The little village of Piñon was one of the most picturesque places
in Mexico, but little known. Too far from the border and beaten
trails, it had kept its identity. One main street, about three
blocks long, no building more than two stories high, no sidewalks;
dusty streets, every feature typical of Old Mexico. It was a village
of little commerce, but much siesta. Looking white at a distance in
the sunlight, a closer inspection showed the many coloured walls of
ancient adobe, old hand-made tile roofs, quaint architecture.
Such was the town of Piñon, which Porfiro Mendez ruled as _alcalde_. His
was the supreme word, and he had enough personal followers to enforce
any order he might give. The rest of Mexico seemed to have forgotten
Piñon; and Porfiro was glad. He collected the taxes in the name of the
government, and spent them in his own name. No one cared, it seemed. And
if any one did, and aired his grievances, he simply paid more--in the
name of the government.
Porfiro’s home was the best in town, situated but a short distance
from the main street. A rambling old two-storey adobe, with many wings
and thick walls, the whole was surrounded with a huge wall capable of
withstanding any ordinary siege.
Just now Porfiro Mendez did not look like the king of Piñon. He sat in
a huge, hand-carved chair, nursing his split and swollen lips, while
he steeped his feelings in _tequila_. He had lost a front tooth from
his upper jaw, and the two lower ones were wobbly. The bottle emptied,
he threw it at a door across the room, from where it rebounded, making
a great clatter. The door opened, and Ricardo Gonzales, slightly
blear-eyed from too much _vino_, bowed drunkenly, a good and faithful
servant, even if drunk.
“_Tequila!_” roared Mendez, lisping a trifle, due to missing and loose
teeth. “And send your brother to me at once.”
“Yezzir,” said Ricardo.
Miguel came in and owlishly looked Mendez over, but Porfiro merely
stared back at him sullenly and waited until Ricardo came stumbling
in with a fresh bottle of _tequila_, which he clumsily uncorked and
placed before Mendez. Mendez shifted his bloodshot eyes from the
bottle to Miguel.
“Well?” he snarled.
“I’m leesten t’rough from the weendow,” began Miguel. “These woman----”
“Talk _español_!”
Miguel swallowed heavily, and began in Spanish: “I could hear little.
The women did not know where they were, but Juana says they are in
Piñon. She said you were a thief and would steal anything. She
said----”
“_Loco bobo!_ You would hear things of no import. Go to Indian Wells and
see what you may hear--both of you. If there is news of importance, you
may disturb me, but not otherwise.”
They went back to their own room, finished up the bottle of _vino_, and
prepared for the ride to Indian Wells.
“I’m been theenk quite a lot,” stated Miguel, missing his head with his
big hat, but finally getting it on.
“Good! I’m glad to hear from that, Mike. W’at you theenk?”
“I’m theenk,” solemnly, “that eef these _Americanos_ fin’ out we got
those weemen, we bot’ get ’ung.”
“Mm-m-m-ha. That ees sometheeng wort’ theenk ’bout. W’at you s’pose
Porfiro steal them womens for, eh? Yo’ng one wort’ look at, but ol’
one not wort’ damn. W’y he steal Juana?”
“Porfiro goin’ marry wit’ Juana.”
“’Ow you know thees theeng?”
“Make guess.”
“Huh! That all right. But them w’ite womens make me scare. Bimeby t’ree,
four cowboy come down ’ere--_wham, bam, bam!_ W’ere we be, eh?”
“Porfiro feex everything.”
“Sure. He be beeg ’elp to me w’en somebody got rope on my neck. He’s
say, ‘Take off de rope.’ Cowboy say, ‘Bien.’ Yes?”
“You see,” Mike stated owlishly. “Porfiro save you.”
“Porfiro save de rope--but I’m dead like hell. Come on.”
It was nearly noon the following day when a rig drew up at the Star A
ranch house, and Edward Chandler, the prosecuting attorney from Silver
Bar, and another tall, lean, hard-faced man climbed down stiffly. Cal
Sands, down at the corral with Dave Elkinson, saw the lawyer and swore
angrily.
“What’s the matter?” asked Dave anxiously.
“Oh, that damn attorney from Silver Bar, nosin’ around again. Looks
like Buck Reed with him. I wonder if they’ve appointed Reed to serve
out Nolan’s time.”
“He’s one salty gent,” observed Dave. “A good man to let alone.”
