Nick Carter Strikes Oil

THE CLERGYMAN.

“It ain’t right! It’s swindling, and you can’t make it anything else!”

These words, uttered in a loud, angry voice, were followed by a fierce oath, and the man to whom they were addressed raised his hand, and there was a look of pain on his pale face.

“I wish you wouldn’t swear,” he said gently. “Be calm, and tell me just what you mean.”

The first speaker looked ashamed of himself, and probably would have answered in a quiet way if another man who was standing near had not put in:

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Mr. Judson. Let him rave. If he’s such a fool that he can’t make money, it’s not your fault, and he has no business to complain to you.”

“But,” said Mr. Judson, “he makes a serious charge against——”

The first speaker did not hear this, for he was angry almost beyond his control, “mad clean through,” as the saying is in that part of the country, Colorado, where the scene took place.

He did not hear, because he broke in violently:

“I’ve been swindled, robbed, do you hear? And you’re just as much to blame as if you’d been the only one in the scheme. You wear the clothes of a preacher, but, by——! you’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and you deserve to be shot on the spot. If you want to keep that
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pious skin of yours whole, you’d better not come around Hank Low’s way.”

“But, Mr. Low, listen to me,” the clergyman begged.

“Not a word, you black-coated devil! When I think of the way my wife and kids have been cheated by a sneak thief of a minister, it puts murder in my heart, it does! I won’t talk to you, for fear I’ll forgit and take the law into my own hands. Geddap, Jenny.”

The man’s old mare responded to the command and a lash of the whip, and jogged away, dragging the rickety old wagon in which sat the angry Hank Low alone.

The clergyman turned, with a sigh, to his companion.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Claymore,” he said, “that all is not as it should be in this matter.”

“Pooh!” returned Claymore easily; “you mustn’t mind the howling of such a wild man. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He won’t hurt you.”

“Oh! that isn’t what I fear. I don’t like to hear a man talk like that, because it shows that he believes he has been wronged. There might be some truth in it. If so, I should be the first to make it right.”

“But there isn’t anything wrong. It was all a plain matter of business. Hank Low had a lot of land that he couldn’t do anything with. We asked him his price for it, we had a dicker with him, and he sold. What could be simpler, or fairer, than that?”

Instead of answering, the clergyman looked over the ground where they were standing. It was a level, but rocky, spot between high hills.
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No house was in sight, but a half mile farther up the valley was Hank Low’s cabin.

Three miles in the other direction was the small village of Mason Creek, and some miles beyond that the city of Denver.

This spot where they stood had been part of Hank Low’s farm.

He had had a hard struggle trying to make a living out of his land, and had not succeeded very well, and there was a heavy mortgage to be lifted, besides.

One day a couple of men came to Mason Creek and spent a good deal of time tramping about the country.

One of them was William Claymore.

After a few days of tramping about, Claymore offered to buy the most useless part of Hank Low’s farm.

He mentioned the name of Reverend Elijah Judson as a man who was interested with him in some kind of a plan.

Nothing very definite was said about it, but Low understood that the clergyman meant to put up a private school for young ladies, and wanted the land for that purpose.

A deal was made by which Low was able to pay off his mortgage, but nothing more.

He would have been content with that if he had not discovered, when it was too late, that the parties who bought his land had no idea of putting up a school, or anything of that sort.

It was at the time when the fact was just becoming known that oil could be found in great quantities in the far western lands.

Claymore and his companion, by making secret tests of the soil, had come to the conclusion that this worthless end of Hank Low’s farm was the best place in the State for oil wells. So they bought several acres for next to nothing.

It might be supposed that their next step would be to sink wells and build a refinery, or a pipe line. But such things cost money, and neither Claymore nor his partner had any left to speak of.

They had to raise it, and in this task they had the assistance of the Reverend Elijah Judson.

The clergyman had not been in Colorado when Hank Low’s land was bought. In fact, he did not half understand the scheme.

He had not been a success as a preacher, but he had a little money, some two or three thousand dollars, and Claymore had persuaded him that with it he could make his fortune in oil.

There was nothing dishonest in discovering oil and digging for it, for if there had been, the clergyman would not have touched the scheme.

Supposing that it was all right, he had put in his money, and had been made the president of the company.

His name was printed in large type on the letters sent out by Claymore, and these letters were sent to people in the far East, who had been members of Reverend Elijah Judson’s church.

They were also sent to other places where his name was known, and they told all about the wonderful discovery of oil.

Friends of the clergyman were to be allowed to invest in the company, if they wanted a sure thing.

The letters did not state that the money was needed for digging the wells or building a refinery.
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Oh, no! Persons who received the letters were given to understand that this was their chance to get rich quickly.

And the Reverend Elijah Judson’s name as president of the oil company was enough to make everybody sure that it was all right. For, of course, the clergyman would not go into any business that was not perfectly straight and sure.

That was quite the case—at least, the clergyman thought it was. He meant well, and he really believed that the company was square, and that there would be great profits in the business.

There were many answers to the letters, and money came in rapidly. Not many persons invested large amounts, but the sum total was considerable.

All this operation of raising money for the work took several months.

At last the clergyman went to Colorado to look over the plant and do his share of the work.

He was surprised to find that there wasn’t any plant.

