I’m going to teach you how to put up your dukes. You’re going to ride
the range with me, son, and learn to stick to your saddle when the
bronc and you disagrees. Oh, I’ll bet all you need is training. I’ll
make a man out of you yet,” the ranger assured his charge cheerfully.
“Will you?” came the innocent reply, but Bucky for a moment had the
sense of being laughed at.
“Yes, I ‘will you,’ sissy,” he retorted, without the least
exasperation. “Don’t think you know it all. Right now you’re riding
like a wooden man. You want to take it easy in the saddle. There’s
about a dozen different positions you can take to rest yourself.” And
Bucky put him through a course of sprouts. “Don’t sit there laughing at
folks that knows a heap more than you ever will get in your noodle, and
perhaps you won’t be so done up at the end of a little jaunt like
this,” he concluded. And to his conclusion he presently added a
postscript: “Why, I know kids your age can ride day and night for a
week on the round-up without being all in. How old are you, son?”
“Eighteen.”
“That’s a lie,” retorted the ranger, with immediate frankness. “You’re
not a day over fifteen, I’ll bet.”
“I meant to say fifteen,” meekly corrected the youth.
“That’s another of them. You meant to say eighteen, but you found I
wouldn’t swallow it. Now, Master Frank, you want to learn one thing
prompt if you and I are to travel together. I can’t stand a liar. You
tell the truth, or I’ll give you the best licking you ever had in your
life.”
“You’re as bad a bully as he is,” the boy burst out, flushing angrily.
“Oh, no, I’m not,” came the ranger’s prompt unmoved answer. “But just
because you’re such a weak little kid that I could break you in two
isn’t any reason why I should put up with any foolishness from you. I
mean to see that you act proper, the way an honest kid ought to do.
Savvy?”
“I’d like to know who made you my master?” demanded the boy hotly.
“You’ve ce’tainly been good and spoiled, but you needn’t ride your high
hawss with me. Here’s the long and the short of it. To tell lies ain’t
square. If I ask you anything you don’t want to answer tell me to go to
hell, but don’t lie to me. If you do I’ll punish you the same as if you
were my brother, so long as you trail with me. If you don’t like it,
cut loose and hit the pike for yourself.”
“I’ve a good mind to go.”
Bucky waved a hand easily into space. “That’s all right, too, son.
There’s a heap of directions you can hit from here. Take any one you
like. But if I was as beat as you are, I think I’d keep on the Epitaph
road.” He laughed his warm, friendly laugh, before the geniality of
which discord seemed to melt, and again his arm went round the other’s
weary shoulders with a caressing gesture that was infinitely
protecting.
The boy laughed tremulously. “You’re awfully good to me. I know I’m a
cry-baby, sissy boy, but if you’ll be patient with me I’ll try to be
gamer.”
It certainly was strange the way Bucky’s pulse quickened and his blood
tingled when he touched the little fellow and heard that velvet voice’s
soft murmur. Yes, it surely was strange, but perhaps the young
Irishman’s explanation was not the correct one, after all. The cause he
offered to himself for this odd joy and tender excitement was perfectly
simple.
“I’m surely plumb locoed, or else gone soft in the haid,” he told
himself grimly.
But the reason for those queer little electric shocks that pulsed
through him was probably a more elemental and primeval one than even
madness.
Arrived at Epitaph, Bucky turned loose his prisoner with a caution and
made his preparations to leave immediately for Chihuahua. Collins had
returned to Tucson, but was in touch with the situation and ready to
set out for any point where he was needed.
Bucky, having packed, was confronted with a difficulty. He looked at
it, and voiced his perplexity.
“Now, what am I going to do with you, Curly Haid? I expect I had better
ship you back to the Rocking Chair.”
“I don’t want to go back there. He’ll come out again and find me after
you leave.”
“Where do you want to go, then? If you were a girl I could put you in
the convent school here,” he reflected aloud.
Again that swift, deep blush irradiated the youth’s cheeks. “Why can’t
I go with you?” he asked shyly.
The ranger laughed. “Mebbe you think I’m going on a picnic. Why, I’m
starting out to knock the chip off Old Man Trouble’s shoulder. Like as
not some greaser will collect Mr. Bucky’s scalp down in _mañana_ land.
No, sir, this doesn’t threaten to be a Y. P. S. C. E. excursion.”
“If it is so dangerous as that, you will need help. I’m awful good at
making up, and I can speak Spanish like a native.”
“Sho! You don’t want to go running your neck into a noose. It’s a
jail-break I’m planning, son. There may be guns a-popping before we get
back to God’s country—if we ever do. Add to that, trouble and then
some, for there’s a revolution scheduled for old Chihuahua just now, as
your uncle happens to know from reliable information.”
“Two can always work better than one. Try me, Bucky,” pleaded the boy,
the last word slipping out with a trailing upward inflection that was
irresistible.
“Sure you won’t faint if we get in a tight pinch, Curly?” scoffed
O’Connor, even though in his mind he was debating a surrender. For he
was extraordinarily taken with the lad, and his judgment justified what
the boy had said.
“I shall not be afraid if you are with me.”
“But I may not be with you. That’s the trouble. Supposing I should be
caught, what would you do?”
“Follow any orders you had given me before that time. If you had not
given any, I would use my best judgment.”
“I’ll give them now,” smiled Bucky. “If I’m lagged, make straight for
Arizona and tell Webb Mackenzie or Val Collins.”
“Then you _will_ take me?” cried the boy eagerly.
“Only on condition that you obey orders explicitly. I’m running this
cutting-out expedition.”
“I wouldn’t think of disobeying.”
“And I don’t want you to tell me any lies.”
“No.”
Bucky’s big brown fist caught the little one and squeezed it. “Then
it’s a deal, kid. I only hope I’m doing right to take you.”
“Of course you are. Haven’t you promised to make a man of me?” And
again Bucky caught that note of stifled laughter in the voice, though
the big brown eyes met his quite seriously.
They took the train that night for El Paso, Bucky in the lower berth
and his friend in the upper of section six of one of the Limited’s
Pullman cars. The ranger was awake and up with the day. For a couple of
hours he sat in the smoking section and discussed politics with a
Chicago drummer. He knew that Frank was very tired, and he let him
sleep till the diner was taken on at Lordsburg. Then he excused himself
to the traveling man.
“I reckon I better go and wake up my pardner. I see the chuck-wagon is
toddling along behind us.”
Bucky drew aside the curtains and shook the boy gently by the shoulder.
Frank’s eyes opened and looked at the ranger with that lack of
comprehension peculiar to one roused suddenly from deep sleep.
“Time to get up, Curly. The nigger just gave the first call for the
chuck-wagon.”
An understanding of the situation flamed over the boy’s face. He
snatched the curtains from the Arizonian and gathered them tightly
together. “I’ll thank you not to be so familiar,” he said shortly from
behind the closed curtains.
“I beg your pahdon, your royal highness. I should have had myself
announced and craved an audience, I reckon,” was Bucky’s ironic retort;
and swiftly on the heels of it he added. “You make me tired, kid.”
O’Connor was destined to be “made tired” a good many times in the
course of the next few days. In all the little personal intimacies
Frank possessed a delicate fastidiousness outside the experience of the
ranger. He was a scrupulously clean man himself, and rather nice as to
his personal habits, but it did not throw him into a flame of
embarrassment to brush his teeth before his fellow passengers. Nor did
it send him into a fit if a friend happened to drop into his room while
he was finishing his dressing. Bucky agreed with himself that this
excess of shyness was foolishness, and that to indulge the boy was
merely to lay up future trouble for him. A dozen times he was on the
point of speaking his mind on the subject, but some unusual quality of
innocence in the lad tied his tongue.
“Blame it all, I’m getting to be a regular old granny. What Master
Frank needs is a first-class dressing-down, and here the little cuss
has got me bluffed to a fare-you-well so that I’m mum as a hooter on
the nest,” he admitted to himself ruefully. “Just when something comes
up that needs a good round damn I catch that big brown Sunday school
eye of his, and it’s Bucky back to Webster’s unabridged. I’ve got to
quit trailing with him, or I’ll be joining the church first thing I
know. He makes me feel like I want to be _good_, confound the little
swindle.”
Notwithstanding the ranger’s occasional moments of exasperation, the
two got along swimmingly. Each of them found a continued pleasure in
delving into the other’s unexplored mental recesses. They drifted into
one of those quick, spontaneous likings that are rare between man and
man. Some subtle quality of affection bubbled up like a spring in the
hearts of each for the other. Young Hardman could perhaps have
explained what lay at the roots of it, but O’Connor admitted that he
was “buffaloed” when he attempted an analysis of his unusual feeling.
From El Paso a leisurely run on the Mexican Central Pacific took them
to Chihuahua, a quaint old city something about the size of El Paso.
Both Bucky and his friend were familiar with the manners of the
country, so that they felt at home among the narrow adobe streets, the
lounging, good-natured peons, and the imitation Moorish architecture.
They found rooms at a quiet, inconspicuous hotel, and began making
their plans for an immediate departure in the event that they succeeded
in their object.
At a distance it had seemed an easy thing to plan the escape of David
Henderson and to accomplish it by craft, but a sight of the heavy stone
walls that encircled the prison and of the numerous armed guards who
paced to and fro on the walls, put a more chilling aspect on their
chances.
“It isn’t a very gay outlook,” Bucky admitted cheerfully to his
companion, “but I expect we can pull it off somehow. If these Mexican
officials weren’t slower than molasses in January it might have been
better to wait and have him released by process of law on account of
Hardman’s confession. But it would take them two or three years to come
to a decision. They sure do hate to turn loose a gringo when they have
got the hog-tie on him. Like as not they would decide against him at
the last, then. Course I’ve got the law machinery grinding, too, but
I’m not banking on it real heavy. We’ll get him out first any old way,
then get the government to O. K. the thing.”
“How were you thinking of proceeding?”
“I expect it’s time to let you in on the ground floor, son. I reckon
you happen to know that down in these Spanish countries there’s usually
a revolution hatching. There s two parties among the aristocrats, those
for the government and those ferninst. The ‘ins’ stand pat, but the
‘outs’ have always got a revolution up their sleeves. Now, there’s
mostly a white man mixed up in the affair. They have to have him to run
it and to shoot afterward when the government wins. You see, somebody
has to be shot, and it’s always so much to the good if they can line up
gringoes instead of natives. Nine times out of ten it’s an
Irish-American lad that is engineering the scheme. This time it happens
to be Mickey O’Halloran, an old friend of mine. I’m going to put it up
to Mick to find a way.”
“But it isn’t any affair of his. He won’t do it, will he?”
“Oh, I thought I told you he was Irish.”
“Well?”
“And spoiling for trouble, of course. Is it likely he could keep his
fist out of the hive when there’s such a gem of a chance to get stung?”
It had been Frank’s suggestion that they choose rooms at a hotel which
open into each other and also connect with an adjoining pair. The
reason for this had not at first been apparent to the ranger, but as
soon as they were alone Frank explained.
“It is very likely that we shall be under surveillance after a day or
two, especially if we are seen around the prison a good deal. Well,
we’ll slip out the back way to-night, disguised in some other rig, come
boldly in by the front door, and rent the rooms next ours. Then we
shall be able to go and come, either as ourselves or as our neighbors.
It will give us a great deal more liberty.”
“Unless we should get caught. Then we would have a great deal less.
What’s your notion of a rig-up to disguise us, kid?”
“We might have several, in case of emergencies. For one thing, we could
easily be street showmen. You can do fancy shooting and I can do
sleight-of-hand tricks or tell fortunes.”
“You would be a gipsy lad?”
The youngster blushed. “A gipsy girl, and you might be my husband.”
“I’m no play actor, even if you are,” said Bucky. “I don’t want to be
your husband, thank you.”
“All you would have to do is to be sullen and rough. It is easy
enough.”
“And you think you could pass for a girl? You’re slim and soft enough,
but I’ll bet you would give it away inside of an hour.”
The boy laughed, and shot a swift glance at O’Connor under his long
lashes. “I appeared as a girl in one of the acts of the show for years.
Nobody ever suspected that I wasn’t.”
“We might try it, but we have no clothes for the part.”
