in Spokane, about a week earlier, lawyer Alec Wynn had paid a late call on Martin Wedekind.
"Well, Alec," asked the latter, anxiously, "how's it coming on?"
"Punk. Pretty damned punk. I am afraid that Tom Graves has not a leg to stand on."
"Oh, well, Alec, you're a lawyer, a professional pessimist. You're paid to look at the hopeless side of life, you know."
"No, Martin. It looks bad. Honest, it does! Have a peep at this!" He opened his leather case and took out a sheet of foolscap, sealed with the arms of the Dominion of Canada. "An affidavit, executed in regular form, attesting and swearing to Old Man Truex's death. Signed by the coroner of Crow's Nest Pass, and by three witnesses!"
"Who are the witnesses? Let's see!"
Alec Wynn pointed at the scrawling signatures.
"John Good …"
"The fellow who keeps that ramshackle hotel and bar at the Crow's Nest?"
"Yes, Martin. The same."
"He's a bad actor. Used to be a cattle rustler in the old days before the Royal Northwestern cleaned up the land."
The lawyer inclined his head.
"Sure," he said. "I know. Good gives the lie eternal to his name. He's no good at all. Neither are the other witnesses. See here! Arthur
"That shyster lawyer from Fernie, B. C.?"
"Right—and Lawrence Walsh."
"Who's he?"
"Chap from Berlin …"
"Berlin!" cut in Wedekind excitedly.
"Berlin, Ontario," laughed Wynn. "He isn't a German. Walsh. Irish name, that! Came to Western Canada about a year ago, and my brother Roy had some rather unpleasant business dealings with him."
"So it seems that all the three witnesses are a bit …"
"Off color?" asked the lawyer. "Sure enough. But the coroner believes them evidently. There's the cold-blooded legal fact. According to the regular Canadian records Truex is dead. Slipped off his horse, tumbled down a mountain-side, broke his neck, and was buried."
"Yes, yes!" Martin Wedekind rose and paced up and down the room. "And yet," he said,
"Somehow you don't believe that Truex is dead. Somehow you think the whole thing is a cooked-up game to cheat friend Graves!"
"Exactly!"
"But you can do nothing," continued Wynn, "unless you produce the old prospector in the flesh."
Wedekind stopped in front of the lawyer.
"Alec," he said, "I have reasons, good, sound reasons, for believing what I do believe—namely, that Truex is alive, that Lehneke—or the party Lehneke acts for—is trying to do Tom out of the Yankee Doodle Glory."
"What are your reasons?"
"I can't tell you, Alec."
"I always thought you and I were pretty good friends."
"We are, Alec. But I can't tell you just the same. Only don't give in. Fight—that!" bringing his fist down on the Canadian affidavit. "Get the body exhumed. Have a look at it."
"Impossible!"
"How so?"
"Impossible without long legal rigmaroles," the lawyer corrected himself. "They cost both time and money."
"I'll supply the money, Alec!"
"Yes, yes. But the time. Who in Hades is going to supply the time? You see, while you and I'd be getting ready to carry that affidavit mess into the Provincial Supreme Court, Lehneke has Tom by the short hair on his neck. Look at this!" And he flung a long, legal-looking document on the table.
"See?" he continued. "Statement sworn to by the German Consul-General in New York and declaring that Eberhardt Lehneke is the only son and heir of Paul Lehneke and Mary Lehneke, both deceased. Also statement by the same Consul-General swearing that he has on files in the consular archives a certificate of marriage contracted between Paul Lehneke and Mary Truex, only sister of 'Old Man' Truex, and daughter of John and Priscilla Truex, natives of Oswego, N.Y. And birth certificate of Mary Lehneke, née Truex—and half-a-dozen other papers, establishing young Lehneke's position as Truex's heir without the shadow of a doubt."
"But …"
"Wait! Here's still another paper to complete the sweet circle. Look. An injunction handed down this afternoon by the Supreme Court of the State of Washington, making it incumbent upon Tom Graves to give a complete accounting of ore taken, shipped and sold from the Yankee Doodle Glory mine, injuncting his further working of the mine until the case has been settled and turning over Tom's money in the Old National to a receiver until that same date. Not only that. Lehneke seems to be ace high back home in Germany. For they even got busy there and put their paws on Tom's money in the Deutsche Bank in Berlin. I tell you Graves is in a rotten bad hole, Martin!"
"Only for the time-being. I know that youngster. I tell you he'll fight harder than ever."