Sands nodded coldly, as he saw Frank Austin come out on the porch.
Austin knew Chandler, who introduced Buck Reed as the new sheriff.
“Quite a drive out here from Silver Bar,” said Austin. “Come in.”
“Let’s sit out here,” suggested Chandler. “We just wanted to talk with
you a little--about something that happened over in our town one night.”
Austin’s jaw tightened for a moment, as they sat down. “What----” Austin
paused.
“Where’s your son, Austin?” asked the sheriff.
“I--I think he’s in Indian Wells. Do you want him?”
“Not yet. You do the talkin’, Ed.”
The lawyer cleared his throat raspingly. “Austin, how much did you pay
Nolan to cover that killin’?” he shot.
Austin’s colour faded quickly, but he was game. “Who said I paid
anything?”
“I am not at liberty to divulge names.”
“Meaning that you can’t prove I paid a cent.”
“That remains to be seen, Austin. Slade was a detective.”
“What of it?”
“Chance shot,” smiled Chandler. “I wasn’t sure before. Of course, you
know Slade was shot in the back--murdered.”
Austin was prepared for this, and did not flinch.
“I wired San Francisco to examine the body,” continued the lawyer, “and
they wired back that the body had been cremated.”
Austin took a deep breath of relief, which turned quickly to dismay
as Chandler said slowly: “I don’t like murder, Austin; so I worked a
little frame-up on the coroner, who confessed to his part in the
matter. I think he is willing to go on the stand and swear Slade was
murdered. But here’s the queer part--he swears you never paid him a
cent.”
“Well, I--I----” Austin choked. “Damn it, you can’t prove a thing!” he
finally blurted.
“It is a case of _corpus delicti_, I will admit. Nolan was guilty of
helping cover the real crime; but Nolan is dead. If you gave the money
to him, he failed to split with the coroner, unless the coroner lies
about it.”
“I never gave anybody--any officer money,” protested Austin.
“You drew five thousand dollars on the day of the inquest.”
“Why shouldn’t I? Damn it, what is five thousand to me?”
“True enough,” admitted the lawyer.
“Any word from yore wife and daughter?” asked Reed.
“Not a word. You’ll have to excuse me if I act queerly. I--I can’t even
think clearly.”
“I appreciate your feelings,” replied Chandler. “But in spite of all
that, I believe I have enough evidence on which to prosecute. It is
a nasty little deal, and I am going to clear it up. If your son is
innocent, I’m sure he would rather be exonerated in court than to go
on----”
“You--you are going to arrest Hal?” asked Austin weakly.
“I am not, but I shall have it done,” Reed stated firmly. “You see, this
is not my county, Mr. Austin.”
Frank Austin sat there dumbly and watched them turn the team around
and start toward Keno City. As soon as they were gone, Cal Sands came
sauntering up from the corral, looking quizzically at Austin.
“What did them damn’ buzzards want, Frank?” he asked curiously.
“Them damn’ buzzards, as you call them, have gone to Keno City to get La
Plante to arrest Hal for murder.”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“The coroner confessed.”
“Confessed?”
Austin nodded slowly. “He confessed that Slade was murdered, but swears
he never got a cent from me for helping cover it up.”
“Well, you--that shouldn’t make you mad. Clears you all right.”
“But you gave it to him, didn’t you?”
Sands said nothing for several moments, but his brain was busy. “No,” he
said; “I gave it to Nolan; he was to make the split.”
“Well, that’s lucky, at least. Nolan’s dead; so they can’t question
him.”
“I wonder if Chandler could be bought.”
“None of that,” groaned Austin. “I paid five thousand to make a good
fellow out of myself. Then I gave you five hundred to buy Rosita Diaz,
and you got knocked down and robbed.”
“That was hard on me, too,” Sands smiled grimly. “I suppose she had
some of her friends planted out behind the house, and they got the
money without makin’ any promises.”
“Anyway,” Austin said wearily, “I’m not going to buy Chandler. It will
probably cost me a lot more than Chandler’s price, to hire a good
criminal lawyer, but I’ll at least know the money was earned. Damn it,
this is a terrible mess, any way you look at it. Cal, whatever became
of Hal’s gun the night of the shooting?”
“I don’t know. Nolan says he was never able to find it.”
Austin thought for a moment. At last he turned to the other matter that
was agitating his mind. “Did you say anything to the rest of the boys
about going into Mexico to-night?”