“Leave that to me. I’ll buy some to-day while you are looking the
ground over for our first assault an the impregnable fortress.”
“I don’t know. It seems to me pretty risky. But you might buy the
things, and we’ll see how you look in them. Better not get all the
things at the same store. Sort of scatter your purchases around.”
They separated at the door of the hotel, Frank to choose the materials
he needed, and O’Connor to look up O’Halloran and get a permit to visit
the prison from the proper authorities. When the latter returned
triumphantly with his permit he found the boy busy with a needle and
thread and surrounded by a litter of dress-making material.
“I’m altering this to fit me and fixing it up,” he explained.
“Holy smoke! Who taught you to sew?” asked Bucky, in surprise.
“My aunt, Mrs. Hardman. I used to do all the plain sewing on my
costumes. Did you see your friend and get your permit?”
“You bet I did, and didn’t. Mickey was out, but I left him a note. The
other thing I pulled off all right. I’m to be allowed to visit the
prison and make a careful inspection of it at my leisure. There’s
nothing like a pull, son.”
“Does the permit say you are to be allowed to steal any one of the
prisoners you take a fancy to? asked Frank, with a smile.
“No, it forgot to say that. When do you expect to have that toggery
made?”
“A good deal of it is already made, as you see. I’m just making a few
changes. Do you want to try on your suit?”
“Is _this_ mine?” asked the ranger, picking up with smiling contempt
the rather gaudy blouse that lay on a chair.
“Yes, sir, that is yours. Go and put it on and we’ll see how it fits.”
Bucky returned a few minutes later in his gipsy uniform, with a
deprecating grin.
“I’ll have to stain your face. Then you’ll do very well,” said Frank,
patting and pulling at the clothes here and there. “It’s a good fit, if
I do say it that chose it. The first thing you want to do when you get
out in it is to roll in the dust and get it soiled. No respectable
gipsy wears new clothes. Better have a tear or two in it, too.”
“You ce’tainly should have been a girl, the way you take to clothes,
Curly.”
“Making up was my business for a good many years, you know,” returned
the lad quietly. “If you’ll step into the other room for about fifteen
minutes I’ll show you how well I can do it.”
It was a long half-hour later that Bucky thumped on the door between
the rooms. “Pretty nearly ready, kid? Seems to me it is taking you a
thundering long time to get that outfit on.”
“How long do you think it ought to take a lady to dress?”
“Ten minutes is long enough, and fifteen, say, if she is going to a
dance. You’ve been thirty-five by my Waterbury.”
“It’s plain you never were married, Mr. Innocent. Why, a girl can’t fix
her hair in less than half an hour.”
“Well, you got a wig there, ain’t you? It doesn’t take but about five
seconds to stick that on. Hurry up, _amigo!_ I’m clean through this old
newspaper.”
“Read the advertisements,” came saucily through the door.
“I’ve read the durned things twice.”
“Learn them by heart,” the sweet voice advised.
“Oh, you go to Halifax!”
Nevertheless, Mr. Bucky had to wait his comrade’s pleasure. But when he
got a vision of the result, it was so little what he had expected that
it left him staring in amazement, his jaw fallen and his eyes
incredulous.
The vision swept him a low bow. “How do you like Bonita?” it demanded
gaily.
Bucky’s eyes circled the room, to make sure that the boy was not hidden
somewhere, and came back to rest on his surprise with a look that was
almost consternation. Was this vivid, dazzling creature the boy he had
been patronizing, lecturing, promising to thrash any time during the
past four days? The thing was unbelievable, not yet to be credited by
his jarred brain. How incredibly blind he had been! What an idiot of
sorts! Why, the marks of sex sat on her beyond any possibility of
doubt. Every line of the slim, lissom figure, every curve of the soft,
undulating body, the sweep of rounded arm, of tapering waist-line, of
well-turned ankle, contributed evidence of what it were folly to ask
further proof. How could he have ever seen those lovely, soft-lashed
eyes and the delicate little hands without conviction coming home to
him? And how could he have heard the low murmur of her voice, the catch
of her sobs, without knowing that they were a denial of masculinity?
She was dressed like a Spanish dancing girl, in short kilts, red sash,
and jaunty little cap placed sidewise on her head. She wore a wig of
black hair, and her face was stained to a dusky, gipsy hue. Over her
thumb hung castanets and in her hand was a tambourine. Roguishly she
began to sway into a slow, rhythmic dance, beating time with her
instruments as she moved. Gradually the speed quickened to a faster
time. She swung gracefully to and fro with all the lithe agility of the
race she personified. No part could have been better conceived or
executed. Even physically she displayed the large, brilliant eyes, the
ringleted, coal-black hair, the tawny skin, and the flashing smile that
showed small teeth of dazzling ivory, characteristic of the Romanies he
had met. It was a daring part to play, but the young man watching
realized that she had the free grace to carry it out successfully. She
danced the fandango to a finish, swept him another low bow, and
presented laughingly to him the tambourine for his donation. Then,
suddenly flinging aside the instrument, she curtsied and caught at his
hand.
“Will the señor have his fortune told?”
Bucky drew a handful of change from his pocket and selected a gold
eagle. “I suppose I must cross your palm with gold,” he said, even
while his subconscious mind was running on the new complication
presented to him by this discovery.
He was very clear about one thing. He must not let her know that he
knew her for a girl. To him she must still be a boy, or their relation
would become impossible. She had trusted in her power to keep her
secret from him. On no other terms would she have come with him; of so
much he was sure, even while his mind groped for a sufficient reason to
account for an impulse that might have impelled her. If she found out
that he knew, the knowledge would certainly drive her at once from him.
For he knew that not the least charm of the extraordinary fascination
she had for him lay in her sweet innocence of heart, a fresh innocence
that consisted with this gay Romany abandon, and even with a mental
experience of the sordid, seamy side of life as comprehensive as that
of many a woman twice her age. She had been defrauded out of her
childish inheritance of innocence, but, somehow, even in her foul
environment the seeds of a rare personal purity had persistently sprung
up and flourished. Some flowers are of such native freshness that no
nauseous surroundings can kill their fragrance. And this was one of
them.
Meanwhile, her voice ran on with the patter of her craft. There was the
usual dark woman to be circumvented and the light one to be rewarded.
Jealousies and rivalries played their part in the nonsense she glibly
recited, and somewhere in the future lay, of course, great riches and
happiness for him.
With a queer little tug at his heart he watched the dainty finger that
ran so lightly over his open palm, watched, too, the bent head so
gracefully fine of outline and the face so mobile of expression when
the deep eyes lifted to his in question of the correctness of her
reading. He would miss the little partner that had wound himself so
tightly round his heart. He wondered if he would find compensating joy
in this exquisite creature whom a few moments had taken worlds distant
from him.
Suddenly tiring of her diversion, she dropped his hand. “You don’t say
I do it well,” she charged, aware suspiciously, at last, of his grave
silence.
“You do it very well indeed. I didn’t think you had it in you, kid.
What’s worrying me is that I can never live up to such a sure enough
gipsy as you.”
“All you have to do is to look sour and frown if anybody gets too
familiar with me. You can do that, can’t you?”
“You bet I can,” he answered promptly, with unnecessary emphasis.
“And look handsome,” she teased.
“Oh, that will be easy for me—since you are going to make me up. As a
simple child of nature I’m no ornament to the scenery, but art’s a heap
improving sometimes.”
She thought, but did not say, that art would go a long way before it
could show anything more pleasing than this rider of the plains. It was
not alone his face, with the likable blue eyes that could say so many
things in a minute, but the gallant ease of his bearing. Such a springy
lightness, such sinewy grace of undulating muscle, were rare even on
the frontier. She had once heard Webb Mackenzie say of him that he
could whip his weight in wildcats, and it was easy of belief after
seeing how surely he was master of the dynamic power in him. It is the
emergency that sifts men, and she had seen him rise to several with a
readiness that showed the stuff in him.
That evening they slipped out unobserved in the dusk, and a few minutes
later a young gipsy and his bride presented themselves at the inn to be
put up. The scowling young Romany was particular, considering that he
spent most nights in the open, with a sky for a roof. So the master of
the inn thought when he rejected on one pretense or another the first
two rooms that were shown him. He wanted two rooms, and they must
connect. Had the innkeeper such apartments? The innkeeper had, but he
would very much like to see the price in advance if he was going to
turn over to guests of such light baggage the best accommodations in
the house. This being satisfactorily arranged, the young gipsies were
left to themselves in the room they had rented.
The first thing that the man did when they were alone was to roll a
cigarette, which operation he finished deftly with one hand, while the
other swept a match in a circular motion along his trousers leg. In
very fair English the Spanish gipsy said: “You ce’tainly ought to learn
to smoke, kid. Honest, it’s more comfort than a wife.”
“How do you know, since you are not married?” she asked archly.
“I been noticing some of my poor unfortunate friends,” he grinned.
CHAPTER VII.
IN THE LAND OF REVOLUTIONS
The knock that sounded on the door was neither gentle nor apologetic.
It sounded as if somebody had flung a baseball bat at it.
O’Connor smiled, remembering that soft tap of yore. “I reckon—” he was
beginning, when the door opened to admit a visitor.
This proved to be a huge, red-haired Irishman, with a face that served
just now merely as a setting for an irresistible smile. The owner of
the flaming head looked round in surprise on the pair of Romanies and
began an immediate apology to which a sudden blush served as
accompaniment.
“Beg pardon. I didn’t know. The damned dago told me—” He stopped in
confusion, with a scrape and a bow to the lady.
“Sir, I demand an explanation of this most unwarrantable intrusion,”
spoke the ranger haughtily, in his best Spanish.
A patter of soft foreign vowels flowed from the stranger’s
embarrassment.
“You durned old hawss-stealing greaser, cayn’t you talk English?”
drawled the gipsy, with a grin.
The other’s mouth fell open with astonishment He stared at the slim,
dusky young Spaniard for an instant before he fell upon him and began
to pound his body with jovial fists.
“You would, would you, you old pie-eating fraud! Try to fool your Uncle
Mick and make him think you a greaser, would you? I’ll learn yez to
play horse with a fullgrown, able-bodied white man.” He punctuated his
points with short-arm jolts that Bucky laughingly parried.
“Before ladies, Mick! Haven’t you forgot your manners, Red-haid?”
Swiftly Mr. O’Halloran came to flushed rigidity. “Madam, I must still
be apologizing. The surprise of meeting me friend went to me head, I
shouldn’t wonder.”
Bucky doubled up with apparent mirth. “Get into the other room, Curly,
and get your other togs on,” he ordered. “Can’t you see that Mick is
going to fall in love with you if he sees you a minute longer, you
young rascal? Hike!”
“Don’t you talk that way to a lady, Bucky,” warned O’Halloran, again
blushing vividly, after she had disappeared into the next room. “And I
want to let yez have it right off the bat that if you’ve been leading
that little Mexican señorita into trouble you’ve got a quarrel on with
Mike O’Halloran.”
“Keep your shirt on, old fire-eater. Who told you I was wronging her
any?”
“Are you married to her?”
“You bet I ain’t. You see, Mick, that handsome lady you’re going to
lick the stuffing out of me about is only a plumb ornery sassy young
boy, after all.”
“No!” denied Mick, his eyes two excited interrogation-points. “You
can’t stuff me with any such fairy-tale, me lad.”
“All right. Wait and see,” suggested the ranger easily. “Have a smoke
while you’re falling out of love.”
“You young limb, I want you to tell me all about it this very minute,
before I punch holes in yez.”
Bucky lit his cigar, leaned back, and began to tell the story of Frank
Hardman and the knife-thrower. Only one thing he omitted to tell, and
that was the conviction that had come home to him a few moments ago
that his little comrade was no boy, but a woman. O’Halloran was a
chivalrous Irishman, a daredevil of an adventurer, with a pure love of
freedom that might very likely in the end bring him to face a row of
loaded carbines with his back to a wall, but Bucky had his reticencies
that even loyal friendship could not break down. This girl’s secret he
meant to guard until such time as she chose of her own free will to
tell it.
