NEAR THE END OF HIS TRAIL
Harrison strode up and down the room furiously. "Who in Mexico is this
Pasquale?" he demanded, and then answered his own question: "Scum of the
earth, a peon whipped for stealing whiskey, a hill robber and murderer.
In my country they'd take the scoundrel and hang him by the neck."
"True, amigo,--all true," assented Culvera suavely, examining his
cigarette as he spoke. "But it is well to remember that walls have ears,
and therefore to whisper--when one speaks of Gabriel."
"I'm not afraid of him," boasted the American, but his voice fell.
"I am," differed Culvera frankly. "Ramon is fond of Ramon, so he chooses
a safe time to pay his debts--and he does not advertise in advance that
he is going to settle."
"Bah! You sit still and do nothing. But I--By God! I'll not stand it. He
has given it out he will be married Saturday. We'll see about that.
Maybe he'll be buried that day instead."
The dark eyes of the Mexican swept him with a sidelong glance. If he
could do it without incurring responsibility himself, he was very
willing to spur on the fierce passion of this man.
"Be careful, señor. Pasquale is dangerous."
"You know he is dangerous--to Ramon Culvera. Why don't you strike and be
done with it?"
"The time is not ripe. Some day--perhaps--" He let a shrug of his
shoulders finish the sentence for him.
"It's always mañana with you Mexicans," sneered Harrison with a savage
lift of the lip. "You want to play it safe all the time. Why don't you
take a chance?"
"I play my own cards, señor," returned Ramon equably.
"You play 'em darned close to your stomach. Me, I go out on a limb oncet
in a while."
"Be sure you don't stay out there--at the end of a rope," smiled the
Mexican.
"They haven't grown the hemp yet that will hang Chad Harrison." The
prizefighter leaned toward him, eyes shining. "If I pull it off and make
my getaway--what then? Will you send the girl to me, wherever I am?"
"You mean, if you--"
"--Give Pasquale what's been coming to him for a long time."
The eyes of Culvera were slits of light. His face was a brown mask that
covered an alert and wary attention.
"I didn't hear what you said, amigo. It is better that I shouldn't. But
if I had charge of the army instead of General Pasquale my policy would
be different. I would return this Arizona girl to her home."
"To her home!" broke in Harrison harshly.
"To her husband," amended the Mexican significantly, adding after an
instant--"who is a good friend of mine."
"You'll stand pat on that, will you?"
"It would be my purpose to reward my friends--those who have helped the
cause--if by any chance command of the Legion should fall to me."
Harrison glared at him suspiciously. "You're so smooth I don't know
whether I can believe you or not. You'd sell your own father out for the
right price."
"I pay my debts, señor--both kinds," suggested the Mexican, unmoved at
this outburst.
"See that you do."
"Be sure I shall, amigo," returned Culvera, looking straight at him from
narrowed eyes that told nothing.
The prizefighter took another turn up and down the room. He was anxious
and harassed as well as driven hard by hatred and jealousy.
"The wolf is having me watched. His orders are that I'm not to be
allowed to leave camp. I don't get any chance to see him alone. If you
ask me, I think he's fixing to have me knifed in the dark," Harrison
burst out.
"Shouldn't wonder," agreed the young officer with a pleasant smile. He
lived in an atmosphere where such things were not uncommon, and on
occasion could take a hand himself.
"Fat lot you care," complained the photoplay actor sullenly. "You
wouldn't lift a hand to save your pardner."
Culvera patted him on the shoulder cheerfully. "What can I do? Do I not
live under the shadow myself? Can I tell when the knife will fall on me?
He is without bowels of mercy, this son of a thief. But this I know: if
you are watched, you must not stay here. Gabriel will be suspicious lest
we are plotting something against him. Good luck, amigo."
The heavyweight took away with him a heavy heart. He had reached the
stage where his hand was against that of every man. Culvera he did not
trust at all out of his sight beyond the point where the interests of
the young Mexican were parallel to his. In the whole camp he had no
friend, not even the girl for whom he fought. As for Pasquale, Harrison
had told the truth. He believed the general had doomed him. Unless he
struck first, he was a lost man. Why had he been fool enough to boast
to the old scoundrel what he would do? His temper had robbed him of the
chance to kill and then escape.
He passed down the street toward the river. A dozen boys and young men
sat in the shadow of the adobe wall that fronted the road opposite one
of the corrals. It chanced that Harrison dropped his handkerchief at
this point and stooped to pick it up.