“Shore; they’re ready. We don’t want to go down much before dark.
That is, we don’t want to reach Indian Wells before dark. If Mendez
has anything to do with this deal, he’ll have Indian Wells watched.
We’ve got to be careful. I’ll be damned if I want to run up against a
dozen Yaquis, armed with Mausers. They don’t love a gringo--and they
can shoot.”
Austin nodded in agreement.
Goober Glendon and Johnny Wells were in Keno City, when Chandler and
Reed came back from the Star A and went to the sheriff’s office, where
they held a long conversation with Pete La Plante, and afterward went
to the courthouse. Goober did not suspect what it was about, until the
Keno City sheriff told him that Chandler had sworn out a warrant for
the arrest of Hal Austin, charging him with murder, and giving the
warrant to La Plante.
Pete did not relish the job. He had known Hal pretty well, and he liked
the kid. Goober rubbed his grizzled chin and thought it over.
“How about lettin’ that go for a day or so, Pete?” he asked.
“Well, there ain’t no time limit on it,” smiled La Plante. “Are yuh
still hankerin’ to go down to Piñon?”
“I shore am.”
“Smoky said it was jist the kind of a holiday he needed. I hope to gosh
that Smoky gits a bellyful of fight some day, and I’m pretty sure he’ll
be goin’ to the place where they manufacture trouble. What time do we
start?”
“Me and Johnny will go down early, and you show up with Smoky after
dark. We don’t want to do anythin’ that might look suspicious. We can
slip out of Indian Wells in the dark, and nobody will know where we’ve
gone.”
“Good idea.”
“And yuh can leave your badge at home, Pete. Be a good alibi if anybody
asks yuh why yuh didn’t arrest Hal Austin to-night.”
Pete laughed softly. “I don’t need any alibi, Goober.”
It was mid afternoon when Goober and Johnny arrived at Indian Wells.
They did not stable their horses, but tied them on the main street,
and loafed around until they saw Hal. He was going to the Casa del
Diaz; so they followed him over. He was at a table in the patio, and
nodded to them.
“Any news?” asked Goober.
Hal shook his head and motioned for Goober to sit down with him.
Johnny got some crackers and proceeded to make friends with a red and
blue parrot, while Goober proceeded to tell Hal about the warrant. Hal
listened gravely. “How much of a case do you think they’ve got against
me?” he asked.
“Enough to keep yuh in jail until next term of court.”
“I suppose that’s true; but I’m as innocent as you are.”
Goober knew this to be the truth, but he also was aware that it might
be difficult to prove. He led Hal to talk about things at the ranch
before trouble came his way. “Do the boys do much rifle practice out
there?” asked Goober.
“Not so very much. Dave Elkinson is a good shot. They used to take my
money away regularly, but I found out later that the sights on their
rifles were not accurate. They allowed for that, of course. Rather a
crooked way of taking my money, wasn’t it?
“But I got even. Sands traded rifles with one of the men at the 7 Bar 7,
and I tried it out the first day, when no one else was there. I made a
rest on a sack of sand and an old table, and I found that it threw about
three inches high and about the same distance to the right at a hundred
yards. I won most of my money back on one bet.”
“What calibre was it?” queried Goober.
“Thirty-thirty.”
Goober grinned thoughtfully, and felt of the empty thirty-thirty shells
in his pocket. Rosita came through the patio and shook hands solemnly
with Goober, who grinned with delight.
“She’s a peach,” said Hal, after Rosita left them.
Goober nodded slowly.
“Did you know Diaz?” asked Hal.
“Diaz?”
“Juana’s father.”
“Oh! No, I didn’t know him,” Goober said.
“You knew Rosita and her sister a long time ago, didn’t you?” Hal
inquired.
“Almost as long as you are old--mebby longer.”
“The sister was the wife of Porfiro Mendez.”
“Yeah. Twin sisters; I knew ’em both. Couple pretty Mexican girls.”
“Do you know anything about Mendez?” Hal asked.
“Only what I’ve heard. He married one of the girls and took her down
into Mexico. I dunno what happened to her.”
“Juana told me some of it,” Hal explained. “It seems that Mendez
mistreated her as long as she could stand it, and then she ran away
and came up here to her sister. Mendez didn’t know what became of her,
I guess. Anyway, a baby was born, and Mrs. Mendez died. Later the baby
died. I’ve seen their graves.”
