The excitement caused by the arrival of James Z. Premble caused everyone
to forget the horseman who had been seen approaching from the north. And
Mr. Premble, somewhat against his inmost desire, continued for a time to
fill the centre of the picture.
The assemblage quite filled the shack--crowded it, in fact. Premble, the
New Yorker, barely paused for introductions before diving into the food
that Mrs. Crump set before him. Lewis sat and smoked in the lean-to, by
the stove; Gilbert lounged beside the door. Mackintavers sat in the
corner, chewing a cigar. Coravel Tio was rolling a cigarette with great
care, and sighed a little as he licked it; leaning forward, he scratched
a match upon the floor, and took advantage of a pause in the
conversation to address James Z. Premble.
"An odd name, senor," he said, softly. "A very odd name! I have never
met any one whose initial was that of Z. May I ask what name it stands
for, senor?"
Mr. Premble looked at his questioner, and in his shrewd eyes there
showed a swift and sudden hesitation; but Coravel Tio was lighting his
cigarette with much absorption.
"Zacariah," responded the New Yorker. "I don't like the name, myself.
Never use it."
"Ah, yes! Now that I remember, I have met others--there is a name
Zebulon, I think, eh? Yes, Zebulon. So you are the gentleman of whom
your firm wrote me, eh? I am glad to meet you, senor, very glad. You
have letters and so forth? You see, I am part owner of this property,
senor, and while I do not doubt you in the least, I desire to make quite
sure of things before talking business."
Laying down his knife and fork, Premble once again inspected Coravel
Tio, who was now looking directly at him. Something in those gentle,
mournful black eyes seemed to cause the city man uneasiness and
disquiet. He reached into his pocket, nodding.
"Eh? Sure, I have plenty of papers that will establish my identity and
prove my authority to deal with you. A little bit hasty, aren't you? No
trouble, though. Glad to have you assure yourself----"
He produced a sheaf of papers and passed them intact, as though entirely
certain of their contents, to Mrs. Crump. That lady, her keen blue eyes
suddenly perplexed and watchful, handed on the papers to Coravel Tio.
The latter, in silence, began to unfold and look at them, one after
another. Premble continued his meal, and fell to talking with the
others.
Presently Coravel Tio came to the end of his cigarette. He rose and
tossed the butt through the open doorway, where Gilbert was lounging.
His eyes snapped a message to those of Gilbert; in turn, Gilbert made a
slight motion. Lewis rose and shoved aside the curtain from the window,
as though desiring more air, and then stood watching.
Coravel Tio returned to his stool. At another pause in the conversation,
he tapped the refolded documents on his knee.
"These are all correct, Mr. Premble," he said, gently. "Do you know--ah,
there is something that puzzles me! Now, when I had the pleasure of
meeting you in Las Vegas last month, your name was different; it was
Zebulon and not Zacariah. And you looked different, senor. Then, if I
remember rightly, you wore a moustache, and your eyes were another
colour, and you had a stronger chin than you have at present."
A sudden tense silence had come upon the room. James Z. Premble looked
very red, then his features paled again. Imperceptibly, his right hand
fluttered toward his left armpit.
"Don't do it!" said Lewis, from the window, and Mr. Premble gazed into
the muzzle of a revolver. And: "Go slow!" said Gilbert, from the
doorway, carelessly fondling another revolver. Mr. James Z. Premble set
both hands upon the table in front of him.
The chauffeur, seeing the general trend of events, quietly slid from his
stool and vanished beneath the table. Mrs. Crump sat motionless, looking
from one person to another. Sandy Mackintavers swallowed hard and made
as if to rise, but Lewis shifted eyes and weapon slightly, and Sandy
changed his mind about moving.
"I was afraid of something like this." The voice of Coravel Tio was
gently apologetic. "You see, the real James Zebulon Premble always keeps
his engagements to the minute--unless something has happened to him. He
is now two days overdue here. Of course, it would be possible for
another man to waylay him and to obtain his papers; it would be quite
possible for that other man to come here under the name of Premble, and
to carry out a slight business transaction."
"Smooth guy, aren't you?" sneered Premble. "You'll have a hell of a time
proving anything on me!"
"My dear senor, _I_ don't want to prove anything on you!" said Coravel
Tio in pained surprise. "No, no, far from it! But I suspect that a
certain firm by the name of the Williams Manufacturing Company, a firm
that is very jealous of its reputation, might like to know that you are
in its employ. _Si!_ Of course, you'll not reveal to us for whom you are
working?"
"I've nothing to say," sullenly returned Premble. He looked much
perturbed.
"Very well. Gilbert, take the gun from the senor's left armpit and lead
him to his automobile. Tie him in his automobile and allow him to repose
in peaceful meditation. That is all. Young man, kindly come from beneath
the table and resume your meal!"