Thirty minutes later a barefooted youth came down to the river carrying
an olla for water. Harrison lay sleeping under a cottonwood that edged
the trail. One arm was outstretched so that the closed fist lay almost
across the path.
The soldier boy whistled gayly as he walked. Oddly enough, just as he
reached the sleeping Gringo, the outflung arm lifted abruptly from the
ground for an inch or two. A little package shot four feet up into the
air and was caught deftly by the barefoot trooper as it descended.
The lips of Harrison barely moved. "Ride to-night, Enrique. Colonel
Farrugia will also reward you well."
"Si, señor," nodded Enrique, and went on his way.
The face of the boy was toward the camp on the return journey. The
American was still fast asleep. The lad went whistling past him without
any sign of recognition.
Several times during the next hour Harrison took a long pull from a
bottle he carried in his coat pocket. After a time he rose and walked
heavily down the main street of the village until he came to the house
where Captain Holcomb had been put up.
The Texan was sitting on his porch smoking a pipe. Behind him, a few
feet away, Cabenza was cleaning a rifle for his new master.
"I wanta talk to you about something, Captain Holcomb," announced the
film actor.
The soldier looked at him steadily. "Go to it," he ordered curtly.
"This is private business."
Holcomb did not turn his head or raise his voice. "Pedro, vamos."
The feet of Cabenza could be heard hitting the dust as he vanished
around the corner of the house.
Without beating around the bush Harrison came to his subject. He jerked
a thumb over his right shoulder.
"It's that girl up at the house there I want to talk about."
"What about her?"
"He's got no business keeping her there. She's a straight girl."
"Is she?"
"Yes, sir. She is."
"Then why did you bring her here?" Holcomb's question was like the
thrust of a sword.
"Because I was a fool."
"Better give things their right names. You were a damned villain."
A dull flush rose to the cheeks of the prizefighter. "All right. Let it
go at that. I guess you're right. What I want to know now is whether
you're going to stand for Pasquale's play. He's got one wife
already--half a dozen, far as I know. You going to let him put this
wedding farce over without a kick?"
"Can I stop it?"
"You can register a roar, can't you?"
"Would it do any good? Did yours?"
"You're different. He needs you to drill this ragged bunch of hoboes he
calls an army. Pasquale has a lot of respect for you. He talked a lot
about you before you came."
"If you want to know, I've already spoken to him about it."
"What did he say?"
"Gave me to understand that if I'd attend to my business he'd mind his.
And I'm going to do it," concluded Holcomb with sharp decision.
"You mean you're going to lie down like a yellow dog and quit, that
you'll let this wolf take that lamb and ruin her life! Is that what you
mean?"
Holcomb sat forward in his chair, so that his strong, lean, sunburnt
face was as close to the other man as possible. "You talk both like a
coward and a fool. You brought the girl here against her will. If
Pasquale had been willing to let you force her into a marriage with you,
I wouldn't have heard a squeal out of you. But he butted in. He took her
from you. Now you come hollering to me, you quitter. Instead of fighting
it out to a finish, you run to me. Talk about yellow curs. Faugh!"
"What can I do?" exploded Harrison in a rage. "He has four men watching
her room at night now. Every time I move his cursed spies follow me.
There are two of them over there now. Pasquale won't even let me see
him. He's aimin' to have me killed, I believe."
"Serve you right," the soldier of fortune flung at him as he rose from
his chair. "Killing is none too good for your kind. Pity some one didn't
stamp you out before you brought that little girl down here to this sink
of perdition."
Harrison swallowed down his anger. "That's all right. I'll stand for it.
If I didn't believe it myself, you'd have a heluvatime getting away with
such talk. But it goes just as you lay it down. I'm a skunk and all the
rest of it. Now, listen! I ain't such a four-flusher as to lay down my
hand before I've played it out. See! I'm not through with Gabriel
Pasquale. Watch my smoke. Him and me hasn't come to a settlement yet."
"Sounds to me like whiskey talk," answered the Texan scornfully. "Men
who do the kind of things you have done don't have the guts to play out
a losing game."
"Some do, some don't. By your reputation you're game. All right. Keep
your eyes open, captain."
Snarling, the man turned away and walked down the street. Holcomb
watched him go. There was something purposeful in the way the
heavyweight moved. Perhaps, after all, he would make a fighting finish
of it. The captain fervently hoped he would drag old Pasquale down with
him before they wiped him off the map. But he knew the betting odds were
all the other way.