Frank returned just as he finished the tale of the knife episode, and
Mick’s frank open eyes accused him of idiocy for ever having supposed
that this lad was a woman. Why, he was a little fellow not over
fifteen—not a day past fifteen, he would swear to that. He was, to be
sure, a slender, girlish young fellow, a good deal of a sissy by the
look of him, but none the less a sure enough boy. Convinced of this,
the big Irishman dismissed him promptly from his thoughts and devoted
himself to Bucky.
“And what are yez doing down in greaser land? Thought you was rustling
cows for a living somewheres in sunburnt Arizona,” he grinned amiably.
“Me? Oh, I came down on business. We’ll talk about that presently.
How’s your one-hawss revolution getting along, Reddy? I hope it’s right
peart and healthy.”
O’Halloran’s eyes flashed a warning, with the slightest nod in the
world toward the boy.
“Don’t worry about him. He’s straight as a string and knows how to keep
his mouth shut. You can tell him anything you would me.” He turned to
the boy sitting quietly in an inconspicuous corner. “Mum’s the word,
Frank. You understand that, of course?”
The boy nodded. “I’ll go into the next room, if you like.”
“It isn’t necessary. Fire ahead, Mike.”
The latter got up, tiptoed to each door in turn, flung it suddenly open
to see that nobody was spying behind it, and then turned the lock. “I
have use for me head for another year or two, and it’s just as well to
see that nobody is spying. You understand, Bucky, that I’m risking me
life in telling you what I’m going to. If you have any doubts about
this lad—” He stopped, keen eyes fixed on Frank.
“He’s as safe as I am, Mike. Is it likely I would take any risks about
a thing of that sort with my old bunkie’s tough neck inviting the
hangman?” asked O’Connor quietly.
“Good enough. The kid looks stanch, and, anyhow, if you guarantee him
that’s enough for me.” He accepted another of the ranger’s cigars,
puffed it to a red glow, and leaned back to smile at his friend.
“Glory, but it’s good to see ye, Bucky, me bye. You’ll never know how a
man’s eyes ache to see a straight-up white man in this land of
greasers. It’s the God’s truth I’m telling ye when I say that I haven’t
had a scrimmage with me hands since I came here. The only idea this
forsaken country has of exchanging compliments is with a knife in the
dark.” He shook his flaming head regretfully at the deplorably lost
condition of a country where the shillalah was unknown as a social
institution.
“If I wasn’t tied up with this Valdez bunch I’d get out to-morrow, and
sometimes I have half a mind to pull out anyhow. If you’ve never been
associated, me lad, with half a dozen most divilishly polite señors,
each one of them watching the others out of the corner of his slant
eyes for fear they are going to betray him or assassinate him first,
you’ll never know the joys of life in this peaceful and contented land
of indolence. Life’s loaded to the guards with uncertainties, so eat,
drink, and be merry, for to-morrow you hang, or your friend will carve
ye in the back with a knife, me old priest used to say, or something
like it. ’Tis certain he must have had in mind the Spanish-American, my
son.”
“Which is why you’re here, you old fraud,” smiled Bucky. “You’ve got to
grumble, of course, but you couldn’t be dragged away while there’s a
chance of a row. Don’t I know you of old, Reddy?”
“Anyway, here I am, with me neck so near to the rope it fairly aches
sometimes. If you have any inclinations toward suicide, I’ll be glad to
introduce ye to me revolutionary friends.”
“Thank you, no. The fact is that we have a little private war of our
own on hand, Mike. I was thinking maybe you’d like to enlist, old
filibuster.”
“Is the pay good?”
“Nothing a day and find yourself,” answered Bucky promptly.
“No reasonable man could ask fairer than that,” agreed O’Halloran, his
grin expanding. “Well, then, what’s the row? Would ye like to be
dictator of Chihuahua or Emperor of Mexico?”
“There’s an American in the government prison here under a life
sentence. He is not guilty, and he has already served fifteen years.”
“He is like to serve fifteen more, if he lives that long.”
“Wrong guess. I mean to get him out.”
“And I’m meaning to go to Paradise some day, but will I?”
“You’re going to help me get him out, Mike.”
“Who told ye that, me optimistic young friend?”
“I didn’t need to be told.”
“Well, I’ll not lift a finger, Bucky—not a finger.”
“I knew you wouldn’t stand to see a man like Henderson rot in a
dungeon. No Irishman would.”
“You needn’t blarney me. I’m too old a bird to be caught with chaff.
It’s a dirty shame, of course, about this man Henderson, but I’m not
running the criminal jurisprudence of Mexico meself.”
“And I said to Webb Mackenzie: ‘Mickey O’Halloran is the man to see;
he’ll know the best way to do it as nobody else would.’ I knew I could
depend on you.”
“You’ve certainly kissed the blarney stone, Mr. O’Connor,” returned the
revolutionist dryly. “Well, then, what do you want me to do?”
“Nothing much. Get Henderson out and help us to get safely from the
country whose reputation you black-eye so cheerfully.”
“Mercy of Hiven! Bring me the moon and a handful of stars, says he, as
cool as you please.”
The ranger told the story of Henderson and Mackenzie’s lost child in
such a way that it lost nothing in the telling. O’Halloran was moved.
“’Tis a damned shame about this man Henderson,” he blurted out.
Bucky leaned back comfortably and waved airily his brown hand. “It’s up
to you,” his gay, impudent eyes seemed to say.
“I don’t say I won’t be able to help you,” conceded O’Halloran. “It
happens, me bye, that you’ve dropped in on me just before the band
begins to play.” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “There’s a
shipment of pianos being brought down the line this week. The night
after they arrive I’m looking for music.”
“I see. The piano boxes are filled with rifles and ammunition.”
“You have a mind like a tack, Bucky. Rifles is the alias of them
pianos. They’ll make merry music once we get them through.”
“That’s all very well, but have you reckoned with the government at
Mexico? Chihuahua isn’t the whole country, Mickey. Suppose President
Diaz takes a hand in the game and sends troops in on you?”
“He won’t,” answered the other, with a wink. “He’s been seen. The
president isn’t any too friendly to that old tyrant Megales, who is now
governor here. There’s an election next week. The man that gets most
votes will be elected, and I’m thinking, Bucky, that the man with most
rifles will the most votes. Now, says Diaz, in effect, with an official
wave of his hand, ‘Settle your own rows, gintlemen. I don’t give a damn
whether Megales or Valdez is governor of Chihuahua, subject, of coorse,
to the will of the people.’ Then he winks at Valdez wid his off eye as
much as to say: ‘Go in an’ win, me boy; me prayers are supporting ye.
But be sure ye do nothing too illegal.’ So there ye are, Bucky. If ould
Megales was to wake up election morning and find that the
polling-places was in our hands, his soldiers disarmed or bought over,
and everything contributing smoothly to express the will of the people
in electing him to take a swift hike out of Chihuahua, it is likely
that he might accept the inevitable as the will of fate and make a
strategic retreat to climes more healthy.”
“And if in the meantime he should discover those rifles, or one of
those slant-eyed señors should turn out a Benedict Arnold, what then,
my friend?”
“Don’t talk in that cruel way. You make me neck ache in anticipation,”
returned O’Halloran blithely.
“I think we’ll not travel with you in public till after the election,
Mr. O’Halloran,” reflected Bucky aloud.
“’Twould be just as well, me son. My friends won’t be overpopular with
Megales if the cards fall his way.”
“If you win, I suppose we may count Henderson as good as a free man?”
“It would be a pity if me pull wouldn’t do a little thing like that,”
scoffed the conspirator genially.
“But, win or lose, I may be able to help you. We need musicians to play
those pianos we’re bringing in. Well, the most dependable men we can
set to play some of them are the prisoners in the fortress. There’s
likely to be a wholesale jail delivery the night before the election.
Now, it’s just probable that the lads we free will fight to keep their
freedom. That’s why we use them. They _have_ to be true to us because,
if they don’t, _whichever side wins_ back they go to jail.”
“Of course. I wish I could take a hand myself. But I can’t, because I’m
a soldier of a friendly power. We’ll get Henderson out the night before
the election and leave on the late train. You’ll have to arrange the
program in time for us to catch that train.”
O’Halloran looked drolly at him. “I’m liking your nerve, young man. I
pull the chestnuts out of the fire for yez and, likely enough, get
burned. You walk off with your chestnut, and never a ‘Thank ye’ for
poor Mickey the catspaw.”
“It doesn’t look like quite a square deal, does it?” laughed the
ranger. “Well, we might vary the program a bit. Bucky O’Connor, Arizona
ranger, can’t stop and take a hand in such a game, but I don’t know
anything to prevent a young gipsy from Spain staying over a few days.”
“If you stay, I shall,” announced the boy Frank.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind, seh. You’ll do just as I say, according
to the agreement you made with me when I let you come,” was Bucky’s
curt answer. “We’re not playing this game to please you, Master Frank.”
Yet though the ranger spoke curtly, though he still tried to hold
toward his comrade precisely the same attitude as he had before
discovering her sex, he could not put into his words the same
peremptory sting that, he had done before when he found that
occasionally necessary. For no matter how severely he must seem to deal
with her to avoid her own suspicions as to what he knew, as well as to
keep from arousing those of others, his heart was telling a very
different story all the time. He could see again the dainty grace with
which she had danced for him, heard again that low voice breaking into
a merry piping lilt, warmed once more to the living, elusive smile, at
once so tender and mocking. He might set his will to preserve an even
front to her gay charm, but it was beyond him to control the thrills
that shot his pulses.
CHAPTER VIII.
FIRST BLOOD!
Occasionally Alice Mackenzie met Collins on the streets of Tucson. Once
she saw him at the hotel where she was staying, deep in a discussion
with her father of ways and means of running down the robbers of the
Limited. He did not, however, make the least attempt to push their
train acquaintanceship beyond the give and take of casual greeting.
Without showing himself unfriendly, he gave her no opportunity to
determine how far they would go with each other. This rather piqued
her, though she would probably have rebuffed him if he had presumed
far. Of which probability Val Collins was very well aware.
They met one morning in front of a drug store downtown. She carried a
parasol that was lilac-trimmed, which shade was also the outstanding
note of her dress. She was looking her very best, and no doubt knew it.
To Val her dainty freshness seemed to breathe the sweetness of spring
violets.
“Good morning, Miss Mackenzie. Weather like this I’m awful glad I ain’t
a mummy,” he told her. “The world’s mighty full of beautiful things
this glad day.”
“Essay on the Appreciation of Nature, by Professor Collins,” she
smiled.
“To be continued in our next,” he amended. “Won’t you come in and have
a sundae? You look as if you didn’t know it, but the rest of us have
discovered it’s a right warm morning.”
Looking across the little table at him over her sundae, she questioned
him with innocent impudence. “I saw you and dad deep in plans Tuesday.
I suppose by now you have all the train robbers safely tucked away in
the penitentiary?”
“Not yet,” he answered cheerfully.
“Not yet!” Her lifted eyebrows and the derisive flash beneath mocked
politely his confidence. “By this time I should think they might be
hunting big game in deepest Africa.”
“They might be, but they’re not.”
“What about that investment in futurities you made on the train? The
month is more than half up. Do you see any chance of realizing?”
“It looks now as if I might be a false prophet, but I feel way down
deep that I won’t. In this prophet’s business confidence is half the
stock in trade.”
“Really. I’m very curious to know what it is you predicted. Was it
something good?”
“Good for me,” he nodded.
“Then I think you’ll get it,” she laughed. “I have noticed that it is
the people that expect things—and then go out and take them—that
inherit the earth these days. The meek have been dispossessed.”
“I’m glad I have your good wishes.”
“I didn’t say you had, but you’ll get along just as well without them,”
she answered with a cool little laugh as she rose.
“I’d like to discuss that proposition with you more at length. May I
call on you some evening this week, Miss Mackenzie?”
There was a sparkle of hidden malice in her answer. “You’re too late,
Mr. Collins. We’ll have to leave it undiscussed. I’m going to leave
to-day for my uncle s ranch, the Rocking Chair.”
He was distinctly disappointed, though he took care not to show it.
Nevertheless, the town felt empty after her train had gone. He was glad
when later in the day a message came calling him to Epitaph. It took
him at least seventy-five miles nearer her.
Before he had been an hour at Epitaph the sheriff knew he had struck
gold this time. Men were in town spending money lavishly, and at a
rough description they answered to the ones he wanted. Into the Gold
Nugget Saloon that evening dropped Val Collins, big, blond, and jaunty.
