INTO THE HILLS
Sun-bronzed and wind-tanned, a lone cowboy rode a pinto pony along the
stretch of sand and sagebrush. Now and then, from beneath the flapping
brim of his sombrero, he looked at the faint trail ahead of him, and
now and then he raised the red handkerchief about his neck and wiped
his perspiring face.
"It's a darn long way from here to Times Square," mused the lone
cowboy. "But I've got to go through with it now. Go 'long there, you
pinto!" he called encouragingly to his steed, and the pony increased
its ambling pace.
The sun grew hotter and hotter. It was toward the close of a hot
afternoon, and Mexico, the Mexico of the plains, was never noted for
coolness.
Presently the rider pulled his horse to a stop and slung around in
front of him the canvas covered canteen that had been bobbing against
the pinto's flanks and, as he took out the cork and tilted some of the
warm, brackish contents down his throat, he murmured:
"Sorry, pony, that there isn't some for you, but there's hardly a
hollow tooth full for me. But we may strike the city soon."
The pinto whinnied teasingly as it caught the whiff of water, but there
was none for it and the cowboy had soon urged his animal on again. But
presently he stopped once more, looked long and earnestly at the trail
before him and remarked:
"A sign of life at last. Now if this is somebody besides a Mex maybe I
can get some information. Hop to it, pinto!"
The pony pricked up its ears as it saw and smelled another horse
approaching and broke into a canter, which caused the cowboy to remark:
"That's better! I guess you smell water." But his cheerfulness vanished
as he caught sight of the approaching rider and he remarked: "A Mex
again! Can't get any sense out of him--not with what little I know of
Spanish. Wish Cora was here!"
The advancing Mexican peon stopped as he saw the cowboy pulling rein
and made a greeting in Spanish.
"I don't know what you're saying, stranger," drawled the cowboy, "but
I'm pleased to meet you just the same. Now how far is it to town and a
good drink of water? I've been traveling a week it seems, though I know
it isn't more than a day. Where's this city of yours?"
"No sabe, señor."
"The deuce you don't! Well, I'll have to make motions then, I guess,"
sighed Pocus Pete. "Look," and he opened his mouth, held up his
canteen, pretended to pour out water where there was none and then
exclaimed:
"Rolamotaza--where is it at?"
"Oh, Rolamotaza--Rolamotaza!" exclaimed the other, comprehending now,
but giving the Spanish name of the town the correct pronunciation.
"Pronto! Pronto!"
"You mean I'll get there pronto--soon?" asked Pocus Pete.
The Mexican nodded a vigorous assent, smiled, waved his hand, and
called to his bony horse.
"Well, I'm nearer than I thought then," mused the cowboy. "Guess I
won't turn back to Times Square. Go on, pinto!"
And to such good speed did he urge his mount that a little later he
was guiding the animal down a trail through the hills toward a small,
Mexican village, on the outskirts of which loomed the unsightly oil
derricks.
"Struck the right place, I guess!" muttered the cowboy. "Now if I can
strike somebody that appreciates good, old United States talk I'll be
all set."
He rode through the one and only main street of the town, noting that
the population consisted of cowboys like himself, Mexicans, Spaniards,
Italians, and other foreigners who seemed to be in the oil trade, and a
few women and children. Following the crowd, Pocus Pete found himself
near a combined hotel, saloon, and gambling hall, evidences of all
three branches of trade being well in evidence.
"Say, buddy, can a guy get a feed and something to drink in there?"
asked the cowboy of another of his fraternity.
"Surest thing you know. Where you from?"
"Paloma, and looking for a corral," answered Pocus Pete, as he gave his
name.
"Well, you've come to a mighty poor place for cattle punchin'," was the
comment, as the other announced himself as Lazy Ike Nolan. "It's all
oil down here--oil an' Greasers an' sudden death."
"Sudden death!" exclaimed the other. "How come?"
"It ain't healthy to talk about it," was the answer. "But watch your
step, that's all. I wish I'd never come to the darn place. I'm broke
now and my buddy will be pretty soon if he don't keep away from the
gang he's in there with now, tryin' to rub the spots off the cards,"
and Lazy Ike sighed.
"Maybe you wouldn't take it amiss if I offered to buy you a drink,
pardner," suggested Pocus Pete.
"You could do that twice an' not insult me," was the reply. "Lead me to
it!"
Pocus Pete tied his pony to the hitching rail in front of the "Stella
d'Ora," or Golden Star, as the combined hotel and gambling joint was
named, and, having tossed a coin to a boy who was carrying buckets
of water to the ponies, with motions to water his steed, Pocus Pete
followed his new friend.
There was a bar doing a good business and in a room beyond it several
gambling games going on.
