NOT STRICTLY ACCORDING TO PROGRAM
As they emerged from the dining-room the next morning they were greeted
by a short but sturdily built man whose deeply-set blue eyes lighted up
as he slapped Douglass familiarly on the shoulder. It was Dave Strang,
foreman of the Lazy K outfit on Cibolla Creek.
"Why, yuh old son of a gun, wheah d'yuah drap from?" asked Red, with a
portentous wink. Douglass had just informed him of Barton s message and
his remark was for the benefit of the loungers about the stove, among
whom he had reason to believe were some of Coogan's familiars. He deemed
it best to have them under the impression that the encounter was one of
pure chance; being an enthusiastic devotee at the shrine of "stud
poker," he believed in keeping inviolate the suit and value of his
buried card.
"Oh, just been atrailing and got plumb wore out fer a look at suthin'
besides sagebrush," answered Strang, easily; he had a few cards up his
sleeve, himself. "What brings yuh fellows inter thu tem'tations of thu
meetropoliss? Don't yuh know thet this is thu home of the devourin' lion
an' thu laih o' thu feroshus tigeh? Come an' look at yeh innercent selfs
in thu bottom of a glass!"
As they lined up at the bar Strang said quickly, in an undertone. "Six
of us heah by dark. What's thu game?"
"Come up to my room in an hour or two and I'll put you next," said
Douglass, cautiously; "some of this gang is keeping tab on us." Then he
turned to the crowd politely: "Will you gentlemen join us? This is on
me, Dave; no foolishness!"
After a few desultory commonplaces, during which Strang intimated that
he would be in town only a few hours, Douglass said, casually, "Drop in
and see us before you go out, Dave. Been a long time since we had a
talk." Strang looked doubtful.
"I only aim to stay till thu mail comes in an' I got a heap ter do.
Mebby I kin spah a few minnits." Then he treated the crowd in turn with
a nonchalant, "Well, so 'long!" hitched up his belt and strolled out.
Up at the post office he met them a few minutes later. "I'll be on deck
in your room in an hour. I'll go there first, ahead of you."
They found him there at the appointed time and he was soon in possession
of all the facts. Douglass's plan was quickly stated:
"We'll let them arrest us without any suspicious resistance. Of course
they'll make us give up our guns, but they won't get these," tapping his
pocket and belt; "we'll buy a pair of cheap guns for them to relieve us
of--our own guns will be in Barton's hands at noon. He will make some
excuse to come in and see us, bringing our guns with him. We have a
hundred shells apiece. I think their scheme is to shoot us first so as
to make sure, and hang us afterward so as to make it look like a
lynching. I think they will mostly all be greasers, friends of
Rodriguez, with a sprinkling of Coogan's curs to keep them to the work.
We may not need you boys, but we are sure thankful for your good will!
With eight of us it would be child's play."
"D'yuh reckon Matlock'll be among thu bunch?" asked Red, hopefully.
"Not he!" scornfully said Douglass. "He hasn't sand enough to face a
full-grown man's gun. He'll he down at the Palace with Coogan when the
fun starts, so as to establish an alibi. This is to be a Roman holiday,
you understand, with the 'Roman' spelled g-r-e-a-s-e-r! Pity to spoil
such a pretty scheme, eh?"
Just then there was a rap at the door. Red opened it and in entered one
Lew Ballard, on whose neck they fell with much profane acclamation. He
was United States Marshall for that district, an old cowpuncher and a
warm friend of the trio. He grinned comprehensively at the three
conspirators.
"What's this fairy story about a portending lynching that Barton's been
stuffing me with?" he asked, pleasantly. When they had told him he
slapped his thigh with enjoyment. "Say, it reads just like a book! Gawd!
to think I can't take a hand in it!" Then a thought struck him and he
roared. "Say, I've got a scheme that will put the cap-sheaf on the
stack!"
"First of all, I'll swear the whole bunch of you in as deputy United
States marshals. Then I'll arrest two of your boys, Strang, on some
charge or another and get them in jail a few minutes before the mob
comes. The other four you will hold in readiness outside. We'll switch
cells and when the greasers get inside we'll lock them up in your places
and you can go down and pass the time of day with your friend Coogan.
