A faint glow among the pepper trees ahead betrayed the location of
Sunrise. They seemed to come upon it suddenly—a dark shadow on the
desert which swept toward them, becoming larger and larger as they
neared the water wells which gave reason for the town’s situation.
“That’s her,” Will French called. Lane nodded. He was glad to be near a
town again.
Sunrise was a collection of adobe houses, a few stores and cafés,
several resorts, all with narrow doorways, with signs painted in black
on their front walls. The one street was a lane of dust, lined with
hitching rails. At this hour of midnight, the lights shone only from the
narrow windows of resorts and cafés, and the one hotel.
They proceeded to the hotel and put up their horses in the livery behind
it. Then Will French led the way up the dusty street to a resort labeled
“El Cantina.” It was a low building, dull and drab on the exterior, but
its outward appearance belied the nature of the numerous activities
within.
A long room, with a dirt floor and a low ceiling; a short bar; numerous
gaming tables; benches along one wall; hanging lamps. The crowd was a
motley one, with Mexicans in the majority. But there were no Mexicans at
the front bar. And then Lane noticed another bar in the rear, which
evidently was reserved for those from below the border. There was a door
back there, too, which Lane surmised led to private rooms; rooms, for
instance, where the big games were played. They went to the bar for a
drink, and Will motioned to a dark youth who was playing poker at a
near-by table. The youth played out his hand, rose, tipped his chair
against the table where his chips were stacked, and sauntered to a place
beside them. Lane caught the resemblance at once.
“This is my brother Frank, Lane,” said Will casually.
“Hullo, Lane,” said the young fellow, holding out a hand. “New in town?”
“Haven’t been branded yet,” smiled Lane in reply.
Both brothers gave him a queer look. It was a peculiar statement, they
thought. “Oh, you’ll get branded soon enough—if you’re the right sort,”
drawled Frank.
“Lane’s from the North,” Will explained. “Found him all in on the desert
near home yesterday an’ took him in. We rode in to see if there’s
anything doing.”
“Plenty doin’ for you, I take it,” said Frank with a trace of bitterness
in his words. “You’ve got the cluckers to play the big stuff. I have to
stick to piker games. But I’m a decent winner tonight at that.”
Lane surmised that the feeling between the brothers was not of the best.
The younger was very jealous of the elder.
“When you’ve won your spurs you’ll be with the big ones, Frank,” Will
remarked dryly. “Who’s on deck?”
“Most of the gang,” was the reply; “‘Mesquite Sam’ is back there.” He
jerked a thumb toward the door in the rear. “If there ain’t anything
more, I’ll settle into my game again. I hope this break don’t change my
luck. So long.” He flashed a look at Lane and turned back to his table.
Will French’s eyes were sparkling as he looked at Lane. “You don’t mind
meeting a hard character, do you?” he asked with a grin.
“Been meeting ’em all my life,” Lane replied cheerfully. “Oh, I’ll take
one, maybe two, but that’s the limit.” This last as Will motioned to the
bartender. “I’m not a drinking man,” he added.
Will French nodded in approval. “I think you’re a smooth article,” he
said, raising his glass. “Anyway, you don’t punch cows for a living, an’
none of the rest of us does.” He looked at Lane meaningly and again Lane
sensed the premonition that Will had some kind of a scheme afoot.
“Who’s this hard character you mentioned?” he asked.
“Oh, Mesquite Sam?” Will shrugged. “He isn’t so terrible hard, at that;
but he’s bad. Fast with his gun an’ a killer. He’s playing in the back,
according to the kid. You’ll meet him. Watch him, for he’s mean. But
there’s worse than he is aroun’ here.”
“I’d admire to have a look at him,” was Lane’s comment. “Bad folks
interest me. Have the next one on me and I’m through with _this_
department.”
They drank again, and if Will French noted that Lane merely took a sip
of the vile, white liquor, he said nothing. He failed to drain his own
glass. He turned to Lane.
“I’ll go in an’ take a look aroun’, an’ then I’ll come back an’ tell you
the lay,” he said, dropping into the easy vernacular of open country and
open towns. “Look on at one of the games for a minute.” He strode toward
the rear door.
Lane sauntered over to Frank French’s table. To all appearances he was
merely a casual spectator without a care on his mind. But he was
thinking deeply. This preliminary investigation of the rear room
provided more thought material. He fully believed what Will had said to
the effect that no frame-up in the way of a card game was contemplated.
