



Produced by David Yingling, Bethanne M. Simms, Mary Meehan
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net









                                MONEY MAGIC

                             By HAMLIN GARLAND


SUNSET EDITION

HARPER & BROTHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON

COPYRIGHT 1907 BY HAMLIN GARLAND




[Illustration: HE ROSE AND WALKED UP AND DOWN]




CONTENTS


       I. THE CLERK OF THE GOLDEN EAGLE

      II. MARSHALL HANEY CHANGES HEART

     III. BERTHA YIELDS TO TEMPTATION

      IV. HANEY MEETS AN AVENGER

       V. BERTHA'S UPWARD FLIGHT

      VI. THE HANEY PALACE

     VII. BERTHA REPULSES AN ENEMY

    VIII. BERTHA RECEIVES AN INVITATION

      IX. BERTHA MEETS BEN FORDYCE

       X. BEN FORDYCE CALLS ON HORSEBACK

      XI. BEN BECOMES ADVISER TO MRS. HANEY

     XII. ALICE HEATH HAS A VISION

    XIII. BERTHA'S YELLOW CART

     XIV. THE JOLLY SEND-OFF

      XV. MART'S VISIT TO HIS SISTER

     XVI. A DINNER AND A PLAY

    XVII. BERTHA BECOMES A PATRON OF ART

   XVIII. BERTHA'S PORTRAIT IS DISCUSSED

     XIX. THE FARTHER EAST

      XX. BERTHA MEETS MANHATTAN

     XXI. BERTHA MAKES A PROMISE

    XXII. THE SERPENT'S COIL

   XXIII. BERTHA'S FLIGHT

    XXIV. THE HANEYS RETURN TO THE PEAKS

     XXV. BERTHA'S DECISION

    XXVI. ALICE VISITS HANEY

   XXVII. MARSHALL HANEY'S SENTENCE

  XXVIII. VIRTUE TRIUMPHS

    XXIX. MARSHALL HANEY'S LAST TRAIL




MONEY MAGIC




CHAPTER I

THE CLERK OF THE GOLDEN EAGLE


Sibley Junction is in the sub-tropic zone of Colorado. It lies in a hot,
dry, but immensely productive valley at an altitude of some four
thousand feet above the sea, a village laced with irrigating ditches,
shaded by big cotton-wood-trees, and beat upon by a genial,
generous-minded sun. The boarders at the Golden Eagle Hotel can sit on
the front stoop and see the snow-filled ravines of the mountains to the
south, and almost hear the thunder crashing round old Uncompahgre, even
when the broad leaves above their heads are pulseless and the heat of
the mid-day light is a cataract of molten metal.

It is, as I have said, a productive land, for upon this ashen,
cactus-spotted, repellent flat men have directed the cool, sweet water
of the upper world, and wherever this life-giving fluid touches the soil
grass and grain spring up like magic.

For all its wild and beautiful setting, Sibley is now a town of farmers
and traders rather than of miners. The wagons entering the gates are
laden with wheat and melons and peaches rather than with ore and
giant-powder, and the hotels are frequented by ranchers of prosaic
aspect, by passing drummers for shoes and sugars, and by the barbers and
clerks of near-by shops. It is, in fact, a bit of slow-going village
life dropped between the diabolism of <DW36> Creek and the decay of
Creede.

Nevertheless, now and then a genuine trailer from the heights, or
cow-man from the mesas, does drop into town on some transient business
and, with his peculiar speech and stride, remind the lazy town-loafers
of the vigorous life going on far above them. Such types nearly always
put up at the Eagle Hotel, which was a boarding-house advanced to the
sidewalk of the main street and possessing a register.

At the time of this story trade was good at the Eagle for two reasons.
Mrs. Gilman was both landlady and cook, and an excellent cook, and, what
was still more alluring, Bertha, her pretty daughter, was day-clerk and
general manager. Customers of the drummer type are very loyal to their
hotels, and amazingly sensitive to female charm--therefore Bertha, who
would have been called an attractive girl anywhere, was widely known and
tenderly recalled by every brakeman on the line. She was tall and
straight, with brown hair and big, candid, serious eyes--wistful when in
repose, boyishly frank and direct as she stood behind her desk attending
to business, or smiling as she sped her parting guests at the door.

"I know Bertie ought to be in school," Mrs. Gilman said one day to a
sympathetic guest. "But what can I do? We got to live. I didn't come out
here for my health, but goodness knows I never expected to slave away in
a hot kitchen in this way. If Mr. Gilman had lived--"

It was her habit to leave her demonstrations--even her
sentences--unfinished, a peculiarity arising partly from her need of
hastening to prevent some pot from boiling over and partly from her
failing powers. She had been handsome once--but the heat of the stove,
the steam of the washtub, and the vexation and prolonged effort of her
daily life had warped and faded and battered her into a pathetic wreck
of womanhood.

"I'm going to quit this thing as soon as I get my son's ranch paid for.
You see--"

She did not finish this, but her friend understood. Bertha's time for
schooling was past. She had already entered upon the maiden's land of
dreams--of romance. The men who had hitherto courted her,
half-laughingly, half-guiltily, knowing that she was a child, had at
last dropped all subterfuge. To them she was a "girl," with all that
this word means to males not too scrupulous of the rights of women.

"I oughtn't to quit now when business is so good," Mrs. Gilman returned
to the dining-room to add. "I'm full all the time and crowded on
Saturday. More and more of the boys come down the line on purpose to
stay over Sunday. If I can stick it out a little while--"

The reason why "the boys came down the line to stay over Sunday," was
put into words one day by Winchell, the barber, who took his meals at
the Eagle.

He was a cleanly shaven young man of twenty-four or five, with a
carefully tended brown mustache which drooped below the corners of his
mouth.

He began by saying to Bertha:

"I wish I could get out of my business. Judas, but I get tired of it!
When