_Arizona_
Waring, who had known the man in Sonora, called him by name. The other's
smile faded, and his eyes narrowed. Waring thrust up his hands and
jokingly offered to toss up a coin to decide the issue. He knew his man;
knew that at the first false move the rural would kill him. He rose and
turned sideways that the other might take his gun. "You win the throw,"
he said. The Mexican jerked Waring's gun from the holster and cocked it.
Then he whistled.
From below came the faint clatter of hoofs. The rural seemed puzzled
that his call should have been answered so promptly. He knew that his
companions had gone for their horses, picketed some distance from the
pocket. He had volunteered to surprise the gunman single-handed.
Waring, gazing beyond the rural, saw the head of a horse top the rise.
In the saddle sat Ramon, hatless, his black hair flung back from his
forehead, a gun in his hand. Waring drew a deep breath. Would Ramon
bungle it by calling out, or would he have nerve enough to make an end
of it on the instant?
Although Waring was unarmed, the rural dared not turn. The gringo had
been known to slip out of as tight a place despite the threat of a gun
almost against his chest. With a despondent shrug, Waring lowered his
arms.
"You win the throw," he said hopelessly.
Still the Mexican dared not take his eyes from Waring. He would wait
until his companions appeared.
A few yards behind the rural, Ramon reined up. Slowly he lowered the
muzzle of his gun. The rural called the name of one of his fellows. The
answer came in a blunt crash, which rippled its harsh echoes across the
sounding hills. The rural flung up his arms and pitched forward, rolling
to Waring's feet. The gunman leaped up, and, snatching his carbine from
the rock, swung round and took his six-gun from the rural's limp
fingers. Plunging to the brush beyond the pocket, he swung to the saddle
and shot down the slope. Behind him he could hear Ramon's horse
scattering the loose rock of the hillside. A bullet struck ahead of him
and whined across the silence. A shrill call told him that the pursuers
had discovered the body of their fellow.
Dex, with ears laid back, took the ragged grade in great, uneven leaps
that shortened to a regular stride as they gained the level of the
valley. Glancing back, Waring saw Ramon but a few yards behind. He
signaled to him to ride closer. Together they swung down the valley,
dodging the low brush--and leaping rocks at top speed.
Finally Waring reined in. "We'll make for that ridge,"--and he
indicated the range west. Under cover of the brush they angled across
the valley and began the ascent of the range which hid the western
desert.
Halfway up, Waring dismounted. "Lead my horse on up," he told Ramon.
"I'll argue it out with 'em here."
"Señor, I have killed a man!" gasped Ramon.
Waring flung the reins to his companion. "All right! This isn't a
fiesta, hombre; this is business."
Ramon turned and put his horse up the slope, Dex following. Waring
curled behind a rock and swept the valley with his glass. The heads of
several rurales were visible in the brush. They had halted and were
looking for tracks. Finally one of them raised his arm and pointed
toward the hill. They had caught sight of Ramon on the slope above.
Presently three riders appeared at the foot of the grade. It was a long
shot from where Waring lay. He centered on the leading rural, allowed
for a chance of overshooting, and pressed the trigger. The carbine
snarled. An echo ripped the shimmering heat. A horse reared and plunged
up the valley, the saddle empty.
Waring rose, and plodded up the slope.
"Three would have trailed us. Two will ride back to the railroad and
report. I wonder how many of them are bushed along the trail between
here and Nogales?"
In the American custom-house at Nogales sat a lean, lank man gazing out
of a window facing the south. His chair was tilted back, and his large
feet were crossed on the desk in front of him. He was in his
shirt-sleeves, and he puffed indolently at a cigar and blew smoke-rings
toward the ceiling. Incidentally his name was known throughout the
country and beyond its southern borders. But if this distinction
affected him in any way it was not evident. He seemed submerged in a
lassitude which he neither invited nor struggled against.
A group of riders appeared down the road. The lean man brushed a cloud
of smoke away and gazed at them with indifference. They drew nearer. He
saw that they were Mexicans--rurales. Without turning his head, he
called to an invisible somebody in the next room.
"Jack, drift over to the cantina and get a drink."
A chair clumped to the floor, and a stocky, dark-faced man appeared,
rubbing his eyes. "On who?" he queried, grinning.
"On old man Diaz," replied the lean man.
"All right, Pat. But mebby his credit ain't good on our side of the
line."
The lean man said nothing. He continued to gaze out of the window. The
white road ran south and south into the very haze of the beyond. His
assistant picked up a hat and strolled out. A few doors down the street
stood several excellent saddle animals tied to the hitching-rail in
front of the cantina. He didn't need to be told that they were the
picked horses of the rurales, and that for some strange reason his
superior had sent him to find out just why these same rurales were in
town.