He looked far less the vigorous sheriff out for business than the
gregarious cowpuncher on a search for amusement.
Del Hawkes, an old-time friend of his staging days, pounced on him and
dragged him to the bar, whence his glance fell genially on the roulette
wheel and its devotees, wandered casually across the impassive poker
and Mexican monte players, took in the enthroned musicians, who were
industriously murdering “La Paloma,” and came to rest for barely an
instant at a distant faro table. In the curly-haired good-looking young
fellow facing the dealer he saw one of the men he had come seeking. Nor
did he need to look for the hand with the missing trigger finger to be
sure it was York Neil—that same gay, merry-hearted York with whom he
used to ride the range, changed now to a miscreant who had elected to
take the short cut to wealth.
But the man beside Neil, the dark-haired, pallid fellow from whose
presence something at once formidable and sinister and yet gallant
seemed to breathe—the very sight of him set the mind of Collins at work
busily upon a wild guess. Surely here was a worthy figure upon whom to
set the name and reputation of the notorious Wolf Leroy.
Yet the sheriff’s eyes rested scarce an instant before they went
traveling again, for he wanted to show as yet no special interest in
the object of his suspicions. The gathering was a motley one,
picturesque in its diversity. For here had drifted not only the
stranded derelicts of a frontier civilization, but selected types of
all the turbid elements that go to make up its success. Mexican,
millionaire, and miner brushed shoulders at the roulette-wheel.
Chinaman and cow-puncher, Papago and plainsman, tourist and tailor,
bucked the tiger side by side with a democracy found nowhere else in
the world. The click of the wheel, the monotonous call of the croupier,
the murmur of many voices in alien tongues, and the high-pitched
jarring note of boisterous laughter, were all merged in a medley of
confusion as picturesque as the scene itself.
“Business not anyways slack at the Nugget,” ventured Collins, to the
bartender.
“No, I don’t know as ’tis. Nearly always somethin’ doing in little old
Epitaph,” answered the public quencher of thirsts, polishing the glass
top of the bar with a cloth.
“Playing with the lid off back there, ain’t they?” The sheriff’s nod
indicated the distant faro-table.
“That’s right, I guess. Only blue chips go.”
“It’s Wolf Leroy—that Mexican-looking fellow there,” Hawkes explained
in a whisper. “A bad man with the gun, they say, too. Well, him and
York Neil and Scotty Dailey blew in last night from their mine, up at
Saguache. Gave it out he was going to break the bank, Leroy did.
Backing that opinion usually comes high, but Leroy is about two
thousand to the good, they say.”
“Scotty Dailey? Don’t think I know him.”
“That shorthorn in chaps and a yellow bandanna is the gentleman; him
that’s playing the wheel so constant. You don’t miss no world-beater
when you don’t know Scotty. He’s Leroy’s Man Friday. Understand they’ve
struck it rich. Anyway, they’re hitting high places while the mazuma
lasts.”
“I can’t seem to locate their mine. What’s its brand?”
“The Dalriada. Some other guy is in with them; fellow by the name of
Hardman, if I recollect; just bought out a livery barn in town here.”
“Queer thing, luck; strikes about as unexpected as lightning. Have
another, Del?”
“Don’t care if I do, Val. It always makes me thirsty to see people I
like. Anything new up Tucson way?”
The band had fallen on “Manzanilla,” and was rending it with variations
when Collins circled round to the wheel and began playing the red. He
took a place beside the bow-legged vaquero with the yellow bandanna
knotted loosely round his throat. For five minutes the cow-puncher
attended strictly to his bets. Then he cursed softly, and asked Collins
to exchange places with him.
“This place is my hoodoo. I can’t win—” The sentence died in the man’s
throat, became an inarticulate gurgle of dismay.
He had looked up and met the steady eyes of the sheriff, and the
surprise of it had driven the blood from his heart. A revolver thrust
into his face could not have shaken him more than that serene smile.
Collins took him by the arm with a jovial laugh meant to cover their
retreat, and led him into one of the curtained alcove rooms. As they
entered he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Leroy and Neil
were still intent on their game. Not for a moment, not even while the
barkeeper was answering their call for liquor, did the sheriff release
Scotty from the rigor of his eyes, and when the attendant drew the
curtain behind him the officer let his smile take on a new meaning.
“What did I tell you, Scotty?”
“Prove it,” defied Scotty. “Prove it—you can’t prove it.”
“What can’t I prove?”
“Why, that I was in that—” Scotty stopped abruptly, and watched the
smile broaden on the strong face opposite him. His dull brain had come
to his rescue none too soon.
“Now, ain’t it funny how people’s thoughts get to running on the same
thing? Last time I met up with you there you was collecting a hundred
dollars and keep-the-change cents from me, and now here you are
spending it. It’s ce’tinly curious how both of us are remembering that
little seance in the Pullman car.”
Scotty took refuge in a dogged silence. He was sweating fear.
“Yes, sir. It comes up right vivid before me. There was you a-trainin’
your guns on me—”
“I wasn’t,” broke in Scotty, falling into the trap.
“That’s right. How come I to make such a mistake? Of cou’se you carried
the sack and York Neil held the guns.”
The man cursed quietly, and relapsed into silence.
“Always buy your clothes in pairs?”
The sheriff’s voice showed only a pleasant interest, but the outlaw’s
frightened eyes were puzzled at this sudden turn.
“Wearing a bandanna same color and pattern as you did the night of our
jamboree on the Limited, I see. That’s mightily careless of you, ain’t
it?”
Instinctively a shaking hand clutched at the kerchief. “It don’t cut
any ice because a hold-up wears a mask made out of stuff like this.”
“Did I say it was a mask he wore?” the gentle voice quizzed.
Scotty, beads of perspiration on his forehead, collapsed as to his
defense. He fell back sullenly to his first position: “You can’t prove
anything.”
“Can’t I?” The sheriff’s smile went out like a snuffed candle. Eyes and
mouth were cold and hard as chiseled marble. He leaned forward far
across the table, a confident, dominating assurance painted on his
face. “Can’t I? Don’t you bank on that. I can prove all I need to, and
your friends will prove the rest. They’ll be falling all over
themselves to tell what they know—and Mr. Dailey will be holding the
sack again, while Leroy and the rest are slipping out.”
The outlaw sprang to his feet, white to the lips.
“It’s a damned lie. Leroy would never—” He stopped, again just in time
to bite back the confession hovering on his lips. But he had told what
Collins wanted to know.
The curtain parted, and a figure darkened the doorway—a slender, lithe
figure that moved on springs. Out of its sardonic, devil-may-care face
gleamed malevolent eyes which rested for a moment on Dailey, before
they came home to the sheriff.
“And what is it Leroy would never do?” a gibing voice demanded silkily.
Scotty pulled himself together and tried to bluff, but at the look on
his chief’s face the words died in his throat.
Collins did not lift a finger or move an eyelash, but with the first
word a wary alertness ran through him and starched his figure to
rigidity. He gathered himself together for what might come.
“Well, I am waiting. What it is Leroy would never do?” The voice
carried a scoff with it, the implication that his very presence had
stricken conspirators dumb.
Collins offered the explanation.
“Mr. Dailey was beginning a testimonial of your virtues just as you
right happily arrived in time to hear it. Perhaps he will now proceed.”
But Dailey had never a word left. His blunders had been crying ones,
and his chief’s menacing look had warned him what to expect. The
courage oozed out of his heart, for he counted himself already a dead
man.
“And who are you, my friend, that make so free with Wolf Leroy’s name?”
It was odd how every word of the drawling sentence contrived to carry a
taunt and a threat with it, strange what a deadly menace the glittering
eyes shot forth.
“My name is Collins.”
“Sheriff of Pica County?”
“Yes.”
The eyes of the men met like rapiers, as steady and as searching as
cold steel. Each of them was appraising the rare quality of his
opponent in this duel to the death that was before him.
“What are you doing here? Ain’t Pica County your range?”
“I’ve been discussing with your friend the late hold-up on the
Transcontinental Pacific.”
“Ah!” Leroy knew that the sheriff was serving notice on them of his
purpose to run down the bandits. Swiftly his mind swept up the factors
of the situation. Should he draw now and chance the result, or wait for
a more certain ending? He decided to wait, moved by the consideration
that even if he were victorious the lawyers were sure to draw out of
the fat-brained Scotty the cause of the quarrel.
“Well, that don’t interest me any, though I suppose you have to explain
a heap how come they to hold you up and take your gun. I’ll leave you
and your jelly-fish Scotty to your gabfest. Then you better run back
home to Tucson. We don’t go much on visiting sheriffs here.” He turned
on his heel with an insolent laugh, and left the sheriff alone with
Dailey.
The superb contempt of the man, his readiness to give the sheriff a
chance to pump out of Dailey all he knew, served to warn Collins that
his life was in imminent danger. On no hypothesis save one—that Leroy
had already condemned them both to death in his mind—could he account
for such rashness. And that the blow would fall soon, before he had
time to confer with other officers, was a corollary to the first
proposition.
“He’ll surely kill me on sight,” Scotty burst out.
“Yes, he’ll kill you,” agreed the sheriff, “unless you move first.”
“Move how?”
“Against him. Protect yourself by lining up with me. It’s your only
show on earth.”
Dailey’s eyes flashed. “Then, by thunder, I ain’t taking it! I’m no
coyote, to round on my pardners.”
“I give it to you straight. He means murder.”
Perspiration poured from the man’s face. “I’ll light out of the
country.”
The sheriff shook his head. “You’d never get away alive. Besides, I
want you for holding up the Limited. The safest place for you is in
jail, and that’s where I’m going to put you. Drop that gun! Quick!
That’s right. Now, you and I are going out of this saloon by the back
door. I’m going to walk beside you, and we’re going to laugh and talk
as if we were the best of friends, but my hand ain’t straying any from
the end of my gun. Get that, amigo? All right. Then we’ll take a little
_pasear_.”
As Collins and his prisoner reappeared in the main lobby of the Gold
Nugget, a Mexican slipped out of the back door of the gambling-house.
The sheriff called Hawkes aside.
“I want you to call a hack for me, Del. Bring it round to the back
door, and arrange with the driver to whip up for the depot as soon as
we get in. We ought to catch that 12:20 up-train. When the hack gets
here just show up in the door. If you see Leroy or Neil hanging around
the door, put your hand up to your tie. If the coast is clear, just
move off to the bar and order something.”
“Sure,” said Hawkes, and was off at once, though just a thought
unsteady from his frequent libations.
Both hands of the big clock on the wall pointed to twelve when Hawkes
appeared again in the doorway at the rear of the Gold Nugget. With a
wink at Collins, he made straight for the cocktail he thought he
needed.
“Now,” said the sheriff, and immediately he and Dailey passed through
the back door.
Instantly two shots rang out. Collins lurched forward to the ground,
drawing his revolver as he fell. Scotty, twisting from his grasp, ran
in a crouch toward the alley along the shadow of the buildings. Shots
spattered against the wall as his pursuers gave chase. When the Gold
Nugget vomited from its rear door a rush of humanity eager to see the
trouble, the noise of their footsteps was already dying in the
distance.
Hawkes found his friend leaning against the back of the hack, his
revolver smoking in his hand.
“For God’s sake, Val!” screamed Hawkes. “Did they get you?”
“Punctured my leg. That’s all. But I expect they’ll get Dailey.”
“How come you to go out when I signaled you to stay?”
“Signaled me to stay, why—”
Collins stopped, unwilling to blame his friend. He knew now that
Hawkes, having mixed his drinks earlier in the evening, had mixed his
signals later.
“Get me a horse, Del, and round up two or three of the boys. I’ve got
to get after those fellows. They are the ones that held up the Limited
last week. Find out for me what hotel they put up at here. I want their
rooms searched. Send somebody round to the corrals, and let me know
where they stabled their horses. If they left any papers or
saddle-bags, get them for me.”
Fifteen minutes later Collins was in the saddle ready for the chase,
and only waiting for his volunteer posse to join him. They were just
starting when a frightened Chinaman ran into the plaza with the news
that there had been shooting just back of his laundry on the edge of
town and that a man had been killed.