"Name your poison," said Pocus Pete to Lazy Ike as they lined up in
front of the bar. "It's water for mine until I get soaked up. I had a
hot ride."
"Don't blame you, pard," agreed the other. "But I'll have some red
licker if it's all the same to you. There he goes--bettin' his last
cent I know!" he exclaimed as he poured out a generous drink and looked
into the gambling room.
"Who?" asked Pocus Pete.
"My side kick--Slim Jim Burke," was the answer. "I got cleaned out, and
I told him to keep away. But he was so darn sure he could get back what
I lost and make a clean up that he went in. Now look at him!"
He pointed to a cowboy like himself who was seated at a table with
several Mexicans. It was an intense gambling game, as was plainly
evident, and a crowd of spectators ringed the participants.
"Let's saunter in and see what kind of hands your pardner is holding,"
suggested Pocus Pete when he had taken three glasses of water one after
the other, to the no small astonishment of the bartender. But when a
dollar bill was tossed over the mahogany in payment of the water alone,
the whiskey or "red licker," being also paid for, there was a murmur of
approval.
"There goes his last dollar--I know the signs," whispered Lazy Ike to
his new friend as they neared the poker table. "An' now we're both
broke."
It was evident that a final play was being made, and as Pocus Pete
watched the dealing he suddenly stepped forward, laid a hand on the
shoulder of Slim Jim and exclaimed in a drawling but loud voice:
"Don't bet on this hand, buddy. The deal's crooked. That guy," and he
pointed to the Mexican dealer, "is slipping his friend cards from the
bottom of the deck. Lay off it!"
At once there was a chorus of excited shouts from the Mexican
gamblers--shouts in Spanish--and in the midst of it Lazy Ike called to
his "side kick":
"Snap out of it! You're being done!"
Slim pushed back his chair, hardly knowing what it was all about,
showing signs of wonder at the interference of the strange cowboy. But
the dealer and his gambling friends did more than show wonder.
"Who are you?" roared the dealer in fairly good English, as he glared
at Pocus Pete. "How dare you break up our game?"
"Go easy, friend," drawled the other. "Breaking up games when I see a
friend of my friend being double-crossed, is one of the best things I
do. I saw you dealing off the bottom--like this----"
He reached over, picked up the scattered cards and, with the hands of
a master magician, began dealing the cards now from the top and now
from the bottom. He turned up the hand he had given the former dealer,
showing four kings, but hardly had the murmurs of surprise at this
trick died away than Pocus Pete turned over the cards he had dealt to
himself, showing four aces.
"It's easy when you know how," he drawled. "But it ain't healthy for
them as knows," he added.
The disclosure seemed to sting the Mexican gambler to madness.
"Son of a pig!" he spluttered. "I will show you!"
With a rapid motion he drew a gun, but before he could fire Lazy Ike,
whose actions seemed to belie his nickname, had his own weapon out.
There were two reports, one following the other, but Lazy Ike had fired
first and the Mexican slumped down in his chair, the bullet from his
gun singing uncomfortably past the ear of Pocus Pete.
The excitement in the saloon redoubled, and Pocus Pete was drawing his
own gun, for there were ugly looks about him, when Lazy Ike called into
his ear:
"We'd better beat it now, you an' me an' Slim Jim. They won't leave
enough of us to put on a shutter as soon as they get into action. I
guess maybe I've croaked that guy."
"Where are you going?" asked Pocus Pete as he allowed himself to be
urged out of the place between Lazy Ike and Slim Jim.
"We've got to take to the hills," answered Ike. "It won't be safe for
us in town."
It appeared that it was not going to be safe for the trio right then
and there, in the Stella d'Ora, for as the three neared the door they
found their passage blocked by a number of Mexicans.
"Pigs! Dogs!" hissed the dark-featured men, some of whom were far from
sober.
"Kill the Gringoes!" someone yelled.
A big man, whose face showed his passion, rushed at Pocus Pete with a
long knife upraised.
"Watch yourself, buddy!" yelled Ike.
There was a sharp report, a little cloud of smoke seemed to float out
of the side pocket of Pete's coat, and the Mexican slumped down to the
floor.
"Another one down and out!" yelled Ike, the lust of battle in his eyes.
"Now we sure got to make a run for it!"
"That was a slick shot," muttered Slim Jim. "Though who you are an' how
Ike picked you up, I don't know."
"An' this ain't no time to ask questions, either!" sung out Ike. "Come
on! Take it on the jump!"
The three ran from the saloon, leaped to their ponies at the hitching
rail and galloped off.
"To the hills!" cried Lazy Ike. "We'll stick by you, Pocus Pete!"
As they galloped through the town the hoof-beats of their horses
were punctuated with the shots from many guns, while bullets sang an
ominous, whining song over their heads.