He entered the cantina and called for a drink. The lithe, dark riders of
the south, grouped round a table in one corner of the room, glanced up,
answered his general nod of salutation indifferently, and turned to talk
among themselves. Catering to authority, the Mexican proprietor
proffered a second drink to the Americano. The assistant collector toyed
with his glass, and began a lazy conversation about the weather. The
proprietor, his fat, oily face in his hands and his elbows on the bar,
grunted monosyllables, occasionally nodding as the Americano forced his
acknowledgment of a highly obvious platitude.
And the assistant collector, listening for a chance word that would
explain the presence of armed Mexico on American soil, knew that the
proprietor was also listening for that same word that might explain
their unprecedented visit. Presently the assistant collector of customs
began a tirade against Nogales, its climate, institutions, and citizens
collectively and singly. The proprietor awoke to argument. Their talk
grew loud. The assistant collector thumped the bar with his fist, and
ceased talking suddenly. A subdued buzz came from the corner where the
rurales sat, and he caught the name "Waring."
"And the whole town ain't worth the matches to burn it up," he
continued. "If it wasn't for Pat, I'd quit right now." And he emptied
his glass and strode from the room.
Back in the office, he flung his hat on the table and rumpled his hair.
"Those coyotes," he said casually, "are after some one called Waring.
Pablo's whiskey is rotten."
The collector's long legs unfolded, and he sat up, yawning. "Jim Waring
isn't in town," he said as though to himself.
"Pat, you give me a pain," said the assistant, grinning.
"Got one myself," said the collector unsmilingly. "Cucumbers."
"You're the sweetest liar for a thousand miles either side of the line.
There isn't even the picture of a cucumber in this sun-blasted town."
"Isn't, eh? Look here!" And the lank man pulled open a drawer in the
desk. The collector fumbled among some papers and drew out a bulky seed
catalogue, illustrated in glowing tints.
"Oh, I'll buy," laughed the assistant. "I reckon if I asked for a
picture of this man Waring that's wanted by those nickel-plated coyotes,
you'd fish it up and never sweat a hair."
"I could," said the collector, closing the drawer.
"Here, smoke one of mine for a change. About that picture. I met Jim
Waring in Las Cruces. He was a kid then, but a comer. Had kind of
light, curly hair. His face was as smooth as a girl's. He wasn't what
you'd call a dude, but his clothes always looked good on him. Wimmin
kind of liked him, but he never paid much attention to them. He worked
for me as deputy a spell, and I never hired a better man. But he
wouldn't stay with one job long. When Las Cruces got quiet he pulled his
freight. Next I heard of him he was married and living in Sonora. It
didn't take Diaz long to find out that he could use him. Waring was a
wizard with a gun--and he had the nerve back of it. But Waring quit
Diaz, for Jim wasn't that kind of a killer. I guess he found plenty of
work down there. He never was one to lay around living on his reputation
and waiting for nothing to happen. He kept his reputation sprouting new
shoots right along--and that ain't all joke, neither."
"Speakin' in general, could he beat you to it with a gun, Pat?"
"Speaking in general--I reckon he could."
"Them rurales are kind of careless--ridin' over the line and not
stoppin' by to make a little explanation."
The lank man nodded. "There's a time coming when they'll do more than
that. That old man down south is losing his grip. I don't say this for
general information. And if Jim Waring happens to ride into town, just
tell him who you are and pinch him for smuggling; unless I see him
first."
"What did I ever do to you?"
Pat laughed silently. "Oh, he ain't a fool. It's only a fool that'll
throw away a chance to play safe."
"You got me interested in that Waring hombre. I'll sure nail him like
you said; but if he goes for his gun I don't want you plantin' no
cucumber seed on my restin'-place. Guess I'll finish those reports."
The lank man yawned, and, rising, strode to the window. The assistant
sauntered to the inner office and drew up to his desk. "Pablo's whiskey
is rotten!" he called over his shoulder. The lank collector smiled.
The talk about Waring and Las Cruces had stirred slumbering memories;
memories of night rides in New Mexico, of the cattle war, of blazing
noons on the high mesas and black nights in huddled adobe towns; Las
Cruces, Albuquerque, Caliente, Santa Fé--and weary ponies at the
hitching-rails.
Once, on an afternoon like this, he had ridden into town with a prisoner
beside him, a youth whose lightning-swift hand had snuffed out a score
of lives to avenge the killing of a friend. The collector recalled that
on that day he had ridden his favorite horse, a deep-chested buckskin,
slender legged, and swift, with a strain of thoroughbred.