“Do you think Mendez had anythin’ to do with the disappearance of Juana
Diaz?” asked Goober.
“I don’t know. Before she disappeared my father met Mendez in here.
They had words, and my father knocked him down. I believe dad knocked
some of his teeth out. Mrs. Diaz must have heard some of the quarrel,
because she told Mendez to never come here again. You see, Mendez
wanted to marry Juana.”
“Well, the fat old son of a sea cook! Wanted to marry her, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Hm-m-m-m. I wonder what yore father and Mendez quarrelled over.”
“I have no idea. Mrs. Diaz refused to tell me.”
“Mendez has quite a followin’ down in his town, I understand.”
“I suppose he has. He always has the Gonzales brothers with him, as
sort of a bodyguard. They are known as a tough pair--and look it. And
how they can murder the king’s English . . . If I only knew where Juana
is! . . . Dad and I had just about broken off diplomatic relationship.
He wants me to come back to the ranch, but I refuse to live around Cal
Sands. It isn’t right for us to be separated just now, but I can’t help
it. He prefers Sands to me.”
“It’s shore funny there ain’t no word from yore mother and sister.”
“I don’t understand it. If it’s ransom they want, why don’t they ask for
it? Mr. Glendon, I’m beginning to fear it is worse than that.”
“Well, there’s plenty time to cross a bridge when yuh come to it. Wait a
while and somethin’ will happen.”
“You mean--you know something will happen?”
“If it don’t, you can cross me off as a bum prophet, kid.”
They left Hal at the Casa, and went back to the street, where they saw
Ricardo and Miguel. The brothers had consumed much wine and were mellow,
but Goober and Johnny knew they were in Indian Wells for a purpose.
There were several Yaqui Indians in evidence, apparently unarmed, but no
one could tell what was under their dirty _serapes_.
It was nearly dark when Dave Elkinson and Hank Britton of the Star A
rode in and tied their horses in front of a _cantina_ about midway of
the street. Both men had holstered rifles on their saddles. They
nodded to Goober and Johnny and went into the bar. Goober grew
serious, wondering what these two were doing in town, carrying rifles
on their saddles. Darkness had settled down over the town when Frank
Austin and Cal Sands rode in. Goober and Johnny saw them dismount, in
the light from a _cantina_ window.
“What’s comin’ off, I wonder?” muttered Goober, as they sauntered down
the street and took a look at the two horses.
He and Johnny stood back in the shadow for a while, and finally the
two men came out. They conversed in low tones for several moments,
and separated, Sands going down the street toward the _cantina_,
where Elkinson and Britton were, while Austin apparently started for
the Casa del Diaz.
Hal left the Casa before his father reached there, and had started for
the stable where he kept his horse, when a little Mexican stepped from
the shadows near the Casa and spoke his name.
“I am Hal Austin,” replied Hal, a little startled. The Mexican drew a
folded note from under his _serape_ and handed it to him.
“_Carta, señor._”
Hal unfolded it, lighted a match, and read it quickly.
DEAR HAL:
Follow the bearer and come alone to us.
BETTY.
“Who gave you this?” asked Hal sharply.
“_No entiendo, señor._”
“I suppose you don’t understand. Still, that is Betty’s writing. Have
you a horse?”
“_Si, señor._”
“All right. Wait for me at the end of the street.”
Goober and Johnny saw Hal ride past, but he did not see them, and they
did not see him join the little Mexican guide at the end of the street.
They wondered where he could be going, but were not greatly interested.
Frank Austin had gone searching for Hal. He wanted to tell Hal that
the prosecuting attorney from Silver Bar had sworn out a warrant for
his arrest. Austin was sick over the whole affair, but he wanted to
assure Hal that he was behind him.
But Hal was not in the _cantina_ nor the patio. Several others in the
patio were eating by the light of candles, but Hal was not there.
Austin questioned one of the orchestra, and the man said Hal had just
left there.
Austin went out, intending to search for Hal, but his intentions were
ruined quickly, when two men stepped from the shadows, prodded him with
their guns, and quickly took his gun away.
“No noise, _señor_,” warned one of them. “We do not order twice.”
Austin swore to himself as they escorted him away from the town, where
they found three saddled horses behind a ruined adobe. Forcing him to
mount, they swiftly roped him on, gagged and blindfolded him, and rode
away with him, leading his horse.