Gawd! won't he be glad to see you! I forgot to say that Barton has
already sent a rider over to the C Bar to put the boys wise to the gang
that's going down there. Gee, but this will be a great night for
Mexico!"
So it was arranged. The marshall went out and secured two extra
revolvers and the C Bar arsenal was turned over to Barton. Strang went
to instruct his men, and the two prospective victims pretended to get
royally drunk so as to allay any suspicion. They played their parts so
well that Coogan was completely taken in. With these two fools drunk it
was a veritable cinch, he thought. Matlock, for some occult reason, was
not so sanguine. He would be more at ease when it was all over and he
shrewdly made arrangements for a hasty departure in case of mishap.
It was nearly ten o'clock before the chicken-hearted sheriff deemed the
two cowpunchers sufficiently drunk enough to take chances with. At that
hour he valiantly descended upon the Red Light saloon with a full posse
and accomplished the arrest with scarcely any difficulty, the only
casualty being to the sheriff's nose, which Red could not help
flattening with the butt of his six-shooter.
Emerging from the jail after the incarceration of his prisoners, the
sheriff encountered Marshall Ballard in charge of two heavily-ironed
captives whom he was exultantly informed were two dangerous
counterfeiters. He overheard the marshall request the turnkey to place
them in the steel dungeon in the basement, as they were important
prisoners and very dangerous characters. He waited until the marshall
rejoined him and invited that official to have a night-cap, remarking
that he was tired and would "hit the hay" without unseemly delay. Could
he have known that at the moment of lifting his glass, Red McVey was
sitting astride of the turnkey's neck, industriously engaged in stuffing
his silk neckerchief into that worthy's capacious mouth, the Angostura
in his cocktail would have turned to gall.
Down at the Palace with exaggerated ostentation Coogan and Matlock were
seated in the main gambling room where their presence was very
conspicuous; Matlock was nervous, but veiled his agitation under a
stream of profanity that grew more and more vicious as the hours dragged
along. His subterfuge did not deceive his more hardened accomplice, who
looked at him with cynical contempt. Could Matlock have known the dark
thoughts brooking in the evil mind of the big gambler, he would have
sworn even more affrightedly.
"That cur is getting dangerous," Big Bart was thinking. "He'd squeal any
time to save his own cursed neck, and he knows too much! I'll attend to
his case when this affair blows over." From under his shaggy eyebrows he
regarded his confederate evilly; of genuine courage he had no dread, but
of this man's moral as well as physical cowardice he was growing more
and more afraid. The consummation of their present plot would only
plunge him deeper into the toils of the law if Matlock should, in case
of exposure, turn State's evidence. For another reason he was strangely
perturbed; that afternoon he had seen a face which was irritatingly
familiar but which he could not correctly place. In his avocation there
are only two facial classifications: those of absolute strangers, which
are to be studied with care, and those of people well known, which are
to be watched jealously. A gambler dare risk no middle path in the
physiognomy of his acquaintances; he must either know a face well or it
must be that of a total stranger. And for the life of him he could not
remember the time and place where he had formerly encountered it.
Somehow he felt a presentiment of coming evil and he chafed under it.
To-morrow he would make it his business to find out who and what that
dignified old Mexican was!
As he registered this mental resolution, the door opened and in walked
the object of his cogitations; he was accompanied by Lew Ballard and
another Mexican at sight of whom Coogan paled perceptibly. He knew them
both now! The elder man was Don Ramon Seguro, joint owner of the San
Christobal mine; the other was Don Luis Garcia, sheriff of Jalisco.
Coogan was no coward; he had been in many a tight place before and
escaped by reason of his brute courage and herculean strength. He
furtively felt of his hip pocket, then quietly arose and went forward
with extended hand. They had no proof of his killing Rafael de Tejada,
he thought rapidly; the only eyewitness, Pedro Rodriguez, was dead; and
he could fight extradition until such time as he could make his escape.
