of ability – interested the lawyer, and disposed him favorably toward the matter.

The result of the interview was that he engaged Bolton at a small salary and a commission on business brought to the office for a period of three months.

“Thank you,” said Bolton as he rose to go. “You will not regret this step.”

The next morning Bolton brought his railroad acquaintance to the office, and Mr. Norcross formally undertook his case.

“I think we shall win,” he said. “It is an aggravated case of undue influence. Mr. Bolton will from time to time communicate to you the steps we have taken.”

It is unnecessary to go into details. It is enough to say that the will was broken, and a goodly sum found its way to the coffers of Lawyer Norcross.

By this time Benjamin Bolton had established himself in the favor of his employer, who at the end of three months made a new and much more advantageous arrangement. Bolton had not yet taken any steps in Ernest’s case, but he now felt that the time had come to do so. He wrote to the postmaster at Oak Forks, inquiring if he knew a boy named Ernest Ray, but learned in reply that Ernest had left the place some months before, and had not since been heard from.

CHAPTER XXXIII

ANSWERING THE ADVERTISEMENT

The advertisement for Ernest in a St. Louis daily paper came about in this way.

Bolton was in the habit of inquiring from time to time of Western clients if they were acquainted with any persons bearing the name Ray. One gentleman, who frequently visited St. Louis, answered, “Yes, I know a boy named Ray.”