_The Tang of Life_
Waring rode until dawn, when he picketed Dex in a clump of chaparral and
lay down to rest. He had purposely passed the water-hole, a half-mile
south, after having watered the horse and refilled his canteen.
There was a distinction, even in Sonora, between Pedro Salazar, the
citizen, and Pedro Salazar, of the Sonora police. The rurales might get
busy. Nogales and the Arizona line were still a long ride ahead.
Slowly the desert sun drew overhead and swept the scant shadows from the
brush-walled enclosure. Waring slept. Finally the big buckskin became
restless, circling his picket and lifting his head to peer over the
brush. Long before Waring could have been aware of it, had he been
awake, the horse saw a moving something on the southern horizon. Trained
to the game by years of association with his master, Dex walked to where
Waring lay and nosed his arm. The gunman rolled to his side and peered
through the chaparral.
Far in the south a moving dot wavered in the sun. Waring swept the
southern arc with his glasses. The moving dot was a Mexican, a horseman
riding alone. He rode fast. Waring could see the rise and fall of a
quirt. "Some one killing a horse to get somewhere," he muttered, and he
saddled Dex and waited. The tiny figure drew nearer. Dex grew restless.
Waring quieted him with a word.
To the west of the chaparral lay the trail, paralleled at a distance of
a half-mile by the railroad. The glasses discovered the lone horseman to
be Ramon, of Sonora. The boy swayed in the saddle as the horse lunged
on. Waring knew that something of grave import had sent the boy out into
the noon desert. He was at first inclined to let him pass and then ride
east toward the Sierra Madre. If the rurales were following, they would
trail Dex to the water-hole. And if Ramon rode on north, some of them
would trail the Mexican. This would split up the band--decrease the odds
by perhaps one half.
But the idea faded from Waring's mind as he saw the boy fling past
desperately. Waring swung to the saddle and rode out. Ramon's horse
plunged to a stop, and stood trembling. The boy all but fell as he
dismounted. Stumbling toward Waring, he held out both hands.
"Señor, the rurales!" he gasped.
"How far behind?"
"The railroad! They are ahead! They have shipped their horses to
Magdalena, to Nogales!"
"How do you know that?"
"Pedro Salazar is dead. You were gone. They say it was you."
"So they shipped their horses ahead to cut me off, eh? You're a good
boy, Ramon, but I don't know what in hell to do with you. Your cayuse is
played out. You made a good ride."
"Si, señor. I have not stopped once."
"You look it. You can't go back now. They would shoot you."
"I will ride with the señor."
Waring shook his head.
Ramon's eyes grew desperate. "Señor," he pleaded, "take me with you! I
cannot go back. I will be your man--follow you, even into the Great
Beyond. You will not lose the way."
And as Ramon spoke he touched the little crucifix on his breast.
"Where did you find _that?_" asked Waring.
"In the Placeta Burro; near the house of Pedro Salazar."
Waring nodded. "Has your horse had water?"
"No, señor. I did not stop."
"Take him back to the water-hole. Or, here! Crawl in there and rest up.
You are all in. I'll take care of the cayuse."
When Waring returned to the chaparral, Ramon was asleep, flat on his
back, his arms outspread and his mouth open. Waring touched him with his
boot. Ramon muttered. Waring stooped and pulled him up.
Within the hour five rurales disembarked from a box-car and crossed to
the water-hole, where one of them dismounted and searched for tracks.
Alert for the appearance of the gringo, they rode slowly toward the
chaparral. The enclosure was empty. After riding a wide circle round the
brush, they turned and followed the tracks toward the eastern hills,
rein-chains jingling and their silver-trimmed buckskin jackets
shimmering in the sun.
* * * * *
"I will ride back," said Ramon. "My horse is too weak to follow. The
señor rides slowly that I may keep up with him."
Waring turned in the saddle. Ahead lay the shadowy foothills of the
mother range, vague masses in the starlight. Some thirty miles behind
was the railroad and the trail north. There was no chance of picking up
a fresh horse. The country was uninhabited. Alone, the gunman would have
ridden swiftly to the hill country, where his trail would have been lost
in the rocky ground of the ranges and where he would have had the
advantage of an unobstructed outlook from the high trails.
Ramon had said the rurales had entrained; were ahead of him to intercept
him. But Waring, wise in his craft, knew that the man-hunters would
search for tracks at every water-hole on the long northern trail. And if
they found his tracks they would follow him to the hills. They were as
keen on the trail as Yaquis and as relentless as wolves. Their horses,
raw-hide tough, could stand a forced ride that would kill an ordinary
horse. And Ramon's wiry little cayuse, though willing to go on until he
dropped, could not last much longer.
But to leave Ramon to the rurales was not in Waring's mind. "We'll keep
on, amigo," he said, "and in a few hours we'll know whether it's to be a
ride or a fight."
"I shall pray," whispered Ramon.
"For a fresh horse, then."
"No, señor. That would be of no use. I shall pray that you may escape.
As for me--"
"We'll hit the glory trail together, muchacho. If you get bumped off,
it's your own funeral. You should have stayed in Sonora."
Ramon sighed. The señor was a strange man. Even now he hummed a song in
the starlight. Was he, then, so unafraid of death that he could sing in
the very shadow of its wings?
"You've got a hunch that the rurales are on our trail," said Waring, as
they rode on.
"It is so, señor."
"How do you know?"