He resolved to brazen it out.
Affecting not to know the Mexicans, he shook Ballard's hand cordially.
"Ah, good evening, Mr. Ballard. I was just going to open a bottle in my
private office. Will your friends join us?" The marshall and his friends
would be delighted! Ballard nodded casually to Matlock as they passed
him. For some reason Coogan did not include him in the invitation.
At the moment of opening the wine they heard in the distance the faint
rattle of a fusillade of pistol shots. The Mexicans looked inquiringly
at Ballard but he dismissed the matter with a careless, "Oh, just some
drunken bunch of cowpunchers or railroad tarriers with more ammunition
than sense; that kind of thing is getting altogether too prevalent; the
authorities ought to put a stop to it! Say, that's a dandy bottle of
fizz, Coogan! Do you drink of the wines of Champagne much in Arneca,
Senores?" His Spanish was perfect, his voice and manner conventionally
pleasant. On Coogan's brow was the glisten of a dense perspiration;
Ballard covered his mouth with his hand to hide a cynical smile.
Just as the glasses were filled there came from the rear of the saloon
the rasping grate of a startled oath, succeeded by the hoof thuds of a
rapidly-ridden horse. Coogan, involuntarily pushing aside the window
blinds, cursed scornfully under his breath. "Got rattled and is hiking
out for the timber, the cowardly dog! That settles his hash!" The rider
was Matlock and he seemed to be in a hurry.
As Coogan turned his back the Mexican sheriff made a quick motion toward
his hip but Ballard warningly caught his arm. "Wait!" he breathed,
"there is much sport toward. There will be those here soon who will do
amusing things." Coogan flashed around in quick suspicion, angered to
think that for one moment he had foolishly relaxed his guard, but
Ballard was serenely lighting his cigarette at that of Don Luis and the
glass of Don Ramon was just descending from his lips.
When the wine was finished, Ballard insisted on ordering another bottle
at his expense; this was followed by a third at the insistence of Don
Luis. As the bubbles frothed over the crystal rims, Coogan, either from
pure nerve or fearful bravado, raised his glass. "A toast, gentlemen:
"Here's to good health and untroubled mind;
Here's to good luck and fame;
Here's to the girl that is fair and kind;
And here's to the man who is game!"
"A toast worthy of another bottle, especially the last clause," said an
approving voice in the doorway, and at sight of Ken Douglass standing
there smiling, Coogan's glass crashed on the floor as his hand flew to
his hip pocket.
"Easy, Bart!" There was no mirth in the eye gleaming menacingly behind
the sights of the heavy .44 aligned so steadily upon the heart of the
man into whose eyes had crept a superstitious terror at the sight of one
risen from the dead. "Put both your hands on the table! Both, I said!
There, that's more sensible! Mr. McVey, may I trouble you to remove that
exceedingly uncomfortable thing from Mr. Coogan's pocket? It seems to be
giving him a world of trouble and it will be in his way when he sits
down to talk with me."
Coogan's face was ashen as Red lounged languidly into sight; the sweat
poured down his cheeks in a stream and his lips opened and shut
convulsively. He was trembling all over as Red unconcernedly walked
behind him and relieved him of the weapon, which he put in his own
pocket. On Don Luis's face was a great contempt and Ballard was grinning
broadly.
"Now the derringers, Red, two of them, in his pants' pockets. You will
excuse the liberty, Mr. Coogan, but accidents will happen occasionally
and I wouldn't have you hurt yourself for the world! We are going to
have a quiet little gentlemen's game of cards, you and I, and we don't
want our foreign friends here to get a false impression about the ethics
of our great national game. Sit down, please!" Coogan dropped
nervelessly into his chair.
At a sign from Douglass, there entered into the room a cowboy bearing
three beef-hides which he laid on the table. As Douglass spread them
flesh side up the Mexicans looked significantly at each other; they were
both experienced cowmen and the altered brands told their own tale.
