Lane and Will French were given rooms at the rear of the hotel, a long,
one-story adobe building. They had to pound hard upon the door to gain
admittance and were shown to their quarters by an old Mexican who
carried a smoking lamp at a perilous angle. He accepted Will at once,
but peered long and suspiciously at Lane.
Lane did not undress. He put out the light and sat by the window,
looking through a gap in the line of pepper trees to the vast, unending
expanse of desert, coldly white in the moonlight. So Will had planned to
test him and had said he would do! This meant that whatever was afoot
did not merely concern cards. Had the test been meant to try his mettle,
or ascertain the speed of his draw? He shrugged. He had demonstrated
both.
It was considerably after midnight, but Lane was not sleepy. He had
slept long the night before and the afternoon of yesterday. It was hot
and stuffy in the little room, which lacked ventilation. He decided to
go out. He had noticed a rear door when he was shown to his room and now
he slipped stealthily into the narrow hallway, drew back the bolt of the
outside door, and stepped out into the cooler air. He closed the door
noiselessly, intending to return before daylight. He knew of no reason
why Will French should know of this little nocturnal excursion. He did
not know that before he returned he would be bound as if with chains to
Will French; a ready volunteer for any scheme French and those with him
might have in mind; a willing prospect to take part in any enterprise,
regardless of its nature.
The Cantina, with its numerous games, was an irresistible lure for Lane.
He had spoken the truth when he had told old Zeb French and Will that
his business was gambling. He had been forced into it by a series of
unfortunate circumstances, and he had followed the green tables for a
little less than three years. But, as he turned up the street, he
realized that the shots in that rear room must have been heard, must
have raised some kind of a turmoil, and must have led to an
investigation, even though all had left immediately after the affair.
Mesquite Sam might have friends ready to take up his cudgels, if they
knew. Pshaw! The affair had been framed. He had nothing to fear on that
score. But Frank French was in there——
He stood at the corner of the gambling place in indecision. From up the
street came the soft tattoo of a horse’s hoofs in the dust. The rider
was coming in from the desert; coming in from the same direction he and
Will French had come from that same night. Lane drew back into the
shadow of some trees near the rear of the Cantina, expecting to obtain a
glimpse of the rider as he passed on the way to the livery, if that was
his destination.
But the rider, instead of proceeding down the street, turned in and rode
to the rear of the Cantina, passing within a few feet of Lane. In the
shadows, Lane stood struck motionless and dumb. For under the big hat
was the fair face of Will French’s sister—he did not know her name was
Joan—and she was dressed in the same worn riding togs in which he had
seen her high on Smoky Butte!
He brought himself to with a jerk and stole through the shadows to where
he could see the rear door. The girl dismounted and went inside.
Evidently she gave some one a message, for she returned almost
immediately and waited by the door. The moonlight shone full upon her
face and the thrills raced up and down Lane’s spine as he saw that she
wore her mask. This was doubtless a protection against recognition by
the man to whom she had given her message. For a wild moment Lane felt
an impulse to rush out and confront her, but he swiftly realized it
would be folly. Then Frank French came out the door.
“_Joan!_”
It was thus that Lane learned her name. Pretty name, he thought to
himself, and strained his ears in a futile effort to hear what they were
saying. But they talked in an undertone. He caught only a few of Frank’s
words when the youth raised his voice: “Foolishness—can’t be done—has to
end some time—no!” Then Joan became angry and impatient. She stamped her
foot and started for her horse. But she turned and, raising her voice,
spoke so that Lane could hear.
“I tell you I’m going along! It may _be_ the last time, but I’m going.
You come for me, Frank, or send word, or I’ll follow an’ maybe turn up
at the wrong time—if you want _that_. I heard Will an’ dad talkin’ an’
you can’t fool me. Tell Will I said so.” She swung into the saddle. “An’
tell him I didn’t ride over here just to get the night air!”
With that Joan French was on her way, beating around the corner of the
building, tearing off her mask as she rode. She left two people in an
excited state of mind. Frank French was swearing as he turned back into
the gambling place; Louis Lane was experiencing a series of thrills of
greater intensity than he had ever known before.
What luck! That was what it was—pure luck! He had no business there, had
had no business to leave his room; but the Goddess of Luck had taken him
firmly by the hand and led him forth to give him some priceless
information. An expedition of some kind was contemplated and Joan French
insisted on going along! And, from the events of that night, as Lane saw
it, he was to be asked in on the enterprise.
He stole back to the hotel and let himself in silently. He threw himself
on the bed to wait for morning.
That night he met Brule.
Not once during the day was he out of the company of either Will or
Frank French. For some reason best known to himself, and to which Lane
offered no objection, Will did not want him circulating about town
alone. He experienced the queer feeling of being watched, but he did not
know why. He noticed, however, that while he was subjected to many keen
glances of inspection, men mostly looked at him respectfully.