But, nevertheless, his native intuition—a sixth sense which is possessed
by men who live by their wits or follow the long, long trails—told him
that Will had something in mind. And Lane’s thoughts continually
reverted to the girl at the French rancho—his gun girl of the violin. He
could not deliberately go back there without some reasonable excuse. And
he wanted to see her again. He decided that the logical way to
accomplish this would be through a member of the family—through Will
French, for instance. With this realization, he made up his mind. He
would fall in with whatever scheme or frolic Will French had in mind in
the hope that through him he would be able to meet the girl again. He
had hardly made this resolve when Will returned.
“They’re having a quiet little game in there for easy stakes,” he told
Lane. “More amusement than anything else. Want to take a hand? Sam’s the
little fellow in the beaded sombrero; we never give introductions aroun’
here.” He winked.
“Always ready for entertainment,” said Lane.
He followed Will through the rear door and found himself in a short
passageway with a door at the rear and one on either side. Will opened
the door on the left and they entered a small room. It contained nothing
except a card table in the center over which was a hanging lamp with a
reflector arranged to throw the light downward. About the table were
five men, absorbed in the game of stud poker. None looked up at their
entry save one, a wizen-faced man, slight, who wore a beaded sombrero.
This, as Lane knew, was Mesquite Sam. He met the small man’s flashing
look with a curious glance. Will had pulled out two chairs and Lane sat
down beside him with a casual inspection of the others in the game. Four
were typical men of the desert or the hills; the fifth, a pasty-faced
individual with a pair of black sleevelets and a green eyeshade, was
without the slightest doubt the house man.
The play was desultory, the stakes low, and there were few hotly
contested pots. Mesquite Sam grumbled and growled continually and tried
to force the play, which resulted in frequent losses when he permitted
his irritation to get the better of his judgment. At such times he
indulged in a stream of profanity. His attitude in time affected Lane,
who was more or less disgusted. He availed himself of every opportunity
to play Sam to the limit and frequently won. This did not improve the
latter’s humor. Finally, when Lane raked in a particularly sweet pot,
Sam looked up angrily.
“So I suppose you think you’re a slicker,” he sneered.
“I’ve never thought of myself in that way,” said Lane calmly.
The man who was shuffling the cards ceased his labor.
Lane’s cool reply seemed to enrage the man across the table who wore the
big sombrero. “You seem to know how to rake in the pots,” he said in a
mean voice. “I ain’t been watchin’ none too close.”
“What I’ve won is all stacked up here in front of me in case you haven’t
seen it before,” drawled Lane.
“I don’t mean that,” said the other harshly; “I mean I ain’t been
watchin’ your play.”
“All my cards, save one, have been exposed right along,” was Lane’s
rejoinder. “Maybe you need glasses.”
Mesquite Sam half rose. “Why, you dirty——”
“I wouldn’t get _too_ personal!” Lane broke in sharply.
The other sat down and leaned on his elbows on the table, his dark eyes
glittering with malice. “Did you sit in this game intending to ride
_me?_” he asked in a low voice that was almost a whisper.
Lane leaned on the table in a similar attitude. “No,” he said, in the
same tone that had been used by the other. “But it begins to look to me
as if _you_ have started something _I_ will have to finish!”
“Then I’ll give you a chance to finish it!” roared the other, leaping to
his feet and kicking back his chair even as Lane leaned back in his.
Will French struck at Lane’s right arm, but too late. Lane’s hand came
up like a flash of light and the room rocked to the roar of his gun. A
howl of astonishment and pain came from Mesquite Sam’s lips as his
weapon crashed to the floor, and he grasped his right arm with his left
hand.
Lane rose, sheathing his gun. Then Mesquite Sam dropped suddenly down
behind the table. Lane was over the top of it in a single leap and the
table toppled over on the man on the floor, who had secured his gun with
his left hand. Lane grasped the wrist and flung it upward just as the
weapon spit its message of flame and lead. Six times Mesquite Sam in his
rage pulled the trigger uselessly, and the bullets thudded into the
roof, bringing down a rain of dry adobe.
Lane picked Sam up and flung him against the wall as Will French and the
others caught him and held him.
“Take that fool home!” French shouted, pointing to the wounded man. “An’
get out of here, _all_ of you!”
He loosed his hold on Lane as the men left. He was frowning heavily.
“There wasn’t supposed to be any shooting,” he grumbled.
“No?” drawled Lane, lifting his brows. “I suppose it was to be a bit of
play acting.”
“I was tryin’ you out,” said Will sharply, “an’ that simple ass lost his
head. Well, I guess you’ll do.”
“In that case, perhaps you’ll tell me what it’s all about,” said Lane.
“When the time comes,” Will French retorted. “Come along.”
He led the way out of the room and out the rear door into the cool,
starlit desert night. Had he looked at Lane closely, he would have been
puzzled by the quality of the latter’s smile. But he did not look, and
they made their way toward the hotel.