Upon the skins Douglass laid successively a handful of gold coin and a
packet of letters; opening the string which bound the latter he spread
them out separately so that their signatures were easily read by the
white-faced fellow sitting opposite to him. Then he turned to Strang,
who was standing in the door behind him, watching his actions with
deceptively mild interest.
"Dave, could you manage to get us a new deck of cards and something to
smoke?"
Strang soon returned with a box of really excellent cigars and an
unbroken package of cards. The former he had secured at the "Palace"
bar, Coogan's weeds being the best in the city, a thing characteristic
of all gambling hells whose whiskey and tobacco is always
unexceptionable, but the cards he bought at the little drug store across
the way. He had reason to be suspicious of the ornately-backed
pasteboards affected by the Coogan establishment.
In the combined gambling hall and bar adjacent to the private room, four
Lazy K cowpunchers were languidly lounging about with disconsolation
written all over their faces; but Strang's orders had been imperative,
so they had to content themselves with smoking innumerable cigarettes
and hoping that something might occur to enliven the monotony of their
vigil.
"It's up to yuh mugs to see that nobody gets offishus an' interrupts thu
perceedin's!" had been his instructions; nevertheless they irresistibly
gravitated toward the door of the private room, where they stood with
thumbs hooked in their belts in suggestive proximity to the butts of
their peacemakers.
Somehow the atmosphere was charged with expectancy and a strange
constraint had fallen on the usually boisterous throng. Something
unusual was taking place in that private room, but Big Bart's privacy
was a thing not healthy to violate; and then again there was something
peculiarly discouraging to idle curiosity in the grim faces of the
bronzed quartet just outside the door. There was not a man in that
assemblage who would not have given half of his hoard for one peep into
that room, and similarly there was not a man of them who for thrice that
consideration would have essayed such a breach of etiquette.
And up at the county jail another of the Lazy K outfit was cursing his
luck and sarcastically requesting a horde of wretches in the basement
dungeons to "holler a few, so's I kin use up a bunch o' these damn
hulls. Holler just oncet!"
In an unlighted room on the second story of the little hotel four short
blocks away, a woman sat crouched behind the curtains of a window which
commanded fully the Palace saloon. She was still dressed in the
inconspicuous dark robe in which she had watched the sadly aborted
attempt at the jail a short half-hour before. Feverishly had she
witnessed the stealthy approach of the scant dozen of slinking forms
which had silently stolen into the frowning portals which had
accommodatingly opened for their ingress; breathlessly had she waited
until there came the sound of savage oaths, muffled thuds and the clamor
of men in mortal combat. She had almost screamed in frantic apprehension
as the invading force had been suddenly reinforced by four other figures
with gleaming weapons in their hands. She would have called out warning
of this new and terrible peril to the now certainly doomed prisoners,
but her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth and she only sobbed and
swayed in hysterical rage at the balking of her revenge. But suddenly to
her amazement there came forth seven men clad in vaquero costume, who
laughed boisterously and shot their revolvers aimlessly into the air.
She gave a sharp gasp of relief as she heard a familiar voice say with
unfeigned regret:
"Why, I've hed moah fun at a dawg fite! D'yuh reckon that theah was evah
ary white man, ceptin' he were sick er asleep, that passed in his chips
to sech a passd o' pulin' polecats like this yeah bunch we've jes' been
bendin' ouah guns ovah? Gawd! Ken, I'll stink o' gawlic fer a week! Ef
Coogan don't put up a betah scrap by hes lonesome than hes whole pack o'
peccaries did, why, I'm goin' to swap my ole hawg laig fer a putty
blowah an' hiah out on a sheep ranch whar they's suthin' doin'!"
And now she was waiting, waiting with a fierce impatience that bruised
the soft taper fingers gripping the jeweled hilt of a slender _cuchilla_
hidden in her bosom, waiting for the vicious crackle that would
mercifully appease the maddening insistence of those two dead men
calling from their graves in far-off Ameca.
For the greater part of an hour she shivered in an ecstasy of
expectation and fear. "Mother of God! What if they should let him escape
after all!" Clutching her stiletto, she ran vengefully out into the
night.