Beyond the little square of window through which he gazed lay the same
kind of a road--dusty, sun-white, edged with low brush. And down the
road, pace for pace with his thoughts, strode a buckskin horse, ridden
by a man road-weary, gray with dust. Beside him rode a youth, his head
bowed and his hands clasped on the saddle-horn as though manacled.
"Jack!"
The assistant shoved back his chair and came to the window.
"There's the rest of your picture," said the collector.
As the assistant gazed at the riders, the collector stepped to his desk
and buckled on a gun.
"Want to meet Waring?" he queried.
"I'm on for the next dance, Pat."
The collector stepped out. Waring reined up. A stray breeze fluttered
the flag above the custom-house. Waring gravely lifted his sombrero.
"You're under arrest," said the collector.
Waring gestured toward Ramon.
"You, too," nodded Pat. "Get the kid and his horse out of sight," he
told the assistant.
Ramon, too weary to expostulate, followed the assistant to a corral back
of the building.
The collector turned to Waring. "And now, Jim, what's the row?"
"Down the street--and coming," said Waring, as the rurales boiled from
the cantina.
"We'll meet 'em halfway," said the collector.
And midway between the custom-house and the cantina the two cool-eyed,
deliberate men of the North faced the hot-blooded Southern haste that
demanded Waring as prisoner. The collector, addressing the leader of the
rurales, suggested that they talk it over in the cantina. "And don't
forget you're on the wrong side of the line," he added.
The Captain of rurales and one of his men dismounted and followed the
Americans into the cantina. The leader of the rurales immediately
exhibited a warrant for the arrest of Waring, signed by a high official
and sealed with the great seal of Mexico. The collector returned the
warrant to the captain.
"That's all right, amigo, but this man is already under arrest."
"By whose authority?"
"Mine--representing the United States."
"The warrant of the Presidente antedates your action," said the captain.
"Correct, Señor Capitan. But my action, being just about two jumps ahead
of your warrant, wins the race, I reckon."
"It is a trick!"
"Si! You must have guessed it."
"I shall report to my Government. And I also demand that you surrender
to me one Ramon Ortego, of Sonora, who aided this man to escape, and who
is reported to have killed one of my men and stolen one of my horses."
"He ought to make a darned good rural, if that's so," said the
collector. "But he is under arrest for smuggling. He rode a horse
across the line without declaring valuation."
"Juan," said the captain, "seize the horse of the Americano."
"Juan," echoed Waring softly, "I have heard that Pedro Salazar seized
the horse of an Americano--in Sonora."
The rural stopped short and turned as though awaiting further
instructions from his chief. The collector of customs rose and sauntered
to the doorway. Leaning against the lintel, he lighted a cigar and
smoked, gazing at Waring's horse with an appreciative eye. The captain
of rurales, seated opposite Waring, rolled a cigarette carefully; too
carefully, thought Waring, for a Mexican who had been daring enough to
ride across the line with armed men. Outside in the fading sunlight, the
horses of the rurales stamped and fretted. The cantina was strangely
silent. In the doorway stood the collector, smoking and toying with his
watch-charm.
Presently the assistant collector appeared, glanced in, and grinned.
"The kid is asleep--in the office," he whispered to the collector.
Waring knew that the flicker of an eyelid, an intonation, a gesture,
might precipitate trouble. He also knew that diplomacy was out of the
question. He glanced round the room, pushed back his chair, and, rising,
stepped to the bar. With his back against it, he faced the captain.
"Miguel," he said quietly, "you're too far over the line. Go home!"
The captain rose. "Your Government shall hear of this!"
"Yes. Wire 'em to-night. And where do you get off? You'll get turned
back to the ranks."
"I?"
"Si, Señor Capitan, and because--_you didn't get your man_."
The collector of customs stood with his cigar carefully poised in his
left hand. The assistant pushed back his hat and rumpled his black hair.
All official significance set aside, Waring and the captain of rurales
faced each other with the blunt challenge between them: "You didn't get
your man!"
The captain glanced at the two quiet figures in the doorway. Beyond them
were his own men, but between him and his command were two of the
fastest guns in the Southwest. He was on alien ground. This gringo had
insulted him.
Waring waited for the word that burned in the other's eyes.
The collector of customs drew a big silver watch from his waistband.
"It's about time--to go feed the horses," he said.
With the sound of his voice the tension relaxed. Waring eyed the captain
as though waiting for him to depart. "You'll find that horse in the
corral--back of the customs office," he said.
The Mexican swung round and strode out, followed by his man.
The rurales mounted and rode down the street. The three Americans
followed a few paces behind. Opposite the office, they paused.