When the sheriff reached the spot, he lowered himself from the saddle
and limped over to the black mass huddled against the wall in the
bright moonlight. He turned the riddled body over and looked down into
the face of the dead man. I was that of the outlaw, Scotty Dailey. That
the body had been thoroughly searched was evident, for all around him
were scattered his belongings. Here an old letter and a sack of
tobacco, its contents emptied on the ground; there his coat and vest,
the linings of each of them ripped out and the pockets emptied. Even
the boots and socks of the man had been removed, so thorough had been
the search. Whatever the murderers had been looking for it was not
money, since his purse, still fairly well lined with greenbacks, was
found behind a cactus bush a few yards away.
“What in time were they after?” frowned Collins. “If it wasn’t his
money—and it sure wasn’t—what was it? I ce’tainly would like to know
what the Wolf wanted so blamed bad. Guess I’ll not follow Mr. Leroy
just now till my leg is in better shape. Maybe I had better investigate
a little bit round town first.”
The body was taken back to the Gold Nugget and placed on a table,
pending the arrival of the undertaker. It chanced that Collins, looking
absently over the crowd, glimpsed a gray felt hat that looked familiar
by reason of a frayed silver band found it. Underneath the hat was a
Mexican, and him the sheriff ordered to step forward.
“Where did you get that hat, Manuel?”
“My name is José—José Archuleta,” corrected the olive-hued one.
“I ain’t worrying about your name, son. What I want to know is where
you found that hat.”
“In the alley off the plaza, señor.”
“All right. Chuck it up here.”
“_Muy bien, señor_.” And the dusty hat was passed from hand to hand
till it reached the sheriff.
Collins ripped off the silver band and tore out the sweat-pad. It was
an off chance—one in a thousand—but worth trying none the less. And a
moment later he knew it was the chance that won. For sewed to the
inside of the discolored sweat-pad was a little strip of silk. With his
knife he carefully removed the strip, and found between it and the
leather a folded fragment of paper closely covered with writing. He
carried this to the light, and made it out to be a memorandum of
direction of some sort. Slowly he spelled out the poorly written words:
From Y. N. took Unowhat. Went twenty yards strate for big rock. Eight
feet direckly west. Fifty yards in direcksion of suthern Antelope Peke.
Then eighteen to nerest cotonwood. J. H. begins hear.
Collins read the scrawl twice before an inkling of its meaning came
home to him. Then in a flash his brain was lighted. It was a memorandum
of the place where Dailey’s share of the plunder was buried.
His confederates had known that he had it, and had risked capture to
make a thorough search for the paper. That they had not found it was
due only to the fact that the murdered man had lost his hat as he
scurried down the streets before them.
The doctor, having arrived, examined the wound and suggested an
anaesthetic. Collins laughed.
“I reckon not, doc. You round up that lead pill and I’ll endure the
grief without knockout drops.”
While the doctor was probing for the bullet lodged in his leg, the
sheriff studied the memorandum found in Dailey’s hat. He found it
blind, disappointing work, for there was no clearly indicated
starting-point. Bit by bit he took it:
From Y. N. took Unowhat.
This was clear enough, so far as it went. It could only mean that from
York Neil the writer had taken the plunder to hide. But _where_ did he
take it? From what point? A starting-point must be found somewhere, or
the memorandum was of no use. Probably only Neil could supply the
needed information, now that Dailey was dead.
Went twenty yards strate for big rock. Eight feet direckly west. Fifty
yards in direcksion of suthern Antelope Peke. Then eighteen to nerest
cotonwood.
All this was plain enough, but the last sentence was the puzzler.
J. H. begins hear.
Was J. H. a person? If so, what did he begin. If Dailey had buried his
plunder, what had J. H. left to do?
But _had_ he buried it? Collins smiled. It was not likely he had handed
it over to anybody else to hide for him. And yet—
He clapped his hand down on his knee. “By the jumping California frog,
I’ve got it!” he told himself. “They hid the bulk of what they got from
the Limited all together. Went out in a bunch to hide it. Blind-folded
each other, and took turn about blinding up the trail. No one of them
can go get the loot without the rest. When they want it, every one of
these memoranda must be Johnny-on-the-spot before they can dig up the
mazuma. No wonder Wolf Leroy searched so thorough for this bit of
paper. I’ll bet a stack of blue chips against Wolf’s chance of heaven
that he’s the sorest train-robber right this moment that ever punctured
a car-window.”
Collins laughed softly, nor had the smile died out of his eyes when
Hawkes came into the room with information to the point. He had made a
round of the corrals, and discovered that the outlaws’ horses had been
put up at Jay Hardman’s place, a tumble-down feed-station on the edge
of town.
“Jay didn’t take kindly to my questions,” Hawkes explained, “but after
a little rock-me-to-sleep-mother talk I soothed him down some, and cut
the trail of Wolf Leroy and his partners. The old man give me several
specimens of langwidge unwashed and uncombed when I told him Wolf and
York was outlaws and train-robbers. Didn’t believe a word of it, he
said. ’Twas just like the fool officers to jump an innocent party. I
told Jay to keep his shirt on—he could turn his wolf lose when they
framed up that he was in it. Well, sir! I plumb thought for a moment he
was going to draw on me when I said that. Say he must be the fellow
that’s in on that mine, with Leroy and York Neil. He’s a big,
long-haired guy.”
Collins’ eyes narrowed to slits, as they always did when he was
thinking intensely. Were their suspicions of the showman about to be
justified? Did Jay Hardman’s interest in Leroy have its source merely
in their being birds of a feather, or was there a more direct community
of lawlessness between them? Was he a member of Wolf Leroy’s murderous
gang? Three men had joined in the chase of Dailey, but the tracks had
told him that only two horses had galloped from the scene of the murder
into the night. The inference left to draw was that a local accomplice
had joined them in the chase of Scotty, and had slipped back home after
the deed had been finished.
What more likely than that Hardman had been this accomplice? Hawkes
said he was a big long-haired fellow. So was the man that had held up
the engineer of the Limited. He was—“J. H. begins hear.” Like a flash
the ill-written scrawl jumped to his sight. “J. H.” was Jay Hardman.
What luck!
The doctor finished his work, and Collins tested his leg gingerly.
“Del, I’m going over to have a little talk with the old man. Want to go
along?”
“You bet I do, Val”—from Del Hawkes.
“You mustn’t walk on that leg for a week or two yet, Mr. Collins,” the
doctor explained, shaking his head.
“That so, doctor? And it nothing but a nice clean flesh-wound! Sho!
I’ve a deal more confidence in you than that. Ready, Del?”
“It’s at your risk then, Mr. Collins.”
“Sure.” The sheriff smiled. “I’m living at my own risk, doctor. But I’d
a heap rather be alive than daid, and take all the risk that’s coming,
too. But since you make a point of it, I’ll do most of my walking on a
bronco’s back.”
They found Mr. Hardman just emerging from the stable with a saddle-pony
when they rode into the corral. At a word from Collins, Hawkes took the
precaution to close the corral gate.
The fellow held a wary position on the farther side of his horse, the
while he ripped out a raucous string of invectives.
“Real fluent, ain’t he?” murmured Hawkes, as he began to circle round
to flank the enemy.
“Stay right there, Del Hawkes. Move, you redhaided son of a brand
blotter, and I’ll pump holes in you!” A rifle leveled across the saddle
emphasized his sentiments.
“Plumb hospitable,” grinned Hawkes, coming promptly to a halt.
Collins rode slowly forward, his hand on the butt of the revolver that
still lay in its scabbard. The Winchester covered every step of his
progress, but he neither hastened nor faltered, though he knew his life
hung in the balance. If his steely blue eyes had released for one
moment the wolfish ones of the villain, if he had hesitated or hurried,
he would have been shot through the head.
But the eyes of a brave man are the king of weapons. Hardman’s fingers
itched at the trigger he had not the courage to pull. For such an
unflawed nerve he knew himself no match.
“Keep back,” he screamed. “Damn it, another step and I’ll fire!”
But he did not fire, though Collins rode up to him, dismounted, and
threw the end of the rifle carelessly from him.
“Don’t be rash, Hardman. I’ve come here to put you under arrest for
robbing the T. P. Limited, and I’m going to do it.”
The indolent, contemptuous drawl, so free of even a suggestion of the
strain the sheriff must have been under, completed his victory. The
fellow lowered his rifle with a peevish oath.
“You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, Mr. Collins.”
“I guess not,” retorted the sheriff easily. “Del, you better relieve
Mr. Hardman of his ballast. He ain’t really fit to be trusted with a
weapon, and him so excitable. That Winchester came awful near going
off, friend. You don’t want to be so careless when you’re playing with
firearms. It’s a habit that’s liable to get you into trouble.”
Collins had not shaved death so closely without feeling a reaction of
boyish gaiety at his adventure. It bubbled up in his talk like
effervescing soda.
“Now we’ll go into a committee of the whole, gentlemen, adjourn to the
stable, and have a little game of ‘Button, button, who’s got the
button?’ You first, Mr. Hardman. If you’ll kindly shuck your coat and
vest, we’ll begin button-hunting.”
They diligently searched the miscreant without hiding anything
pertaining to “J. H. begins hear.”
“He’s bound to have it somewhere,” asseverated Collins. “It don’t stand
to reason he was making his getaway without that paper. We got to be
more thorough, Del.”
Hawkes, under the direction of his friend, ripped up linings and tore
away pockets from clothing. The saddle on the bronco and the
saddle-blankets were also torn to pieces in vain.
Finally Hawkes scratched his poll and looked down on the wreckage. “I
hate to admit it, Val, but the old fox has got us beat; it ain’t on his
person.”
“Not unless he’s got it under his skin,” agreed Collins, with a grin.
“Maybe he ate it. Think we better operate and find out?”
An idea hit the sheriff. He walked up to Hardman and ordered him to
open his mouth.
The jaws set like a vise.
Collins poked his revolver against the closed mouth. “Swear for us, old
bird. Get a move on you.”
The mouth opened, and Collins inserted two fingers. When he withdrew
them they brought a set of false teeth. Under the plate was a tiny
rubber bag that stuck to it. Inside the bag was a paper. And on it was
written four lines in Spanish. Those lines told what he wanted to know.
They, too, were part of a direction for finding hidden treasure.
The sheriff wired at once to Bucky, in Chihuahua. Translated into plain
English, his cipher dispatch meant: “Come home at once. Trail getting
red hot.”
But Bucky did not come. As it happened, that young man had other fish
to fry.
CHAPTER IX.
“ADORE HAS ONLY ONE D.”
After all, adventures are to the adventurous. In this prosaic twentieth
century the Land of Romance still beckons to eager eyes and gallant
hearts. The rutted money-grabber may deny till he is a nerve-racked
counting-machine, but youth, even to the end of time, will laugh to
scorn his pessimism and venture with elastic heel where danger and
mystery offer their dubious hazards.
So it was that Bucky and his little comrade found nothing of dulness in
the mission to which they had devoted themselves. In their task of
winning freedom for the American immured in the Chihuahua dungeon they
already found themselves in the heart of a web of intrigue, the stakes
of which were so high as to carry life and death with them in the
balance. But for them the sun shone brightly. It was enough that they
played the game and shared the risks together. The jocund morning was
in their hearts, and brought with it an augury of success based on
nothing so humdrum or tangible as reason.
O’Connor carried with him to the grim fortress not only his permit for
an inspection, but also a note from O’Halloran that was even more
potent in effect. For Colonel Ferdinand Gabilonda, warden of the
prison, had a shrewd suspicion that a plot was under way to overthrow
the unpopular administration of Megales, and though he was an
office-holder under the present government he had no objection to
ingratiating himself with the opposition, providing it could be done
without compromising himself openly. In other words, the warden was
sitting on the fence waiting to see which way the cat would jump. If
the insurgents proved the stronger party, he meant to throw up his hat
and shout “Viva Valdez.” On the other hand, if the government party
crushed them he would show himself fussily active in behalf of Megales.
Just now he was exerting all his diplomacy to maintain a pleasant
relationship with both. Since it was entirely possible that the big
Irishman O’Halloran might be the man on horseback within a very few
days, the colonel was all suave words and honeyed smiles to his friend
the ranger.