"I cannot say. But it is so. They have left the railroad and are
following us."
Waring smiled in the dark. "Dex, here, has been trying to tell me that
for an hour."
"And still the señor does not hasten!"
"I am giving your cayuse a chance to make the grade. We'll ride an hour
longer."
Ramon bowed his head. The horses plodded on, working up the first
gentle slope of the foothills. The brush loomed heavier. A hill star
faded on the edge of the higher range. Ramon's lips moved and he crossed
himself.
Waring hummed a song. He was not unhappy. The tang of life was his
again. Again he followed a trail down which the light feet of Romance
ran swiftly. The past, with its red flare of life, its keen memories and
dulled regrets, was swept away by the promise of dawn and the unknown.
"A clean break and a hard fight," he murmured, as he reined up to rest
his horse. Turning, he could distinguish Ramon, who fingered the
crucifix at his throat. Waring's face grew grim. He felt suddenly
accountable for the boy's life.
The half-moon glowed against the edge of the world. About to ride on
again, Waring saw a tiny group of horsemen silhouetted against the
half-disk of burning silver. He spoke to his horse. Slowly they climbed
the ridge, dropped down the eastern slope, and climbed again.
In a shallow valley, Waring reined up, unsaddled Dex, and turned him
loose. Ramon questioned this. "Turn your horse loose," said Waring.
"They'll keep together and find water."
Ramon shook his head, but did as he was told. Wearily he followed Waring
as he climbed back to a rocky depression on the crest. Without a word
Waring stretched behind a rock and was soon asleep. Ramon wondered at
the other's indifference to danger, but fatigue finally overcame him and
he slept.
Just before dawn Ramon awakened and touched
Waring. "They are coming!" he whispered.
Waring shook his head. "You hear our horses. The rurales won't ride into
this pocket before daylight. Stay right here till I come back."
He rose and worked cautiously down the eastern slope, searching for Dex
in the valley. In the gray gloom he saw the outline of his horse grazing
alone. He stepped down to him. The big horse raised its head. Waring
spoke. Reassured, Dex plodded to his master, who turned and tracked back
to the pocket in the rocks. "I think your cayuse has drifted south," he
told Ramon.
The young Mexican showed no surprise. He seemed resigned to the
situation. "I knew when the señor said to turn my horse loose that he
would seek the horses of his kind. He has gone back to the horses of
those who follow us."
"You said it" said Waring. "And that's going to bother them. It tells me
that the rurales are not far behind. They'll figure that I put you out
of business to get rid of you. They'll look for a dead Mexican, and a
live gringo riding north, alone. But they're too wise to ride up here.
They'll trail up afoot and out of sight. That's your one chance."
"My chance, señor?"
"Yes. Here's some grub. You've got your gun. Drift down the slope, get
back of the next ridge, and strike south. Locate their horses and wait
till they leave them to come up here. Get a horse. Pick a good one. I'll
keep them busy till you get back."
Ramon rose and climbed to the edge of the pocket. "I go," he said sadly.
"And I shall never see the señor again."
"Don't bet all you've got on that," said Waring.
When Ramon had disappeared, Waring led Dex back from the pocket, and,
saddling him, left him concealed in the brush. Then the gunman crept
back to the rim and lay waiting, a handful of rifle shells loose on a
flat rock in front of him. He munched some dried meat and drank from the
canteen.
The red dawn faded quickly to a keen white light. Heat waves ran over
the rocks and danced down the hillside. Waring lighted a match and
blackened the front sight of his carbine. The sun rolled up and struck
at him, burning into the pocket of rock where he lay motionless gazing
down the slope. Sweat beaded his forehead and trickled down his nose.
Scattered boulders seemed to move gently. He closed his eyes for an
instant. When he opened them he thought he saw a movement in the brush
below. The heat burned into his back, and he shrugged his shoulders. A
tiny bird flitted past and perched on the dry, dead stalk of a yucca.
Again Waring thought he saw a movement in the brush.
Then, as if by magic, the figure of a rural stood clear and straight
against the distant background of brownish-green. Waring smiled. He knew
that if he were to fire, the rurales would rush him. They suspected some
kind of a trap. Waring's one chance was to wait until they had given up
every ruse to draw his fire. They were not certain of his whereabouts,
but were suspicious of that natural fortress of rock. There was not a
rural in Old Mexico who did not know him either personally or by
reputation. The fact that one of them had offered himself as a possible
target proved that they knew they had to deal with a man as crafty as
themselves.
The standing figure, shimmering in the glare, drew back and disappeared.
Waring eased his tense muscles. "Now they'll go back for their horses,"
he said to himself. "They'll ride up to the next ridge, where they can
look down on this pocket, but I won't be here."
Waring planned every move with that care and instinct which marks a good
chess-player. And because he had to count upon possibilities far ahead
he drew Ramon's saddle to him and cut the stirrup-leathers, cinchas, and
latigos. If Ramon got one of their horses, his own jaded animal would be
left. Eventually the rurales would find the saddle and Ramon's horse.
And every rural out of the riding would be a factor in their escape.
The sun blazed down until the pocket of rock was a pit of stagnant
heat. The silence seemed like an ocean rolling in soundless waves across
the hills; a silence that became disturbed by a faint sound as of one
approaching cautiously. Waring thought Ramon had shown cleverness in
working up to him so quietly. He raised on his elbow and turned his
head. On the eastern edge of the pocket stood a rural, and the rural
smiled.