"Go along with 'em and see that they get the right horse," said the
collector.
The assistant hesitated.
The collector laughed. "Shake hands with Jim Waring, Jack."
When the assistant had gone, the collector turned to Waring. "That's
Jack every time. Stubborn as a tight boot, but good leather every time.
Know why he wanted to shake hands? Well, that's his way of tellin' you
he thinks you're some smooth for not pullin' a fight when it looked like
nothing else was on the bill."
Waring smiled. "I've met you before, haven't I?"
Pat pretended to ignore the question. "Say, stranger," he began with
slow emphasis, "you're makin' mighty free and familiar for a prisoner
arrested for smuggling. Mebby you're all right personal, but officially
I got a case against you. What do you know about raising cucumbers? I
got a catalogue in the office, and me and Jack has been aiming to raise
cucumbers from it for three months. I like 'em. Jack says you can't do
it down here without water every day. Now--"
"Where have you planted them, Pat?"
"Oh, hell! They ain't _planted_ yet. We're just figuring. Now, up Las
Cruces way--"
"Let's go back to the cantina and talk it out. There goes Mexico leading
a horse with an empty saddle. I guess the boy will be all right in the
office."
"Was the kid mixed up in your getaway?"
"Yes. And he's a good boy."
"Well, he's in dam' bad company. Now, Jack says you got to plant 'em in
hills and irrigate. I aim to just drill 'em in and let the A'mighty do
the rest. What do you think?"
"I think you're getting worse as you grow older, Pat. Say, did you ever
get track of that roan mare you lost up at Las Cruces?"
"Yes, I got her back."
"Speaking of horses, I saw a pinto down in Sonora--"
Just then the assistant joined them, and they sauntered to the cantina.
Dex, tied at the rail, turned and gazed at them. Waring took the morral
of grain from the saddle, and, slipping Dex's bridle, adjusted it.
The rugged, lean face of the collector beamed. "I wondered if you
thought as much of 'em as you used to. I aimed to see if I could make
you forget to feed that cayuse."
"How about those goats in your own corral?" laughed Waring.
"Kind of a complimentary cuss, ain't he?" queried Pat, turning to his
assistant. "And he don't know a dam' thing about cucumbers."
"You old-timers give me a pain," said the assistant, grinning.
"That's right! Because you can't set down to a meal without both your
hands and feet agoing and one ear laid back, you call us old because we
chew slow. But you're right. Jim and I are getting kind of gray around
the ears."
"Well, you fellas can fight it out. I came over to say that them rurales
got their hoss. But one of 'em let it slip, in Mexican, that they
weren't through yet."
"So?" said Pat. "Well, you go ahead and feed the stock. We'll be over to
the house poco tiempo."
Waring and the collector entered the cantina. For a long time they sat
in silence, gazing at the peculiar half-lights as the sun drew down.
Finally the collector turned to Waring.
"Has the game gone stale, Jim?"
Waring nodded. "I'm through. I am going to settle down. I've had my
share of trouble."
"Here, too," said the collector. "I've put by enough to get a little
place up north--cattle--and take it easy. That's why I stuck it out down
here. Had any word from your folks recent?"
"Not for ten years."
"And that boy trailing with you?"
"Oh, he's just a kid I picked up in Sonora. No, my own boy is straight
American, if he's living now."
"You might stop by at Stacey, on the Santa Fé," said the collector
casually. "There's some folks running a hotel up there that you used to
know."
Waring thanked him with a glance. "We don't need a drink and the sun is
down. Where do you eat?"
"We'll get Jack to rustle some grub. You and the boy can bunk in the
office. I'll take care of your horse."
"Thanks, Pat. But you spoke of going north. I wouldn't if I were you.
They'll get you."
"I had thought of that. But I'm going to take that same chance. I'm
plumb sick of the border."
"If they do--" And Waring rose.
The collector's hard-lined face softened for an instant. He thrust out
his bony hand. "I'll leave that to you, Jim."
And that night, because each was a gunman unsurpassed in his grim
profession, they laughed and talked about things trivial, leaving the
deeper currents undisturbed. And the assistant collector, eating with
them in the adobe back of the office, wondered that two such men found
nothing more serious to talk about than the breeding of horses and the
growing of garden truck.
Late that night the assistant awoke to find that the collector was not
in bed. He rose and stalked to the window. Across from the adobe he saw
the grim face of the collector framed in the office window. He was
smoking a cigar and gazing toward the south, his long arm resting on the
sill and his chin in his hand.
"Ole fool!" muttered the assistant affectionately. "That there Jim
Waring must sure be some hombre to make Pat lose any sleep."