Rosita from her window on the patio had seen Austin enter the Casa,
and she saw him go away, after questioning the musician. She asked the
man what Austin wanted, and was told he was looking for Hal. Rosita
had gone back to her room, when a tapping on the grille of a rear
window caused her to investigate. It was Ricardo Gonzales, half-drunk,
but very serious.
“What do you want, Ricardo?” she asked anxiously.
“But a word, _señora_; a word in confidence. If you would witness a
marriage, go to Piñon this night.”
“Juana?” she asked breathlessly.
“_Si, señora_. This is in confidence. I am not to tell any one.”
“Thank you, Ricardo.”
The Mexican faded away in the darkness, and Rosita turned quickly to her
riding clothes. She had feared this with a fear greater than any she had
ever known. Mendez would marry Juana whether the girl agreed or not. An
old priest of Piñon would willingly do Mendez’s bidding. Not much of a
priest, but nevertheless a priest. Rosita drew a heavy revolver from an
old chest of drawers and put it inside her waist. Slipping on her boots,
she pinched out the candles, and glided through a rear door.
It was about this time that Sheriff La Plante and his deputy, Smoky
Hill, rode into town, and were met by Goober and Johnny, who quickly
told them about the four men from the Star A, who were in town,
carrying rifles on their saddles.
“Seen anythin’ of Hal?” the sheriff asked Goober.
“Yeah, and had a talk with him about yore warrant. He didn’t seem
much excited about it, but a little later he rode down the street.
It might be that he stepped over into Mexico, although he didn’t act
that scared.”
“He can stay down there, as far as I’m concerned,” growled Pete. “But
where do yuh reckon them Star A fellers are goin’ with the rifles? If
they wasn’t lookin’ for trouble, they wouldn’t be takin’ rifles along.
I don’t believe they came through Keno City.”
“Prob’ly circled the town,” said Goober. “They didn’t want you to see
’em go through.”
“Yuh don’t suppose they’re goin’ to Mexico, do yuh?” asked Smoky.
“Might be.”
They strolled past the _cantina_ and could see Sands and the two hands,
Elkinson and Britton, at the bar. From there they went over to the Casa
del Diaz and had a drink at the bar, but there was no sign of Frank
Austin.
“I’m shore he came over here,” said Goober.
As they stood at the bar Cal Sands came in. He nodded to them and went
to the patio, but came back in a few moments. “Pete, have yuh seen
anythin’ of Frank Austin?” he asked.
“Nope,” replied the sheriff.
“Yuh don’t mean to say you’ve lost him, too, do yuh?” queried Smoky.
“Gosh, you Star A punchers shore are careless.”
Sands flushed angrily, but did not reply.
“Yuh don’t want to lose track of him,” grinned Smoky. “He might git
absent-minded and give yuh the other half of the ranch.”
Smoky had drunk enough to be sarcastic, and Pete kicked him on the ankle
as warning not to go too far. Smoky laughed and turned to the bar. Sands
shifted his eyes to Pete La Plante.
“Yore friend seems amused at his own wit, Pete.”
“I wouldn’t take it any further, if I was you,” said Goober calmly.
“Yuh wouldn’t, eh?” snorted Sands. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
Goober grinned softly. “Want to know who I am?”
“I asked yuh, didn’t I?”
“I’m the jasper that stole Hal Austin’s gun that night in Silver Bar.”
Sands’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, is that so? And what good did that do you?”
“You’d prob’ly be astonished, Sands,” Goober said softly.
“Yea-a-a-ah?” Sands seemed at a loss just what to say, when one of the
musicians, still carrying his guitar, came into the _cantina_, and Sands
turned to him. “Have you seen Frank Austin here to-night, Perez?”
The Mexican nodded. “Yes, he was ’ere for moment, but went away. He ask
me eef I see hees son, and I say he gone away.”
Sands nodded and walked out, paying no further attention to the four men
at the bar.
“What about that gun, Goober?” queried the sheriff.
“There was two empty shells in the cylinder, but the gun hadn’t been
shot.”
“You mean--young Austin never fired them shots?”
“No more than I did, but we can’t prove it now. Only our word that the
gun hadn’t been cleaned by us.”