The chauffeur, looking sheepish, crawled into view again. Gilbert
fulfilled the orders that had been given him, and departed with Mr.
Premble.
Sandy Mackintavers, although trying to appear impassive and unconcerned,
signally failed in his endeavour. He was completely astounded, swept off
his feet, by the falling of Coravel Tio's mask. He was suddenly aware of
the fact that in Coravel Tio he had a damnably clever antagonist.
Now, too late, Sandy began to suspect a thousand things that did not
appear on the surface. Conjectures flitted through his brain. Suspicion
that the hand of Coravel Tio was a very powerful hand, and that this
hand was set against him, deepened into hard certainty. Yet--not even
Coravel Tio could know the truth! No one could know that Mackintavers
and the false Premble were friends, were working in concert! There was
yet hope.
"Aiblins, now, there's no tellin' about these mining sharks!" observed
Sandy in righteous accents. "I've had experiences of my own in that
line, aye! But if you're willing to talk over the proposition we
discussed last night----"
Coravel Tio looked at him. Coravel Tio laughed gently, softly, very
acridly.
"My dear senor!" he said. "You knew about the real Premble and his
business here. Your friend met the real Premble and did his work very
well. You planned things nicely. You came and made us your proposition,
knowing that we would refuse it, knowing that we would be assured that
you and Premble were at enmity; knowing that we would sell out to Senor
Premble--eh? And Premble would buy the mine for you. Ah, yes!
"It was very cleverly planned, and very well executed. But now, senor,
you had better go and sit beside your friend, and be driven back to town
with him. There I think that you will receive some interesting
information. I would like to tell you about it myself, but----"
At this point Mrs. Crump came to her feet. She understood the whole
trick at last, she understood the deep cunning of Mackintavers, and she
was white with fury.
"Coravel Tio, this skunk sure makes me blush to see him! Now, I aim to
give him a right good hidin', which same he deserves plenty. Get
outside, ye coyote--hustle!"
From the wall Mrs. Crump seized her trusty blacksnake. Thoroughly
alarmed, Mackintavers attempted no protests but backed through the
doorway. Before the lady, however, uprose Coravel Tio, and his hand
restrained her from pursuit.
"No," he said, softly, looking into her eyes. "I have reasons, senora;
good reasons."
Mrs. Crump flushed, then paled again. Restraint came hard to her.
"I aim to punish him," she rasped.
"That is already arranged." Coravel Tio smiled at her. "That has been
arranged--by the gods of the San Marcos. You will, please, leave
everything in my hands, senora. Everything! I wish to handle everything
here to-day. Everything!"
Mrs. Crump stared at him, puzzled. Then she tossed away the whip.
"All right," she assented, sullenly, angrily. "I won't say another
damned word."
By this time, Mackintavers was somewhere outside. Lewis still stood by
the window. Gilbert was presumably down at the automobiles with his
prisoner.
But now the voice of Gilbert came to them. It was lifted in a shout of
surprise, a shout of aggrieved anger and amazement.
"Hey! Hey, you feller! What the hell you doin' there? Hey, Mis' Crump!
Hustle out here!"
Those in the shack hastened outside--all except the chauffeur. Scenting
further trouble, that gentleman grabbed his plate and again retired
beneath the table, to finish his meal in security.
As Mrs. Crump, standing out in the sunlight, surveyed the situation, she
became aware that the previously discerned horseback rider had arrived.
He had evidently ridden right over the long flank of the hogback, past
the mine workings, into the canon. Fifty yards up the canon, fifty yards
above the two shacks, lay a horse that was weary unto death, a horse
that had been ridden hard and furiously, without mercy.
Not far from the horse was something white. This was a piece of new,
white paper that had been fastened to Mrs. Crump's original location
notice.
Down below the shacks, between them and the automobiles, was another
scrap of white; another piece of white paper fastened over another
location notice. Standing only a few yards from the shack, and hurriedly
talking to Mackintavers, stood the rider who had just arrived. The man
was Abel Dorales. He had just put up those two notices, and he paid no
attention whatever to the threatening approach of Gilbert.
"Dorales!" gasped Mrs. Crump, and whirled. "Lewis! Here! Gi'me that
gun!"
"Stop!" Coravel Tio grasped her arm. "Stop, senora! Force does nothing.
Leave things in my hands, _si servase!_ Lewis, go and tell Gilbert to be
quiet--_pronto!_"
The potently gentle voice of Coravel Tio held firm command. He was
obeyed. Gilbert stood motionless, scowling; Mrs. Crump stayed her hand.
Mackintavers walked quickly toward Mrs. Crump and Coravel Tio; eagerness
shone in his eyes, and exultation. Behind him strode Abel Dorales,
fixedly regarding Mrs. Crump. The half-breed's features were thinly
cruel; his nostrils quivered slightly; a shadowy smile curved his lips
into sneering lines.