Indeed he did him the unusual honor of a personally conducted
inspection. Gabilonda was a fat little man, with a soft, purring voice
and a pompous manner. He gushed with the courteous volubility of his
nation, explaining with great gusto this and that detail of the work.
Bucky gave him outwardly a deferent ear, but his alert mind and eyes
were scanning the prisoners they saw. The ranger was trying to find in
one of these scowling, defiant faces some resemblance to the picture
his mind had made of Henderson.
But Bucky looked in vain. If the man he wanted was among these he had
changed beyond recognition. In the end he was forced to ask Gabilonda
plainly if he would not take him to see David Henderson, as he knew a
man in Arizona who was an old friend of his, and he would like to be
able to tell him that he had seen his friend.
Henderson was breaking stone when O’Connor got his first glimpse of
him. He continued to swing his hammer listlessly, without looking up,
when the door opened to let in the warden and his guests. But something
in the ranger’s steady gaze drew his eyes. They were dull eyes, and
sullen, but when he saw that Bucky was an American, the fire of
intelligence flashed into them.
“May I speak to him?” asked O’Connor.
“It is against the rules, señor, but if you will be brief—” The colonel
shrugged, and turned his back to them, in order not to see. It must be
said for Gabilonda that his capacity for blinking what he did not think
it judicious to see was enormous.
“You are David Henderson, are you not?” The ranger asked, in a low
voice.
Surprise filtered into the dull eyes. “That was my name,” the man
answered bitterly. “I have a number now.”
“I come from Webb Mackenzie to get you out of this,” the ranger said.
The man’s eyes were no longer dull now, but flaming with hatred. “Curse
him, I’ll take nothing from his hands. For fifteen years he has let me
rot in hell without lifting a hand for me.”
“He thought you dead. It can all be explained. It was only last week
that the mystery of your disappearance was solved.”
“Then why didn’t he come himself? It was to save his little girl I got
myself into this place. If I had been in his shoes I would have come if
I’d had to crawl on my hands and knees.”
“He doesn’t know yet you are here. I wrote him simply that I knew where
you were, and then I came at once.” Bucky glanced round warily at the
fat colonel gazing placidly out of the barred window. “I mean to rescue
you, and I knew if he were here his impulsiveness would ruin
everything.”
“Do you mean it? For God’s sake! don’t lie to me. If there’s no hope
for me, don’t say there is.” The prisoner’s voice shook and his hands
trembled. He was only the husk of the man he had been, but it did
Bucky’s heart good to see that the germ of life was still in him. Back
in Arizona, on the Rocking Chair Ranch, with the free winds of the
plains beating on his face, he would pick up again the old strands of
his broken life, would again learn to love the lowing of cattle and the
early morning call of the hooter to his mate.
“I mean it. As sure as I stand here I’ll get you out, or, if I don’t,
Webb Mackenzie will. We’re calling the matter to the attention of the
United States Government, but we are not going to wait till that time
to free you. Keep up your courage, man. It is only for a little time
now.”
Tears leaped to the prisoner’s eyes. He had been a game man in the dead
years that were past, none gamer in Texas, and he could still face his
jailers with an impassive face; but this first kindly word from his
native land in fifteen years to the man buried alive touched the fount
of his emotions. He turned away and leaned against the grating of his
cell, his head resting on his forearm. “My God! man, you don’t know
what it means to me. Sometimes I think I shall go mad and rave. After
all these years. But I know you’ll fail—It’s too good to be true,” he
finished quietly.
“I’ll not fail, though I may be delayed. But I can’t say more.
Gabilonda is coming back. Next time I see you it will be to take you
out to freedom. Think of that always, and believe it.”
Gabilonda bowed urbanely. “If the señor has seen all he cares to of
this department we will return to the office,” he suggested suavely.
“Certainly, colonel. I can’t appreciate too much your kindness in
allowing me to study your system so carefully.”
“Any friend of my friend the Señor O’Halloran is cherished deeply in my
heart,” came back the smiling colonel, with a wave of his plump, soft
hand.
“I am honored, sir, to receive such consideration at the hands of so
distinguished a soldier as Colonel Gabilonda,” bowed Bucky gravely, in
his turn, with the most flowery Spanish he could muster.
There was another half-hour of the mutual exchange of compliments
before O’Connor could get away. Alphonse and Gaston were fairly
outdone, for the Arizonian, with a smile hidden deep behind the
solemnity of his blue eyes, gave as good as he got. When he was at last
fairly in the safety of his own rooms he gave way to limp laughter
while describing to his little friend that most ceremonious parting.
“He pressed me to his manly bay window, Curly, and allowed he was plumb
tickled to death to have met me. Says I, coming back equal strong,
’twas the most glorious day of my life.”
“Oh, I know _you_,” answered young Hardman, with a smile.
“A friend of his friend O’Halloran—”
“Mr. O’Halloran was here while you were away. He seemed very anxious to
see you; said he would call again in an hour. I think it must be
important.”
Came at that instant O’Halloran’s ungentle knock, on the heels of which
his red head came through the open door.
“You’re the very lad I’m wanting to see, Bucky,” he announced, and
followed this declaration by locking all the doors and beckoning him to
the center of the room.
“Is that tough neck of yours aching again, Reddy?” inquired his friend
whimsically.
“It is that, me bye. There’s the very divil to pay,” he whispered.
“Cough it out, Mike.”
“That tyrant Megales is onto our game. Somebody’s leaked, or else he
has a spy in our councils—as we have in his, the ould scoundrel.”
“I see. Your spy has told you that his spy has reported to him—”
“That the guns are to be brought in to-night. He has sent out a guard
to bring them in safely to _him_. If he gets them, our game is up, me
son, and you can bet your last nickle on that.”
“If he gets them! Is there a chance for us?”
“Glory be! there is. You see, he doesn’t know that we know what he has
done. For that reason he sent out only a guard of forty men. If he sent
more we would suspect what he was doing, ye see. That is the way the
old fox reasoned. But forty—they were able to slip out of the city on
last night’s train in civilian’s clothes and their arms in a couple of
coffins.”
“Why didn’t he send a couple of hundred men openly, and at the same
time arrest you all?”
“That doesn’t suit his book at all. For one thing, he probably doesn’t
know all of us, and he doesn’t want to bag half of us and throw the
rest into immediate rebellion. It’s his play not to force the issue
until after the election, Bucky. He controls all the election machinery
and will have himself declared reëlected, the old scamp,
notwithstanding that he’s the most unpopular man in the State. To
precipitate trouble now would be just foolishness, he argues. So he’ll
just capture our arms, and after the election give me and my friends
quiet hell. Nothing public, you know—just unfortunate assassinations
that he will regret exceedingly, me bye. But I have never yit been
assassinated, and, on principle, I object to being trated so. It’s very
destructive to a man’s future usefulness.”
“And so?” laughed the ranger.
“And so we’ve arranged to take a few lads up the line and have a train
hold-up. I’m the robber-in-chief. Would ye like to be second in command
of the lawless ruffians, me son?”
Bucky met his twinkling eye gaily. “Mr. O’Connor is debarred from
taking part in such an outrageous affair by international etiquette,
but he knows a gypsy lad would be right glad to join, I reckon.”
“Bully for him. If you’ll kindly have him here I’ll come around and
collect him this evening at eight-thirty sharp.”
“I hope you’ll provide a pleasant entertainment for him.”
“We’ll do our best,” grinned the revolutionist. “Music provided by
Megales’ crack military band. A lively and enjoyable occasion
guaranteed to all who attend. Your friend will meet some of the
smartest officers in the State. It promises to be a most sumptuous
affair.”
“Then my friend accepts with pleasure.”
After the conspirator had gone, Frank spoke up. “You wouldn’t go away
with him and leave me here alone, would you?”
“I ce’tainly shouldn’t take you with me, kid. I don’t want my little
friend all shot up by greasers.”
“If you’re going, I want to go, too. Supposing—if anything were to
happen to you, what could I do?”
“Leave the country by the next train. Those are the orders.”
“You’re always talking about a square deal. Do you think that is one? I
might say that I don’t want _you_ shot. You don’t care anything about
my feelings.” The soft voice had a little break in it that Bucky loved.
He walked across to his partner, that rare, tender smile of his in his
eyes. “If I’m always talking about a square deal I reckon I have got to
give you one. Now, what would you think a square deal, Curly? Would it
be square for me to let my friend O’Halloran stand all the risk of this
and then me take the reward when Henderson has been freed by him? Would
that be your notion of the right telling?”
“I didn’t say that, though I don’t see why you have to mix yourself up
in his troubles. Why should you go out and kill these soldiers that
haven’t injured you?”
“I’m not going to kill any of them,” he smiled “Besides, that isn’t the
way I look at it. This fellow Megales is a despot. He has made out to
steal the liberty of the people from them. President Diaz can’t
interfere because the old rascal governor does everything with that
smooth, oily way of his under cover of law. It’s up to some of the
people to put up a good strong kick for themselves. I ain’t a bit sorry
to give them the loan of my foot while they are doing it.”
“Then can’t I go, too? I don’t want to be left alone here and you away
fighting.”
Bucky’s eyes gleamed. He dared an experiment in an indifferent drawl.
“Whyfor don’t you want to stay alone, kid? Are you afraid for yourself
or for me?”
His partner’s cheeks were patched with roses. Shyly the long, thick
lashes lifted and let the big brown eyes meet his blue ones. “Maybe I’m
afraid for both of us.”
“Would you care if one of their pills happened along in the scrimmage
and put me out of business? Honest, would you?”
“You haven’t any right to talk that way. It’s cruel,” was the reply
that burst from the pretty lips, and he noticed that at his suggestion
the roses had died from soft cheeks.
“Well, I won’t talk that way any more, little partner,” he answered
gaily, taking the small hand in his. “For reasons good. I’m fire-proof.
The Mexican bullet hasn’t been cast yet that can find Bucky O’Connor’s
heart.”
“But you mustn’t think that, either, and be reckless,” was the next
injunction. The shy laugh rang like music. “That’s why I want to go
along, to see that you behave yourself properly.”
“Oh, I’ll behave,” he laughed; for the young man found it very easy to
be happy when those sweet eyes were showing concern for him. “I’ve got
several good reasons why I don’t aim to get bumped off just yet. Heaps
of first-rate reasons. I’ll tell you what some of them are one of these
days,” he dared to add.
“You had better tell me now.” The gaze that fell before his steady eyes
was both shy and eager.
“No, I reckon I’ll wait, Curly,” he answered, turning away with a long
breath. “Well, we better go out and get some grub, tortillas and
frijoles, don’t you think?”
“Just as you like.” The lad’s breath was coming a little fast. They had
been on the edge of some moment of intimacy that Bucky’s partner both
longed for and dreaded. “But you have not told me yet whether I can go
with you.”
“You can’t. I’m sorry. I’d like first-rate to take you, if you want to
go, but I can’t do it. I hate to disappoint you if you’re set on it,
but I’ve got to, kid. Anything else you want I’ll be glad to do.”
He added this last because Frank looked so broken-hearted about it.
“Very well.” Swift as a flash came the demand: “Tell me these heaps of
first-rate reasons you were mentioning just now.”
Under the sun-tan he flushed. “I reckon I’ll have to make another
exception, Curly. Those reasons ain’t ripe yet for telling.”
“Then if you are—if anything happens—I’ll never know them. And you
promised you would tell me—you, who pretend to hate a liar so,” she
scoffed.
“Would it do if I wrote those reasons and left them in a sealed
envelope? Then in case anything happened you could open it and satisfy
that robust curiosity of yours.” He recognized that he had trapped
himself, and he was making the best bargain left him.
“You may write them, if you like. But I’m going to open the letter,
anyway. The reasons belong to me now. You promised.”
“I’ll make a new deal with you, then,” he smiled. “I’ll take awful good
care of myself to-night if you’ll promise not to open the envelope for
two weeks unless—well, unless that something happens that we ain’t
expecting.”
“Call it a week, and it’s a bargain.”
“Better say when we’re back across the line again. That may be inside
of three days, if everything goes well,” he threw in as a bait.
“Done. I’m to open the letter when we cross the line into Texas.”
Bucky shook the little hand that was offered him and wished mightily
that he had the right to celebrate with more fervent demonstrations.