“You mean that Sands had anythin’ to do with it?”
“I can’t prove a thing--no matter what I feel. But I’ve got a scheme. It
may not work; prob’ly won’t; however, c’mon, anyway.”
Sands was boiling with rage when he left the Casa del Diaz, and as he
started away from the front door he came face to face with Ricardo
Gonzales. As swiftly as the attack of a panther Sands grasped
Gonzales by the throat and crashed him up against the adobe wall
beside the lighted window. The Mexican, his eyes bulging out, fought
for his breath against those muscular hands. Suddenly Sands released
one hand, drew his gun, and shoved the cold muzzle against Gonzales’s
neck. “Talk fast, greaser,” he said hoarsely, “Where’s Mendez?”
“Piñon,” wheezed the half-choked Mexican. “_Por Dios, señor!_”
“Piñon, eh? Where is Juana Diaz? Speak the truth or I kill you.”
“Piñon, Señor Sands. To-night she weds.”
“Weds? Don’t lie, greaser. You mean she marries Porfiro Mendez
to-night?”
Gonzales nodded. “I believe,” he said simply, and the next instant he
went sprawling from a right-hand smash on the jaw, sagging limply on the
ground against the wall, while Sands strode back toward the main street.
He laughed to himself as he crossed to the _cantina_. Venting his wrath
on a poor Mexican, he had received some information he did not expect.
Austin was not in the _cantina_, and the other two cowboys looked at him
inquiringly.
“Can’t find him,” growled Sands. “Where in hell do you suppose he
went? But I got some information from Dick Gonzales--choked it out of
him. Mendez is goin’ to marry Juana Diaz in Piñon to-night--unless we
stop it.”
“Do you believe that greaser?” asked Elkinson. “How about him givin’ us
a bum steer, eh? Maybe Mendez and his Yaquis are----”
“Scared?” asked Sands.
“No, I ain’t scared.”
“We can pull out of here, like we are goin’ home,” Sands said, “then
circle wide and head for Piñon. We don’t need to ride the road.”
“But what about Austin?” asked Britton. “We don’t want to go without
him.”
“I can’t find him. Somethin’ has happened to him. I went to the----”
“Señor Sands?”
Sands whirled quickly to see a small Mexican, his brown hands holding a
crumpled envelope.
“What do you want?” snarled Sands.
“_Carta_, Señor Sands,” he said simply, handing Sands the grimy
envelope.
“What’s this?” muttered Sands, examining the envelope. It was addressed
to Cal Sands, Keno City, Arizona, but bore no postmark and the stamp had
not been cancelled. It was sealed, but had been opened across one end.
Sands inserted a forefinger and thumb, drawing out the folded piece of
paper, which he opened. There were only a few scrawled lines. His eyes
flashed to the signature, and he stiffened quickly, his eyes shifting
from window to door. Everything seemed all right. A couple of Mexicans
were shaking dice at one end of the bar, one man was asleep at a table,
his two cowboys stood beside him wondering what it was all about.
His eyes flashed back to the letter, quickly scanning the penned lines.
His face twisted strangely, mouth partly open. There was a face at the
window--Goober Glendon. The letter dropped from Sands’s hand, and it was
still falling when Sands drew and fired through the window.
The crash of the heavy shot shook the little _cantina_. Sands flung
himself sidewise along the bar, landing on his hands and knees, crawling
swiftly into the rear room. It had happened so swiftly that Elkinson and
Britton stood there gawping, trying to understand what it was all about.
Then the door was flung open, and Pete La Plante yelled: “Come out,
boys; the game is up.”
“Sands is gone!” yelled Smoky. “Watch that back patio, Johnny.”
It was then that Elkinson and Britton came to life. Their guns were
out, and they were coming straight for the door, shooting wildly,
trying to carve their way to freedom, their bullets smacking against
the adobe walls across the street. Out through the fog of smoke they
came. There were other shots, which were not smacking against adobe.
Dave Elkinson pitched out through the doorway, and Britton fell over
him, his gun flying from his hand. Pete and Smoky fell upon them
quickly, while Goober, blood running down his face, which had been cut
by flying glass, stumbled into the fog of the _cantina_ and retrieved
that letter.
