_The Silver Crucifix_
When in Sonora, Waring frequented the Plaza Hotel. He had arranged with
the management that his room should always be ready for him, day or
night. The location was advantageous. Nearly all the Americans visiting
Sonora and many resident Americans stopped at the Plaza. Waring
frequently picked up valuable bits of news as he lounged in the lobby.
Quietly garbed when in town, he passed for a well-to-do rancher or
mining man. His manner invited no confidences. He was left much to
himself. Men who knew him deemed him unaccountable in that he never
drank with them and seldom spoke unless spoken to. The employees of the
hotel had grown accustomed to his comings and goings, though they seldom
knew where he went or definitely when he would return. His mildness of
manner was a source of comment among those who knew him for what he was.
And his very mildness of manner was one of his greatest assets in
gaining information. Essentially a man of action, silent as to his plans
and surmises, yet he could talk well when occasion demanded.
It was rumored that he was in the employ of the American Government;
that he had been disappointed in a love affair; that he had a wife and
son living somewhere in the States; that for very good reasons he could
not return to the States; that he was a dangerous man, well paid by the
Mexican Government to handle political matters that would not bear
public inspection. These rumors came to him from time to time, and
because he paid no attention to them they were accepted as facts.
About an hour after he had left Donovan's office, Waring entered the
Plaza Hotel, nodded to the clerk, and passed on down the hallway. He
knocked at a door, and was answered by the appearance of a stout,
smooth-shaven man in shirt-sleeves. They chatted for a minute or two.
Waring stepped into the room. Presently he reappeared, smiling.
After dinner he strolled out and down the street. At a corner he edged
through the crowd, and was striding on when some one touched his arm. He
turned to confront the Mexican youth, Ramon. Waring gestured to Ramon to
follow, and they passed on down the street until near the edge of the
town. In the shadow of an adobe, Waring stopped.
Ramon glanced up and down the street. "The police--they have asked me
where is my Uncle José. I have told them that I do not know. The police
they asked me that."
"Well?"
"But it is not that why I come. They told me to go to my home. It was
when I was in the prison that the policia talked in the telephone. He
spoke your name and the name of Señor Bill Donovan of the Ortez Mine. I
heard only your name and his, but I was afraid. You will not tell them
that I was with my Uncle José?"
"No. And thanks, Ramon. I think I know what they were talking about. Go
back home, pronto. If you were to be seen with me--"
"The señor is gracious. He has given me my life. I have nothing to
give--but this." And Ramon drew the little silver crucifix from his
shirt and pressed it in Waring's hand.
"Oh, here, muchacho--"
But Ramon was already hastening down a side street. Waring smiled and
shook his head. For a moment he stood looking at the little crucifix
shining on the palm of his hand. He slipped it into his pocket and
strode back up the street. For an hour or more he walked about,
listening casually to this or that bit of conversation. Occasionally he
heard Mexicans discussing the Ortez robbery. Donovan's name, Waring's
own name, Vaca's, and even Ramon's were mentioned. It seemed strange to
him that news should breed so fast. Few knew that he had returned.
Possibly Donovan had spread the report that the bandits had made their
escape with the money. That would mean that Waring had been outwitted.
And Donovan would like nothing better than to injure Waring's
reputation.
Finding himself opposite the hotel, Waring glanced about and strode in.
As he entered the hallway leading to his room three men rose from the
leather chairs near the lobby window and followed him. Waring's door
closed. He undressed and went to bed. He had been asleep but a few
minutes when some one rapped on the door. He asked who it was. He was
told to open in the name of the city of Sonora. He rose and dressed
quickly.
When he opened the door two Sonora policemen told him to put up his
hands. Donovan stood back of them, chewing a cigar. One of the policemen
took Waring's gun. The other searched the room. Evidently he did not
find what he sought.
"When you get through," said Waring, eyeing Donovan grimly, "you might
tell me what you're after."
"I'm after that thousand," said Donovan.
"Oh! Well, why didn't you say so? Just call in Stanley, of the bank. His
room is opposite."
Donovan hesitated. "Stanley's got nothing to do with this."
"Hasn't he?" queried Waring. "Call him in and see."
One of the police knocked at Stanley's door.
The bank cashier appeared, rubbing his eyes. "Hello, Bill! Hello, Jim!
What's the fuss?"
"Stanley, did I deposit a thousand dollars in gold to the credit of the
Ortez Mine this afternoon?"
"You did."
"Just show Donovan here the receipt I asked you to keep for me."
"All right. I'll get it."
Donovan glanced at the receipt. "Pretty smooth," he muttered.
Waring smiled. His silence enraged Donovan, who motioned to the police
to leave the room.
Waring interrupted. "My gun?" he queried mildly.
One of the police handed the gun to Waring.