Will was with him during the morning and until after lunch. They took a
siesta, and by that time Frank was up. He played cards most of the
afternoon at a table with the younger brother. He had taken a liking to
the dark-faced youth at once. Anyway, he did what he thought Will French
wanted him to do, because of all things he wanted to win his friendship
and confidence after what he had heard and seen during the early morning
hours.
At sundown Will came into the place and took him out of the game, a
moderate winner. They took a look at their horses and had supper. They
sat on a bench in front of the livery in the cool in the twilight,
smoking. Lane asked about Mesquite Sam.
Will French grunted. “He’ll be all right,” he said. “Your lead didn’t
hit the bone. If you’d shot him in the head the bullet would have
glanced off.” Which showed that Will did not have any too good an
opinion of the man! Lane let it go at that and asked no more questions.
They smoked in silence, as Will evidently was deep in thought. Lane
could not shake off the premonition that he was to learn things this
night.
After some three or four cigarettes, when the night was an hour gone,
Will French rose suddenly. “Come on, Lane, let’s go up to the joint,” he
said cheerfully.
When they entered the place, Will led the way straight to a man who was
lounging against the bar. “Brule, meet a friend of mine,” Will said in
introduction. “Name’s Lane.” He turned about. “Lane, this is Brule.
We’ll have a drink, an’ then, if it’s jake with you, we’ll sit in for a
little session.”
Lane found himself looking into a pair of cold, gray eyes—eyes that
seemed to look through him and read his very thoughts. They were cruel
eyes, too. Without noticing anything else about the man, Lane realized
that whatever the nature of the enterprise in which Will and his
associates might be engaged, here was the leader. Brule’s face was
brutal: swarthy, thick-lipped, with a flat, pudgy nose, a square chin
that was blue-gray after a recent shave. He was as tall as Lane and of
heavy build. The black sateen shirt he wore was open at the throat,
showing a large, short neck. Everything about the man suggested
tremendous strength. But after his quick appraisal, Lane’s gaze came
back to those cold, cruel eyes with a glint in their depths that would
have caused most men to shiver. Here was a killer, thought Lane, if he
ever had seen one.
Brule held out a hand and his grip was far from gentle. “Howdy,” he
said. “Stranger in this end of nowhere, I take it.”
“Not so long as my friend here is around,” said Lane, indicating Will
French. “I get acquainted fast—with _some_ people.”
Brule laughed; but the laugh jarred on Lane’s sensibilities. In it there
was no suggestion of mirth. It had a metallic ring like the clashing of
steel drills.
They drank and sauntered into a rear room, with the eyes of most of the
men in the place following them. As Brule passed the Mexican bar at the
rear of the room, Lane noted that the Mexicans nearest the door crowded
back against the others. He did not miss the looks directed at the big
man’s back. For some reason—and probably a good one—the Mexicans feared
and hated this man.
Four men were playing when they entered the room. It was palpable to
Lane that this game had been arranged, since there were three empty
chairs about the table. Brule bought in for a thousand, and both Lane
and Will followed his example.
“These are just markers,” said Brule in his coarse, throaty voice. “Any
player can overbid what he has on the table and dig into his kick
afterward. Ain’t that so, Will?”
“That’s the way we play,” said Will.
“Suits me,” said Lane, “so long as you gents have money in your kicks.”
Brule’s quick look gave him a thrill of satisfaction.
The game did not prove spectacular, although the bets were high. In
time, Lane came to believe that the game they were playing was not being
played with cards. The session had been arranged to give Brule an
opportunity to study him.
Lane held his own, won a little. For three hours they played without a
sensational pot. Then, with Brule shuffling, Lane saw what he half
expected was coming. Brule’s manipulation of the cards was perfect. Only
the most experienced of gamblers could have caught the swift movements,
which probably escaped the notice of the others at the table. Lane
received a king in the hole. He knew Brule had dealt himself an ace.
Then Lane got another king, which made kings back to back. Brule dealt
himself a seven. The betting was moderate, however. When four cards were
out, Lane had two kings in sight and one in the hole. Brule had an ace
in sight and Lane was certain he had another in the hole. On the next
turn, Brule would deal himself another ace, making three, and beat Lane
out for the pot.
Lane bet a hundred dollars.
Brule studied his hand. “Oh, I’ll step in here,” he said easily. “I’ll
raise you a thousand.”
Lane yawned. “Gentlemen, I’m not making any donations,” he drawled,
turning over his third king and bunching his cards. “That’s good.”
Brule tossed the pack into the center of the table, raking in the
checks. Out of the corner of his eye, Lane saw him nod slightly to Will
French. Then he spoke to the house man.
“Count these up an’ put a checker in the drawer,” he said. “I’m quitting
for the present.”
He left the room and at Will’s suggestion he and Lane cashed in and went
out in front. Brule had left the place. They took a drink at the bar.
“I’m ridin’ out to the ranch,” said Will in a casual tone. “Want to come
along?”
“Nothing else to do,” said Lane indifferently.
Inwardly he was jubilant. Whatever the game was to be, he had been
accepted. Brule’s nod had done the business.