ONE TO FOUR
Through the great gray desert with its freakish effects of erosion a
rider had moved steadily in the hours of star-strewn darkness. He had
crossed the boundary of that No Man's Land which ran as a neutral strip
between Texas and its neighbor and was claimed by each. Since the courts
had as yet recognized the rights of neither litigant there was properly
no State jurisdiction here. Therefore those at outs with the law fled to
this strip and claimed immunity.
In the Panhandle itself law was a variable quantity. Its counties had
been laid out and named, but not organized. For judicial purposes they
were attached to Wheeler County. Even the Rangers did not pretend to
police this district. When they wanted a man they went in and got him.
The rider swung at last from his saddle and dropped the bridle reins to
the ground. He crept forward to some long, flat sheep-sheds that bulked
dimly in the night shadows. Farther back, he could just make out the
ghost of a dwelling-hut. Beyond that, he knew, was a Mexican village of
three or four houses. A windmill reared its gaunt frame in the corral. A
long trough was supplied by it with water for the sheep.
The night-rider dipped a bucket of water from the tank that fed the
trough. He carried it to the gate of the corral and poured it slowly
into the fine dust made by the sharp feet of the sheep, mixing the water
and dust to a thick paste with the end of an old branding-iron. He
brought bucket after bucket of water until he had prepared a bed of
smooth mud of the proper consistency.
Before he had quite finished his preparation a dog inside the adobe hut
began to bark violently. The interloper slipped over the fence and
retreated to the darkness of the _barranca_.
From the direction of the hut men poured. The one crouching in the
chaparral heard voices. He made out a snatch or two of talk in Spanish.
The men were explaining to themselves that the dog must have been
barking at a wolf or a coyote. Presently they trooped back into the
house. Silence fell again over the night.
The man in the chaparral once more crept forward and climbed the fence.
He made straight for the entrance of the corral. Carefully he examined
the footprints written in the bed of mud he had prepared. One after
another he studied them. Some had been crossed out or blotted by
subsequent prints, but a few were perfect. One of these he scrutinized
for a long time, measuring its dimensions with a tape-line from toe to
heel, across the ball of the foot, the instep, and the heel. When at
last he straightened up his eyes were shining with satisfaction. He had
found what he wanted.
Once more the dog was uneasy with growlings. The man retreated from the
corral, returned to his horse, and rode away across the mesa. A quarter
of an hour later he unsaddled, hobbled his horse, and rolled up in a
blanket. Immediately he fell into sound sleep.
It was broad day when he wakened. The young morning sun bathed him in
warmth. He lighted a fire of mesquite and boiled coffee. In his frying-
pan he cooked flapjacks, after he had heated the jerked beef which he
carried in his saddlebags. When he had eaten, he washed his pan with
clean, fine sand, repacked his supplies, and rode forward past the
sheep-corral to the village.
In front of a mud-and-log _tendejon_ two Mexicans lounged. They
watched him with silent hostility as he dismounted, tied his horse to a
snubbing-post worn shiny as a razor-strap, and sauntered into the
_tendejon_. This stranger wore the broad-rimmed felt hat and the
buckskin suit of a Ranger, and none of that force was welcome here.
Back of a flimsy counter was a shelf upon which were half a dozen
bottles and some glasses. One could buy here mescal, American whiskey,
and even wine of a sort. The owner of the place, a white man, was
talking to a young Mexican at the time the Ranger entered. The
proprietor looked hard at the Ranger with dislike he did not try to
veil. The Mexican in front of the bar was a slim young man with quick
eyes and an intelligent face. The Ranger recognized him at once as Tony
Alviro.
"_Buenos!_" the Ranger said with the most casual of nods. "I've
come to take you back with me, Tony."
The other two Mexicans had followed the Ranger into the room. The Texan
stood sideways at the end of the bar, quite at his ease, the right
forearm resting on the counter lightly. Not far from his fingers the
butt of a revolver projected from a holster. In his attitude was no
threat whatever, but decidedly a warning.
The four men watched him steadily.
"No, _Senor_ Roberts," answered Alviro. "You can touch me not. I'm
out of Texas."
"Mebbeso, Tony. But till I get further orders, this is Texas for me.
You're goin' back with me."
Rangers and outlaws held different views about this strip of land. To
the latter it was a refuge; law ended at its border; they could not be
touched here by State constabulary. But the Ranger did not split hairs.
He was law in the Panhandle, and if the man he wanted fled to disputed
territory the Ranger went after him.
"Not so," argued Alviro. "If you arrest me in Texas, I say 'Bad luck,'
but I go wiz you. There you are an offizer, an' I am oblige' surrender.
But in thees No Man's Land, we are man to man. I refuse."
The lift of excitement was in the voice of the young Mexican. He knew
the record of the Texas Rangers. They took their men in dead or alive.
This particular member of the force was an unusually tough nut to crack.
In the heart of Tony was the drench of a chill wave. He was no coward,
but he knew he had no such unflawed nerve as this man. Through his mind
there ran a common laconic report handed in by Rangers returning from an
assignment--"Killed while resisting arrest." Alviro did not want Ranger
Roberts to write that about him.
