The Shadow of the Greenback Page #4

"The Shadow of the Greenback" by Robert Barr is a gripping detective novel that explores themes of crime, greed, and moral ambiguity. Set against the backdrop of a bustling financial landscape, the story follows a cunning detective who investigates a series of mysterious events linked to counterfeit currency and corruption. As he delves deeper, he uncovers a web of intrigue that challenges his understanding of justice and loyalty. With Barr's trademark wit and sharp storytelling, this novel offers a captivating blend of suspense and social commentary.

• Short story

								

hilarity died down, being in a measure forced and mechanical. The
lawyer methodically folded up his papers. As some of the jury glanced
down at the face of the dead man who had originated this financial
scheme of post mortem vengeance, they almost fancied they saw a
malicious leer about the half-open eyes and lips. An awed whisper ran
round the assemblage. Each man said to the other under his breath:
"Fif--ty--thous--and--dollars," as if the dwelling on each syllable
made the total seem larger. The same thought was in every man's mind; a
clean, cool little fortune merely for the crooking of a forefinger and
the correct levelling of a pistol barrel.

The lawyer had silently taken his departure. Sam, soberer than he had
been for many days, slid down from the barrel, and, with his hand on
the butt of his gun, sidled, his back against the wall, towards the
door. No one raised a finger to stop him; all sat there watching him as
if they were hypnotised. He was no longer a man in their eyes, but the
embodiment of a sum to be earned in a moment, for which thousands
worked hard all their lives, often in vain, to accumulate.

Sam's brain on a problem was not so quick as his finger on a trigger,
but it began to filter slowly into his mind that he was now face to
face with a danger against which his pistol was powerless. Heretofore,
roughly speaking, nearly everybody had been his friend; now the hand of
the world was against him, with a most powerful motive for being
against him; a motive which he himself could understand. For a mere
fraction of fifty thousand dollars he would kill anybody, so long as
the deed could be done with reasonable safety to himself. Why then
should any man stay his hand against him with such a reward hanging
over his head? As Sam retreated backwards from among his former friends
they saw in his eyes what they had never seen there before, something
that was not exactly fear, but a look of furtive suspicion against the
whole human race.

Out in the open air once again Sam breathed more freely. He must get
away from Salt Lick, and that quickly. Once on the prairie he could
make up his mind what the next move was to be. He kept his revolver in
his hand, not daring to put it into its holster. Every sound made him
jump, and he was afraid to stand in the open, yet he could not remain
constantly with his back to the wall. Poor Buller's horse, fully
accoutred, cropped the grass by the side of the road. To be a horse-
thief was, of course, worse than to be a murderer, but there was no
help for it; without the horse escape was impossible. He secured the
animal with but little trouble and sprang upon its back.

As he mounted, a shot rang out from the saloon. Sam whirled around in
the saddle, but no one was to be seen; nothing but a thin film of
pistol smoke melting in the air above the open door. The rider fired
twice into the empty doorway, then, with a threat, turned towards the
open country and galloped away, and Salt Lick was far behind him when
night fell. He tethered his horse and threw himself down on the grass,
but dared not sleep. For all he knew, his pursuers might be within a
few rods of where he lay, for he was certain they would be on his trail
as soon as they knew he had left Salt Lick. The prize was too great for
no effort to be made to secure it.

There is an enemy before whom the strongest and bravest man must
succumb; that enemy is sleeplessness. When daylight found the
desperado, he had not closed an eye all night. His nerve was gone, and,
perhaps for the first time in his life, he felt a thrill of fear. The
emptiness of the prairie, which should have encouraged him, struck a
chill of loneliness into him, and he longed for the sight of a man,
even though he might have to fight him when he approached. He must have
a comrade, he said to himself, if he could find any human being in
straits as terrible as his own, some one who would keep watch and watch
with him through the night; but the comrade must either be ignorant of
the weight of money that hung over the desperado's head, or there must
be a price on his own. An innocent man would not see the use of keeping
such strict watch; a guilty man, on learning the circumstances of the
case, would sell Sam's life to purchase his own freedom. Fifty thousand
dollars, in the desperado's mind, would do anything, and yet he
himself, of all the sixty million people in the land, was the only one
who could not earn it! A comrade, then, innocent or guilty, was
impossible, and yet was absolutely necessary if the wanderer was to
have sleep.

The horse was in distress through lack of water, and Sam himself was
both hungry and thirsty. His next halting-place must be near a stream,
yet perhaps his safety during the first night was due to the fact that
his pursuers would naturally have looked for him near some watercourse,
and not on the open prairie.

Ten days later, Mike Davlin was awakened at three in the morning, to
find standing by his bed a gaunt, haggard living skeleton, holding a
candle in one hand, and pointing a cocked revolver at Mike's head with
the other.

"Get up," said the apparition hoarsely, "and get me something to eat
and drink. Drink first, and be quick about it. Make no noise. Is there
anybody else in the house?"

"No," said Mike, shivering. "You wait here, Sam, and I'll bring you
something. I thought you were among the Indians, or in Mexico, or in
the Bad Lands long ago."

"I'm in bad lands enough here. I'll go with you. I'm not going to let
you out of my sight, and no tricks, mind, or you know what will
happen."

"Surely you trust me, Sam," whined Mike, getting up.

"I don't trust any living man. Who fired that shot at me when I was
leaving?"

"So help me," protested Mike, "I dunno. I wasn't in the bar at the
time. I can prove I wasn't. Yer not looking well, Sam."

"Blister you for a slow dawdler, you'd not look well either, if you had
no sleep for a week and was starved into the bargain. Get a move on
you."

Sam ate like a wild beast what was set before him, and although he took
a stiff glass of whiskey and water at the beginning, he now drank
sparingly. He laid the revolver on the table at his elbow, and made
Mike sit opposite him. When the ravenous meal was finished, he pushed
the plate from him and looked across at Davlin.

"When I said I didn't trust you, Mike, I was a liar. I do, an' I'll
prove it. When it's your interest to befriend a man, you'll do it every
time."

"I will that," said Mike, not quite comprehending what the other had
said.

"Now listen to me, Mike, and be sure you do exactly as I tell you. Go
to where the bank manager lives and rouse him up as I roused you. He'll
not be afraid when he sees it's you. Tell him you've got me over in the
saloon, and that I've come to rob the bank of that fifty thousand
dollars. Say that I'm desperate and can't be taken short of a dozen
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