There had been two shots fired behind the _cantina_, both fired by
Sands as he vaulted over the patio wall and almost fell on Johnny
Wells; and Johnny was staggering around with a slight scalp wound and
a powder-burned forehead.
But Johnny knew which way Sands had gone, and was on his trail, running
through littered alleys and around to the main street. Johnny fell over
a broken barrel, lost his gun, and was obliged to waste valuable seconds
in recovering it. He reached the street in time to see Sands spurring
his horse down the street away from the _cantina_ where the shooting had
been done. It was not Sands’s horse; it was Smoky’s horse. Johnny might
have been justified in yelling for assistance, but he never thought of
such a thing. Into his saddle he went, and went racing down the street,
following the escaping foreman of the Star A.
Elkinson and Britton, the fight knocked out of both of them, were
dragged back into the _cantina_. The bartender had decamped, the two
dice-shaking Mexicans had gone out through a window, the drunk asleep
against the table was now under the table on all fours, coughing in
the powder-smoke. Smoky came running in from the rear.
“Sands got away, and Johnny must be after him!” he yelled.
“What in hell went wrong?” asked Elkinson hoarsely. “Sands started
shootin’ and---- What was in that damn letter?”
“Enough to hang the whole bunch of yuh,” replied Goober. “You fellers
looted the Star A--you and Terrill’s outfit, with the assistance of
the sheriff over at Silver Bar. Sands killed Terrill, and between the
three of yuh you killed Nolan and the two 7 Bar 7 punchers. Elkinson,
you’ll hang for the murder of Jigger Slade.”
“Not by a damn sight, I don’t!” squawked Elkinson. “Nolan killed Jigger,
because Jigger knew Nolan was a rustler and was goin’ to tell Austin.”
“That’s yore story. Both of you will stretch rope, that’s a cinch.”
“Not me,” groaned Britton. “You can’t hang me for helpin’ kill them two
7 Bar 7 horse-thieves. It was Sands who killed Nolan that day. Me and
Dave never had no hand in that.”
“No, but you helped to rustle horses. When a horse-thief kills a
horse-thief, it’s murder. And you two tried to murder me back there
on the road, the day Riecho was killed. Unless I’m mistaken one of
you killed Riecho.”
“I swear we didn’t,” wailed Dave. “Riecho was our bunkie.”
“Which one of you two helped Riecho hold up the stage that mornin’ and
rob Austin and the women?” demanded Goober.
“Are yuh goin’ to let us set here and die?” asked Britton. “I’m all shot
to hell, I tell yuh.”
“Which one of yuh helped him?”
“I did, damn yuh. Now git a doctor for us, Johnny Wise.”
“All right,” nodded Goober, a grim smile on his lips.
The sheriff looked blankly at Goober.
“But where are Sands and Johnny?” wondered Smoky.
Quite a crowd had collected, and a Mexican pushed forward.
“Two men left town,” he said. “It was just after the shooting. One came
running to the street above here and mounted a horse. In a few moments a
man followed him, also mounting a horse. Both men were without hats.”
“Which way did they go?” asked Goober anxiously.
“South, _señor_--and going very fast.”
“Sands has headed into Mexico, and we’ll never get him,” said Pete.
“I’ll bet on Johnny,” replied Goober. “Pete, you’ll have to stay
here with yore prisoners, while me and Smoky go huntin’ for Johnny.
Mebbe we’ll have to go plumb to Mexico City; Johnny’s first name is
Bulldog.”
Smoky swore over the loss of his favourite horse, but climbed on Pete’s
horse, left the stirrups as they were, and galloped out of town, knees
almost up to the fork of the saddle.
“What the hell was it all about?” yelled Smoky. “Why did Sands kill
Terrill and Nolan?”
“The three of ’em were looting the Star A,” replied Goober. “As soon
as Austin gave Sands a half interest he wanted to quit stealin’ Star
A, and he wanted them to quit; but the game was too good. They wanted
their cut, or they’d expose Sands.”
“Well for the love of gosh! How long have you known that?”
“About five minutes,” Goober grinned.