That afternoon the ranger wrote with a good deal of labor the letter he
had promised. It appeared to be a difficult thing for him to deliver
himself even on paper of those good and sufficient reasons. He made and
destroyed no less than half a dozen openings before at last he was
fairly off. Meanwhile, Master Frank, busy over some alterations in
Bucky’s gypsy suit, took pleasure in deriding with that sweet voice the
harassed correspondent.
“It might be a love letter from the pains you take with it. Would you
like me to come and help you with it?” the sewer railed merrily.
“I ain’t used to letter writing much,” apologized the scribe, wiping
his bedewed brow, which had suddenly gone a shade more flushed.
“Apparently not. I expect, from the time you give it, the result will
be a literary classic.”
“Don’t you disturb me, Curly, or I’ll never get done,” implored the
tortured ranger.
“You’re doing well. You’ve only been an hour and a half on six lines,”
the tormentor mocked.
Womanlike, she was quite at her ease, since he was very far indeed from
being at his. Yet she had a problem of her own she was trying to
decide.
Had he discovered, after all, that she was not a boy, and had his
reasons—the ones he was trying to tell in that disturbing
letter—anything to do with that discovery? Such a theory accounted for
several things she had noticed in him of late. There was an added
respect in his manner for her. He never now invaded the room recognized
as hers without a specific invitation, nor did he seem any longer to
chafe at the little personal marks of fastidiousness that had at first
appeared to annoy him. To be sure, he ordered her about, just as he had
been in the habit of doing at first. But it was conceivable that this
might be a generous blind to cover up his knowledge of her sex.
“How do you spell guessed—one s or two?” he presently asked, out of the
throes of composition.
She spelled it, and added demurely: “Adore has only one d”
Bucky laid down his pen and pretended to glare at him. “You young
rascal, what do you mean by bothering me like that? Act like that, you
young imp, and you’ll never grow up to be a gentleman.”
Their glances caught and held, the minds of each of them busy over that
last prediction of his. For one long instant masks were off and both
were trying to find an answer to a question in the eyes opposite. Then
voluntarily each gaze released the other in a confusion of sweet shame.
For the beating of a lash, soul had looked into naked soul, all
disguise stripped from them. She knew that he knew. Yet in that instant
when his secret was surprised from him another secret, sweeter than the
morning song of birds, sang its way into both their hearts.
CHAPTER X.
THE HOLD-UP OF THE M. C. P. FLYER
Agua Negra is twelve miles from Chihuahua as the crow flies, but if one
goes by rail one twists round thirty sinuous miles of rough mountainous
country in the descent from the pass to the capital of the State. The
ten men who slipped singly or by twos out of the city in the darkness
that evening and met at the rendezvous of the Santa Dolorosa mission
did not travel by rail to the pass, but followed a horseback trail
which was not more than half the distance.
At the mission O’Halloran and his friend found gathered half a dozen
Mexicans, one or two of them tough old campaigners, the rest young
fellows eager for the excitement of their first active service.
“Is Juan Valdez here yet?” asked O’Halloran, peering around in the
gloom.
“Not yet; nor Manuel Garcia,” answered a young fellow.
Bucky was introduced to those present under the name of Alessandro
Perdoza, and presently also to the two missing members of the party who
arrived together a few moments later. Juan Valdez was the son of the
candidate who was opposing the reelection of Megales, and Manuel Garcia
was his bosom friend, and the young man to whom his sister was engaged.
They were both excellent types of the honorable aristocratic young
Mexican. They were lightly built, swarthy young men, possessed of that
perfect grace and courtesy which can be found at its best in the
Spanish races. Gay, handsome young cavaliers as they were, filled with
the pride of family, Bucky thought them almost ideal companions for
such a harebrained adventure as this. The ranger was a social democrat
to the marrow. He had breathed in with the Southwest breezes the
conviction that every man must stand on his own bottom, regardless of
adventitious circumstance, but he was not fool enough to think all men
equal. It had been his experience that some men, by grace of the
strength in them, were born to be masters and others by their weakness
to be servants. He knew that the best any civilization can offer a man
is a chance. Given that, it is up to every man to find his own niche.
But though he had no sense of deference to what is known as good blood,
Bucky had too much horse sense to resent the careless, half-indifferent
greeting which these two young sprouts of aristocracy bestowed on the
rest of the party. He understood that it was the natural product of
their education and of that of the others.
“Are we all here?” asked Garcia.
“All here,” returned O’Halloran briskly. “Rodrigo will guide the party.
I ride next with Señor Garcia. Perdoza and Señor Valdez will bring up
the rear. Forward, gentlemen, and may the Holy Virgin bring a happy
termination to our adventure.” He spoke in Mexican, as they all did,
though for the next two hours conversation was largely suspended, owing
to the difficulty of the precipitous trail they were following.
Coming to a bit of the road where they were able to ride two abreast,
O’Connor made comment on the smallness of their number. “O’Halloran
must have a good deal of confidence in his men. Forty to ten is rather
heavy odds, is it not, señor?”
“There are six more to join us at the pass. The wagons have gone round
by the road and the drivers will assist in the attack.”
“Of course it is all in the surprise. I have seen three men hold up a
train with five hundred people on it. Once I knew a gang to stick up a
treasure train with three heavily armed guards protecting the gold.
They got them right, with the drop on them, and it was good-by to the
mazuma.”
“Yes, if they have had any warning or if our plans slip a cog anywhere
we shall be repulsed to a certainty.”
By the light of a moon struggling out from behind rolling clouds Bucky
read eleven-thirty on his watch when the party reached Agua Negra. It
was still thirty minutes before the Flyer was due, and O’Halloran
disposed his forces with explicit directions as to the course to be
followed by each detail. Very rapidly he sketched his orders as to the
present disposition of the wagons and the groups of attackers. When the
train slowed down to remove the obstacles they placed on the track,
Garcia and another young man were to command parties covering the train
from both sides, while Rodrigo and one of the drivers were to cover the
engineer and the fireman.
O’Halloran himself, with Bucky and young Valdez, rode rapidly in the
direction of the approaching train. At Concho the engine would take on
water for the last stiff climb of the ascent, and here he meant to
board the train unnoticed, just as it was pulling out, in order to
emphasize the surprise at the proper moment and render resistance
useless. If the troopers were all together in the car next the one with
the boxes of rifles, he calculated that they might perhaps be taken
unawares so sharply as to render bloodshed unnecessary.
Concho was two miles from the summit, and when the three men galloped
down to the little station the headlight of the approaching engine was
already visible. They tied their horses in the mesquit and lurked in
the thick brush until the engine had taken water and the signal for the
start was given. Then O’Halloran and Bucky slipped across in the
darkness to the train and swung themselves to the platform of the last
car. To Valdez, very much against his will, had fallen the task of
taking the horses back to Agua Negra. Since the track wound round the
side of the mountain in such a way as to cover five miles in making the
summit from Concho, the young Mexican had ample time to get back to the
scene of action before the train arrived.
The big Irishman and Bucky rested quietly in the shadows of the back
platform for some time. Then they entered the last car, passed through
it, and on to the next. In the sleeper they met the conductor, but
O’Halloran quietly paid their fares and passed forward. As they had
hoped, the whole detail of forty men were in a special car next to the
one containing the arms consigned to Michael O’Halloran, importer of
pianos.
Lieutenant Chaves, in charge of the detail sent out to see that the
rifles reached Governor Megales instead of the men who had paid for
them, was finding his assignment exceedingly uninteresting. There was
at Chihuahua a certain black-eyed dona with whom he had expected to
enjoy a pleasant evening’s flirtation. It was confounded luck that it
had fallen to him to take charge of the escort for the guns. He had
endured in consequence an unpleasant day of dusty travel and many hours
of boredom through the evening. Now he was cross and sleepy, which
latter might also be said of the soldiers in general.
He was connected with a certain Arizona outfit which of late had been
making money very rapidly. If one more coup like the last could be
pulled off safely by his friend Wolf Leroy he would resign from the
army and settle down. It would then no longer be necessary to bore
himself with such details as this.
There was, of course, no necessity for alertness in his present
assignment. The opposition was scarcely mad enough to attempt taking
the guns from forty armed men. Chaves devoutly hoped they would, in
order that he might get a little glory, at least, out of the affair.
But of course such an expectation would be ridiculous. No, the journey
would continue to be humdrum to the end, he was wearily assured of
that, and consequently attempted to steal a half hour’s sleep while
propped against a window with his feet in the seat opposite.
The gallant lieutenant was awakened by a cessation of the drumming of
the wheels. Opening his eyes, he saw that the train was no longer in
motion. He also saw—and his consciousness of that fact was much more
acute—the rim of a revolver about six inches from his forehead. Behind
the revolver was a man, a young Spanish gypsy, and he was offering the
officer very good advice.
“Don’t move, sir. No cause for being uneasy. Just sit quiet and
everything will be serene. No, I wouldn’t reach for that revolver, if I
were you.”
Chaves cast a hurried eye down the car, and at the end of it beheld the
huge Irishman, O’Halloran, dominating the situation with a pair of
revolvers. Chaves’ lambs were ranged on either side of the car, their
hands in the air. Back came the lieutenant’s gaze to the impassive face
in front of him. Taken by and large, it did not seem an auspicious
moment for garnering glory. He decided to take the advice bestowed on
him.
“Better put your hands up and vote with your men. Then you won’t be
tempted to play with your gun and commit suicide. That’s right, sir.
I’ll relieve you of it if you don’t object.”
Since the lieutenant had no objections to offer, the smiling gypsy
possessed himself of the revolver. At the same instant two more men
appeared at the end of the car. One of them was Juan Valdez and another
one of the mule-skinners. Simultaneously with their entrance rang out a
most disconcerting fusillade of small arms in the darkness without.
Megales’ military band, as O’Halloran had facetiously dubbed them to
the ranger, arrived at the impression that there were about a thousand
insurgents encompassing the train. Chaves choked with rage, but the
rest of the command yielded to the situation very tranquilly, with no
desire to offer themselves as targets to this crackling explosion of
Colts. _Muy bien!_ After all, Valdez was a better man to serve than the
fox Megales.
Swiftly Valdez and the wagon driver passed down the car and gathered
the weapons from the seats of the troopers. Raising a window, they
passed them out to their friends outside. Meanwhile, the sound of an
axe could be heard battering at the door of the next car, and presently
the crash of splintering wood announced that an entrance had been
forced.
“Breaking furniture, I reckon,” drawled Bucky, in English, for the
moment forgetful of the part he was playing. “I hope they’ll be all
right careful of them pianos and not mishandle them so they’ll get out
of tune.”
“So, señor, you are American,” said Chaves, in English, with a sinister
smile.
O’Connor shrugged, answering in Spanish: “I am Romany. Who shall say,
whether American, or Spanish, or Bohemian? All nations call to me, but
none claim me, señor.”
The lieutenant continued to smile his meaning grin. “Yet you are
American,” he persisted.
“Oh, as you please. I am what you will, lieutenant.”
“You speak the English like a native.”
“You are complimentary.”
Chaves lifted his eyebrows. “For believing that you are in costume,
that you are wearing a disguise, Mr. American?”
Bucky laughed outright, and offered a gay retort. “Believe me,
lieutenant, I am no more disguised as a gypsy than you are as a
soldier.”
The Mexican officer flushed with anger at the suggestion of contempt in
the careless voice. His generalship was discredited. He had been
outwitted and made to yield without a blow. But to have it flung in his
teeth with such a debonair insolence threw him into a fury.
“If you and I ever meet on equal terms, señor, God pity you,” he ground
out between his set jaws.
Bucky bowed, answering the furious anger in the man’s face as much as
his words. “I shall try to be careful not to offer myself a sheath for
a knife some dark night,” he scoffed.
A whistle blew, and then again. The revolver of Bucky rang out almost
on the same instant as those of O’Halloran. Under cover of the smoke
they slipped out of the car just as Rodrigo leaped down from the cab of
the engine. Slowly the train began to back down the incline in the same
direction from which it had come. The orders given the engineer were to
move back at a snail’s pace until he reached Concho again. There he was
to remain for two hours. That Chaves would submit to this O’Halloran
did not for a moment suspect.