"Better not, Alviro. I have a warrant for your arrest."
The Texan did not raise his voice. He made no movement to draw a gun.
But to Tony, fascinated by his hard, steel-gray eyes, came the certainty
that he must go or fight. They were four to one against the Ranger, but
that would not make the least difference. In the curt alternative of
this clean-jawed young officer was cold finality.
The worried eyes of the fugitive referred to his companions. They had
agreed to stand by him, and he knew that if it came to a fight they
would. But he wanted more than that. His glance was an appeal for one of
them to make his decision for him.
The voice of the _tendejon_-keeper interjected itself smoothly.
"You've played yore hand out, friend. We're four to one. You go back an'
report nothin' doin'."
Roberts looked at the man, and a little shiver ran down the barkeeper's
spine. "There won't be four of you when we get through arguin' this,
_amigo_, if we ever start," the Ranger suggested gently.
The proprietor of the place dropped his hand to the butt of his gun. But
he did not draw. Some deep, wise instinct warned him to go slow. He knew
the others would take their cue from him. If he threw down the gage of
battle the room would instantly become a shambles. How many of them
would again pass alive through the door nobody knew. He was a man who
had fought often, but he could not quite bring himself to such a
decision while those chilled-steel eyes bored into his. Anyhow, the game
was not worth the candle.
"What is it you want Tony for?" he temporized, playing for time and any
chance that might arise.
"For killin' Rutherford Wadley last month."
"A mistake. Tony has been here since the full of the moon."
"Oh, no. He was at the dance on Tomichi Creek. He tried to knife young
Wadley. He left the house right after him."
"I left--_si, senor_--but to come here," cried the accused man.
"To follow Wadley, Tony. You jumped a camper that night an' didn't know
it. He saw you."
"Wadley was a dog, but I did not kill him," Alviro said gloomily.
"That so? You were on the spot. You left tracks. I measured 'em. They
were the same tracks you left out in the corral five hours ago."
Tony's eyes flashed with a sudden discovery. "The mud--you meex it to
get my footprints."
"You're a good guesser."
Alviro threw up his hands. "I was there. It iss true. But I did not kill
the _gringo_ dog. I was too late."
"You can tell me all about that on the way back."
"If I go back they will hang me."
"You'll get a fair trial."
"By a _gringo_ jury before a _gringo_ judge." The tone of
Alviro was more than skeptical. It was bitter with the sense of racial
injustice.
"I can't argue that with you, Tony. My business is to take you to
Tascosa. That's what I'm here for."
The American behind the bar spoke again. "Listens fine! He's a Mexican,
ain't he? They claim he killed a white man. Well, then, the mob would
take him from you an' lynch him sure."
"The Rangers don't give up their prisoners, my friend. They take 'em an'
they keep 'em. You'd ought to know that."
The _tendejon_-keeper flushed. He had been dragged to justice once
by one of the force.
The eyes of the four consulted again. They were still hesitant. The
shame of letting this youth take from them their companion without a
fight was like a burr under a saddle-blanket to a bronco. But after all,
the Ranger stood for law. If they killed him, other Rangers would come
to avenge his death.
When men are in doubt the one who is sure dominates the situation. The
eye of Roberts carried the compulsion of a deadly weapon. His voice was
crisp.
"Come here, Tony," he ordered, and his fingers slipped into the pocket
of his coat.
Alviro looked at him for a long second--swore to himself that he would
not come--and came.
"Hold out yore hands."
The Mexican set his will to refuse. There was still time to elect to
fight. He told himself that was what he was going to do. But he could
not hold his own in that steady battle of the eyes. His hands moved
forward--empty.
A moment, and the Ranger had slipped and fastened the handcuffs on his
wrists.
Roberts had won. Psychologically it was now too late for the others to
resort to arms. The _tendejon_-keeper recognized this with a shrug
that refused responsibility for the outcome. After all, Tony had made
his own decision. He had chosen to take his chances in Tascosa rather
than on the spot with the Ranger.
"Saddle Tony's horse," ordered Roberts, looking at one of the Mexicans.
The man growled something in his native tongue, but none the less he
moved toward the corral.
Within a quarter of an hour the Ranger and his prisoner were on their
way. Two days later Roberts delivered his man to the deputy sheriff who
had charge of the sod-house jail in the little town.
"There's a message here for you from Cap Ellison," the deputy said. "He
wants you to go to Clarendon. Says you were to jog on down soon as you
show up here."
"All right, Snark."
He rode down next day, changed horses at the halfway station, and
reached Clarendon early in the morning. Ellison had been called to
Mobeetie, but left instructions for him to await his return.
The semi-weekly stage brought two days later a letter, to Captain
Ellison from Snark. Jack Roberts, obeying office instructions, opened
the mail. The letter said:
Dere Cap,
They are aiming to lynch that Mexican Roberts brought in. The
Dinsmore outfit is stirring up the town. Send a company of your
Rangers, for God's sake, quick.
Respectably yours
Jim Snark
Jack Roberts was the only Ranger in town. He glanced at the clock. There
was just time to catch the stage to Tascosa. He reached for his guns and
his hat.