Their eyes met. "Why, hello, Pedro!" And Waring's voice expressed
innocent surprise. "When did you enroll as a policeman?"
Donovan was about to interrupt when the policeman spoke: "That is my
business."
"Which means Bill here has had you sworn in to-day. Knew you would like
to get a crack at me, eh? You ought to know better, Salazar."
"Come on!" called Donovan.
The Mexicans followed him down the hallway.
Waring thanked Stanley. "It was a frame-up to get me, Frank," he
concluded. "Pedro Salazar would like the chance, and as a policeman he
could work it. You know that old game--resisting arrest."
"Doesn't seem to worry you," said Stanley.
"No. I'm leaving town. I'm through with this game."
"Getting too hot?"
"No. I'm getting cold feet," said Waring, laughing. "And say, Stanley,
I may need a little money to-morrow."
"Any time, Jim."
Waring nodded. Back in his room he sat for a while on the edge of the
bed, gazing at the curtained window. Life had gone stale. He was sick of
hunting men and of being hunted. Pedro Salazar was now a member of the
Sonora police through Donovan's efforts. Eventually Salazar would find
an excuse to shoot Waring. And the gunman had made up his mind to do no
more killing. For that reason he had spared Vaca and had befriended
Ramon. He decided to leave Sonora.
Presently he rose and dressed in his desert clothes. As he went through
his pockets he came upon the little silver crucifix and transferred it,
with some loose change, to his riding-breeches. He turned out the light,
locked the room from the outside, and strode out of the hotel.
At the livery-stable, he asked for his horse. The man in charge told him
that Dex had been taken by the police. That the Señor Bill Donovan and
Pedro Salazar had come and shown him a paper,--he could not read,--but
he knew the big seal. It was Pedro Salazar who had ridden the horse.
The streets were still lighted, although the crowd was thinning. Waring
turned a corner and drifted through the shadows toward the edge of town.
As he passed open doorways he was greeted in Mexican, and returned each
greeting pleasantly. The adobe at the end of the side street he was on
was dark.
Waring paused. Pedro Salazar's house was the only unlighted house in the
district. The circumstance hinted of an ambushment. Waring crossed to
the deeper shadows and whistled. The call was peculiarly low and
cajoling. He was answered by a muffled nickering. His horse Dex was
evidently corralled at the back of the adobe.
Pedro Salazar knew that Waring would come for the horse sooner or later,
so he waited, crouching behind the adobe wall of the enclosure.
Waring knocked loudly on Salazar's door and called his name. Then he
turned and ran to the corner, dodged round it, and crept along the
breast-high adobe wall. He whistled again. A rope snapped, and there
came the sound of quick trampling. A rush and the great, tawny shape of
Dexter reared in the moonlight and swept over the wall. With head up,
the horse snorted a challenge. Waring called softly. The horse wheeled
toward him. Waring caught the broken neck-rope and swung up. A flash cut
the darkness behind him. Instinctively he turned and threw two shots. A
figure crumpled to a dim blur in the corral.
Waring raced down the alley and out into the street. At the
livery-stable he asked for his saddle and bridle. The Mexican,
chattering, brought them. Waring tugged the cinchas tight and mounted.
Far down the street some one called.
Waring rode to the hotel, dismounted, and strode in casually, pausing at
Stanley's door. The cashier answered his knock.
"I'm off," said Waring. "And I'll need some money."
"All right, Jim. What's up? How much?"
"A couple of hundred. Charge it back to my account. Got it?"
"No. I'll get it at the desk."
"All right. Settle my bill for me to-morrow. Don't stop to dress.
Rustle!"
A belated lounger glanced up in surprise as Waring, booted and spurred,
entered the lobby with a man in pajamas. They talked with the clerk a
moment, shook hands, and Waring strode to the doorway.
"Any word for the Ortez people?" queried Stanley as Waring mounted.
"I left a little notice for Donovan--at Pedro Salazar's house," said
Waring. "Donovan will understand." And Waring was gone.
The lounger accosted Stanley. "What's the row, Stanley?"
"I don't know. Jim Waring is in a hurry--first time since I've known
him. Figure it out yourself."
Back in Pedro Salazar's corral a man lay huddled in a dim corner, his
sightless eyes open to the soft radiance of the Sonora moon. A group of
Mexicans stood about, jabbering. Among them was Ramon Ortego. Ramon
listened and said nothing. Pedro Salazar was dead. No one knew who had
killed him. And only that day he had become one of the police! It would
go hard with the man who did this thing. There were many surmises.
Pedro's brother had been killed by the gringo Waring down in the desert.
As for Pedro, his name had been none too good. They shrugged their
shoulders and crossed themselves.
Ramon slipped from the group and climbed the adobe wall. As he
straightened up on the other side, he saw something gleaming in the
moonlight. He stooped and picked up a little silver crucifix.