There was the land that had been bought; on it were a few small mounds of loose dirt to show where borings had been made; and in Denver there was the office of the company. Nothing more.

Claymore explained that it took time to get the machinery for sinking the wells, and Mr. Judson was satisfied.

They went out to the land, and there happened to meet Hank Low, as he was driving to the city with a small load of farm stuff for the market.

By that time, of course, Low had learned just why his land had been bought.

The farmer honestly believed that he had been swindled, because nobody had told him that the land he was selling was very valuable.

“They might have let me in on the deal,” he grumbled. “The land was mine. S’pose it had been gold they found. Wouldn’t it be swindling to make me sell it dirt cheap just because I didn’t know what ’twas worth?”

His neighbors told him he mustn’t expect any better treatment in a business deal.

“But,” he argued, “they sprung the preacher on me, made me believe there was to be a school there. Ain’t that false pretenses? You bet ’tis! An’ ef ever I git my hands on that preacher I’ll make him suffer!”

He hadn’t had his hands on the Reverend Elijah Judson, but he had made him suffer, just the same.

“I hate to be called a swindler,” sighed the clergyman, as he stood there with Claymore.

“Mr. Judson,” responded Claymore, “business is business, and the man who gets left in a trade is always sore. That’s all there is to it, and you mustn’t think anything more about it.”

“Well,” said Mr. Judson, “I’ll try to think it’s all right, but if I should find that any wrong has been done I shall insist on making things right with Low.”

There was a sneering expression on Claymore’s face, but he said nothing, and they returned to the city.

Mr. Judson found new trouble there. He met one of his old church members on the street, and shook hands with him.

“I didn’t know you were in this part of the country, Mr. Folsom,” said the clergyman.

“I suppose not,” snapped Mr. Folsom, in reply, “and I presume you’d have liked it better if I had stayed away.
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”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“I came out here to look into the oil company I put my money in. That’s what I mean.”

“Well——”

“There isn’t any well! There ought to be several, but there isn’t one, and, what’s more, there won’t be any, and, what’s more yet, you know it.”

“Why, brother Folsom——”

“Don’t ‘brother’ me! You’ve lent your name to a swindle, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I can stand my loss, thank fortune! and it will teach me not to trust a minister again; but there are others, widows and orphans, who have put their all into your infernal scheme, and they can’t stand it. You’ve made them beggars, just to fatten yourself.”

The clergyman grew ghastly pale as he listened, and even Claymore, who was still with him, looked troubled.

“This is dreadful!” gasped Mr. Judson. “I’d die if I believed it to be half true!”

“Then you’d better die,” retorted Folsom. “That’s all I’ve got to say. I’ve looked at that wonderful land the company bought, and there isn’t enough oil in it to fill a lamp. Not a dollar that’s been put into it will ever be got out again. But you’ll be fairly well off with the money you’ve got from the widows and orphans—if you don’t get into jail for swindling.”

With this, Mr. Folsom strode away.

“What does it mean?” asked Mr. Judson.

“Sorehead, that’s all!” responded Claymore. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about——”

“But he seems to, Mr. Claymore, if I find that there has been any dishonest work in this business, I shall expose it all, understand that. I shall die of the shame of it, but I will not commit suicide until I have seen that the really guilty parties are punished.”

“Come, Mr. Judson, don’t talk of suicide. That’s foolish. You’re not used to business, that’s all.”

“It is not all—ah! there’s Mr. Low’s wagon in front of that store. I am going to speak to him.”

Claymore objected, but the minister was stubborn, and they went into the store.

Low was there, and the clergyman asked him to call at the hotel to talk over matters.

“I want to know all the facts,” said Mr. Judson.

“Waal,” answered Low slowly, “I’ve got some business to attend to, but ef ye’re in at half past three I’ll be thar.”

“I shall look for you at that hour.”

It was then about noon, and while they were at dinner Claymore tried to make the clergyman think that the business was all straight, but evidently he did not succeed.

“I shall go to my room and think quietly till Low comes,” said Mr. Judson, when they got up from the table, “and I repeat that if all does not seem to be honest and aboveboard I shall take measures to right the wrongs that have been done.”

“Go ahead, then,” grumbled Claymore. “I shall be at the office if you want any information.”

They parted, and did not meet again.

Half past three came, and, prompt to the minute, Hank Low drove to the hotel entrance and went in.

Mr. Judson’s room was on the fourth floor, the clerk told him, and called a boy to show the visitor up.

“Never mind,” said Low, “I’ve been here before, and I know the way,” and he went up alone.
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Within five minutes he came down the stairs again, an angry look upon his face.

He said nothing to anybody, but hastened to his wagon, got in, said “Geddap, Jenny,” and drove away as rapidly as the old nag could take him.

As nearly as anybody could make out, it was just previous to Low’s departure that two or three persons on a street that ran along one side of the hotel were fearfully startled by the sight of a man falling from an upper story window.

He struck headfirst on the sidewalk, and was instantly killed.

Men were at his side before his heart stopped beating, but no word came from the unfortunate man’s lips.

He was unknown to those who saw him die, but they knew from the cut of his clothes that he was a clergyman.

Information was taken to the hotel office at once, and the clerk went out, and he immediately identified the body as that of a guest of the house, Reverend Elijah Judson.