But the track would be kept obstructed till six o’clock in the morning,
and a sufficient guard would wait in the underbrush to see that the
right of way was not cleared. In the meantime the wagons would be
pushing toward Chihuahua as fast as they could be hurried, and the rest
of the riders would guard them till they separated on the outskirts of
the town and slipped quietly in. In order to forestall any telegraphic
communication between Lieutenant Chaves and his superiors in the city,
the wires had been cut. On the face of it, the guns seemed to be safe.
Only one thing had O’Halloran forgotten. Eight miles across the hills
from Concho ran the line of the Chihuahua Northern.
CHAPTER XI.
“STONE WALLS DO NOT A PRISON MAKE.”
The two young Spanish aristocrats rode in advance of the convoy on the
return trip, while O’Halloran and Bucky brought up the rear. The roads
were too rough to permit of rapid travel, but the teams were pushed as
fast as it could safely be done in the dark. It was necessary to get
into the city before daybreak, and also before word reached Megales of
the coup his enemies had made. O’Halloran calculated that this could be
done, but he did not want to run his margin of time too fine.
“When the governor finds we have recaptured the arms, will he not have
all your leaders arrested today and thrown into the prison?” asked the
ranger.
“He will—if he can lay hands on them. But he had better catch his hare
before he cooks it. I’m thinking that none of us will be at home to-day
when his men come with a polite invitation to go along with them.”
“Then he’ll spend all day strengthening his position. With this warning
he will be a fool if he can’t make himself secure before night, when
the army is on his side.”
“Oh, the army is on his side, is it? Now, what would you say if most of
the officers were ready to come over to us as soon as we declare
ourselves? And ye speak of strengthening his position. The beauty of
his position, me lad, from our point of view, is that he doesn’t know
his weak places. He’ll be the most undeceived man in the State when the
test comes—unless something goes wrong.”
“When do you propose to attack the prison?”
“To-night. To-morrow is election day, and we want all the byes we can
on hand to help us out.”
“Do you expect to throw the prison doors wide open—let every scoundrel
in Chihuahua loose on the public.”
“We couldn’t do that, since half of them are loose already,” retorted
O’Halloran dryly. “And as for the rest—we expect to make a selection,
me son, to weed out a few choice ruffians and keep them behind the
bars. But if ye know anything about the prisons of this country, you’re
informed, sir, that half the poor fellows behind bars don’t belong
there so much as the folk that put them there. I’m Irish, as ye are
yourself, and it’s me instinct to fight for the under dog. Why
shouldn’t the lads rotting behind those walls have another chance at
the game? By the mother of Moses! they shall, if Mike O’Halloran has
anything to say about it.”
“You ce’tainly conduct your lawful elections in a beautifully lawless
way,” grinned the ranger.
“And why not? Isn’t the law made for man?”
“For which man—Megales?”
“In order to give the greatest liberty to each individual man. But here
comes young Valdez riding back as if he were in a bit of a hurry.”
The filibuster rode forward and talked with the young man for a few
minutes in a low voice. When he rejoined Bucky he nodded his head
toward the young man, who was again headed for the front of the column.
“There’s the best lad in the State of Chihuahua. He’s a Mexican, all
right, but he has as much sense as a white man. He doesn’t mix issues.
Now, the lad’s in love with Carmencita Megales, the prettiest
black-eyed lass in Mexico, and, by the same token, so is our friend
Chaves, who just gave us the guns a little while ago. But Valdez is a
man from the heel of him to the head. Miss Carmencita has her nose in
the air because Juan doesn’t snuggle up to ould Megales and flatter him
the same way young Chaves does. So the lad is _persona non grata_ at
court with the lady, and that tin soldier who gave up the guns without
a blow gets the lady’s smiles. But it’s my opinion that, for all her
haughty ways, miss would rather have our honest fighting lad than a
roomful of the imitation toy kind.”
A couple of miles from the outskirts of the city the wagons separated,
and each was driven to the assigned place for the hiding of the rifles
till night. At the edge of the town Bucky made arrangements to join his
friend again at the monument in the centre of the plaza within fifteen
minutes. He was to bring his little partner with him, and O’Halloran
was to take them to a place where they might lie in hiding till the
time set for the rising.
“I would go with ye, but I want to take charge of the unloading. Don’t
lose any time, lad, for as soon as Megales learns of what has happened
his fellows will scour the town for every mother’s son of us. Of course
you have been under surveillance, and it’s likely he’ll try to bag you
with the rest of us. It was a great piece of foolishness me forgetting
about the line of the Chihuahua Northern and its telegraph. But there’s
a chance Chaves has forgot, too. Anyway, get back as soon as you can;
after we’re hidden, it will be like looking for a needle in a haystack
to put his fat finger on us.”
Bucky went singing up the stairway of the hotel to his room. He was
keen to get back to his little friend after the hazards of the night,
eager to see the brown eyes light up with joy at sight of him and to
hear the soft voice with the trailing inflection drawl out its shy
questions. So he took the stairs three at a time, with a song on his
lips and in his heart.
“’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
’Tis you shall have the golden throne,
’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone
My dark Rosaleen!”
O’Connor, somewhat out of breath, was humming the last line when he
passed through the gypsy apartments and opened his own door, to meet
one of the surprises of his life. Yet he finished the verse, though he
was looking down the barrels of two revolvers in the hands of a pair of
troopers, and though Lieutenant Chaves, very much at his ease, sat on
the table dangling his feet.
Bucky’s sardonic laughter rang out gayly. “I ce’tainly didn’t expect to
meet you here, lieutenant. May I ask if you have wings?”
“Not exactly, señor. But it is quite possible you may have before
twenty-four hours,” came the swift retort.
“Interesting, if true,” remarked the ranger carelessly, tossing his
gloves on the bed. “And may I ask to what I am indebted for the
pleasure of a visit from you?”
“I am returning your call, sir, and at the very earliest opportunity. I
assure you that I have been in the city less than ten minutes, Señor
whatever-you-choose-to-call-yourself. My promptness I leave you to
admire.”
“Oh, you’re prompt enough, lieutenant. I noticed that when you handed
over your gun to me so lamblike.” He laughed it out flippantly,
buoyantly, though it was on his mind to wonder whether the choleric
little officer might not kill him out of hand for it.
But Chaves merely folded his arms and looked sternly at the American
with a manner very theatrical. “Miguel, disarm the prisoner,” he
ordered.
“So I’m a prisoner,” mused Bucky aloud. “And whyfor, lieutenant?”
“Stirring up insurrection against the government. The prisoner will not
talk,” decreed his captor, a frowning gaze attempting to quell him.
But here the popinjay officer reckoned without his host, for that
gentleman had the most indomitable eyes in Arizona. It was not
necessary for him to stiffen his will to meet the other’s attack. His
manner was still lazy, his gaze almost insolent in its indolence, but
somewhere in the blue eyes was that which told Chaves he was his
master. The Mexican might impotently rebel—and did; he might feed his
vanity with the swiftness of his revenge, but in his heart he knew that
the moment was not his, after all, or that it was his at least with no
pleasure unalloyed.
“The prisoner will not talk,” repeated Bucky, with drawling mockery.
“Sure he will, general. There’s several things he’s awful curious to
know. One of them is how you happen to be Johnnie-on-the-spot so
opportune.”
The lieutenant’s dignity melted before his vanity. Having so excellent
a chance to sun the latter, he delivered himself of an oration. After
all, silent contempt did not appear to be the best weapon to employ
with this impudent fellow.
“Señor, no Chaves ever forgets an insult. Last night you, a common
American, insulted me grossly—me, Lieutenant Ferdinand Chaves, me, of
the bluest Castilian blood.” He struck himself dramatically on the
breast. “I submit, señor, but I vow revenge. I promised myself to spit
on you, to spit on your Stars and Stripes, the flag of a nation of
dirty traders. Ha! I do so now in spirit. The hour I have longed for is
come.”
Bucky took one step forward. His eyes had grown opaque and flinty.
“Take care, you cur.”
Swiftly Chaves hurried on without pressing the point. He had a
prophetic vision of his neck in the vise grip of those brown, sinewy
hands, and, though his men would afterward kill the man, small good
would he get from that if the life were already squeezed out of him.
“And so what do I do? I think, and having thought I act with the
swiftness of a Chaves. How? I ride across country. I seize a hand car.
My men pump me to town on the roadbed of the Northern. I telephone to
the hotels and find where Americans are staying. Then I come here like
the wind, arrest your friend, and send him to prison, arrest you also
and send you to the gallows.”
“That’s real kind of you, general,” replied Bucky, in irony sportive.
“But you really are putting yourself out too much for me. I reckon I’ll
not trouble you to go so far. By the way, did I understand you to say
you had arrested a friend of mine?”
Indifferently he flung out the question, if his voice were index of his
feeling, but his heart was pumping faster than it normally ought.
“He is in prison, where you will shortly join him. Soldiers, to the
commandant with your captive.”
If Bucky had had any idea of attempting escape, he now abandoned it at
once. The place of all places where he most ardently desired to be at
that moment was in the prison with his little comrade. His desire
marched with that of Chaves so far, and the latter could not hurry him
there too fast to suit him.
One feature of the situation made him chuckle, and that was this: The
fiery lieutenant, intent first of all on his revenge, had given first
thought to the capture of the man who had made mincemeat of his vanity
and rendered him a possible subject of ridicule to his fellow officers.
So eager had he been to accomplish this that he had failed as yet to
notify his superiors of what had happened, with the result that the
captured guns had been safely smuggled in and hidden. Bucky thought he
could trust O’Halloran to see that he did not stay long behind bars and
bolts, unless indeed the game went against that sanguine and most
cheerful plotter. In which event—well, that was a contingency that
would certainly prove embarrassing to the ranger. It might indeed turn
out to be a good deal more than embarrassing in the end. The thing that
he had done would bear a plain name if the Megales faction won the
day—and the punishment for it would be easy to guess. But it was not of
himself that O’Connor was thinking. He had been in tight places before
and squeezed safely out. But his little friend, the one he loved better
than his life, must somehow be extricated, no matter how the cards
fell.
The ranger was taken at once before General Carlo, the ranking army
officer at Chihuahua, and, after a sharp preliminary examination, was
committed to prison. The impression that O’Connor got of Carlo was not
a reassuring one. The man was a military despot, apparently, and a
stickler for discipline. He had a hanging face, and, in the Yaqui war,
had won the nickname of “the butcher” for his merciless treatment of
captured natives. If Bucky were to get the same short shrift as they
did—and he began to suspect as much when his trial was set for the same
day before a military tribunal—it was time for him to be setting what
few worldly affairs he had in order. Technically, Megales had a legal
right to have him put to death and the impression lingered with Bucky
that the sly old governor would be likely to do that very thing and
later be full of profuse regrets to the United States Government that
inadvertently a citizen of the great republic had been punished by
mistake.
Bucky was registered and receipted for at the prison office, after
which he was conducted to his cell. The corridors dripped as he
followed under ground the guide who led the way with a flickering
lantern. It was a gruesome place to contemplate as a permanent abode.
But the young American knew that his stay here would be short, whether
the termination of it were liberty or the gallows.
Reaching the end of a narrow, crooked corridor that sloped downward,
the turnkey unlocked a ponderous iron door with a huge key, and one of
the guards following at Bucky’s heels, pushed him forward. He fell down
two or three steps and came to a sprawling heap on the floor of the
cell.
From the top of the steps came a derisive laugh as the door swung to
and left him in utter darkness.
Stiffly the ranger got to his knees and was about to rise when a sound
stopped him. Something was panting in deep breaths at the other side of
the cell. A shiver of terror went goose-quilling down O’Connor’s back.
Had they locked him up with some wild beast, to be torn to pieces? Or
was this the ghost of some previous occupant? In such blackness of
gloom it was easy to believe, or, at least, to imagine impossible
conceptions that the light of day would have scattered in an instant.
He was afraid—afraid to the marrow.
And then out of the darkness came a small, trembling voice: “Are you a
prisoner, too, sir?”
Bucky wanted to shout aloud his relief—and his delight. The sheer joy
of his laughter told him how badly he had been frightened. That
voice—were he sunk in twice as deep and dark an inferno—he would know
it among a thousand. He groped his way forward toward it.