Gilbert turned and walked toward the new notice posted by Dorales.
"Just got some news," said Mackintavers, jerkily. "Abel is goin' to stay
and tell ye bout it. I don't s'pose ye got any objection if I light out
for Magdalena, aiblins, now?"
Coravel Tio was rolling a cigarette, quite unconcernedly. He flashed
Sandy a smile.
"Object? Why should we object, senor? By all means, go! And take your
friend with you, your friend whose name is Zacariah and not Zebulon.
_Vaya con Dios, senor!_"
Mackintavers was plainly in haste to be off. He called to the chauffeur,
who came from the shack and joined him. Together the two walked rapidly
toward the car wherein was reposing the bogus James Z. Premble.
"Y'ain't goin' to let them varmints go?" Mrs. Crump surveyed Coravel Tio
with pleading indignation. "After them tryin'----"
Gracefully, Coravel Tio waved his cigarette. "Si, _senora_! Let them go.
Let them both go. There are larger things, much larger things, awaiting
us."
"But that feller Premble!"
"Let them both go, senora. We have larger things ahead."
Mrs. Crump sniffed in uncomprehending disgust; but she gave tacit
assent.
The engine of the car began to whir; the whir became a roaring hum, then
a deep vibrant thrumming that lifted through the canon. The car, with
its three men, moved away and leaped into speed.
"Hey!" The voice of Gilbert, who had been reading the new location
notice, drifted up to them. "Hey! This guy is jumpin' our claim! He's
posted notices in the name o' Mackintavers. What the hell!"
"Come up here, Gilbert," said Coravel Tio, "and keep quiet. We are to
hear some news. Ah, Senor Dorales, have you lunched? We are glad to
welcome you."
Dorales did not reply. He did not move, but upon his lips lingered that
thin, shadowy smile that was like the stamp of a cruel jeer. Gilbert
heavily came up and rejoined the others.
They stood there at the doorway of the shack--Mrs. Crump, Coravel Tio,
Gilbert, and Lewis. Facing them stood Abel Dorales; he seemed to be
waiting until the automobile should have gotten away beyond pursuit.
Already it was a dot, lessening amid a trail of dust. In the bearing of
Abel Dorales was a commanding air, a deep significance, a sneering sense
of power. He was in no hurry to explain.
The sun beat down in vertical, sickening waves; the heat was
suffocating, insufferable. It filled the canon like an oven. To the left
lay the spent horse, panting, loose-tongued, exhausted, unable even to
reach the trickle of water below. No other thing moved within sight.
Behind and above rose the long hogback that formed the north wall of the
canon. It shut out from view all that lay beyond, all that lay over
toward the mountains and the larger canon that drew out from the
mountains to the north.
The ground seemed to radiate heat in shimmering waves. To one side lay
the dry and withered body of the rattler Mrs. Crump had killed--what was
left by the preying tiny things of the earth. Somewhere among the rocks
lay that reptilian head, what was left of it. Inconspicuous it was,
unseen, dead jaws agape and long fangs glimmering like needles in the
hot, sickening sunlight.
"Yes," said Abel Dorales at last. "Yes. I have some news for you."
He ignored that offer of luncheon. He ignored the lowering, menacing
looks of Lewis and Gilbert. He ignored the suave Coravel Tio. He fixedly
regarded Mrs. Crump, hatred flaming in his dark eyes and quivering at
his nostrils. He had hated her from the depths of his soul ever since
that day he had jumped her claim over in the Mogollons, that day when
she had shot him down like a dog.
There was nothing melodramatic in his bearing. He was grimed with dust
and dirt. He was perspiring profusely; his lined and evil face was
streaming with sweat against its sleek bronze. He had ridden hard, and
he was tired.
Suddenly he shifted his gaze and looked around, to right and left, at
the shimmering and empty canon. He looked at the farther hill on the
other side. He looked up at the long hogback which closed in those five
persons, shutting out all the rest of the world like a vast door of
rock. He looked up toward the mountain peaks that showed above the head
of the canon. Some inward sense seemed to whisper to him a warning
against eavesdroppers; but all the visible world was glowing with
insufferable heat, and was deserted. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
"What for ye postin' notices on my lands?" demanded Mrs. Crump. "Huh?
How come ye sent Mackintavers off to file the claims at the recordin'
office, huh? What ye expect to gain by all that fool play, huh? Speak
up, ye mangy dog!"
Abel Dorales looked at her, and smiled thinly. "One moment," he said.
Turning, Abel Dorales strode up the canon to where lay his exhausted
horse. The poor brute made a painful struggle as if to rise; forefeet,
neck, and shoulders heaved convulsively, then collapsed again. Abel
Dorales kicked the horse with contempt. From the saddle he took a
battered little yellow suitcase which had been tied there and he started
back.
At a word from Coravel Tio, the others moved into the slender shadow
cast by the north side of the shack, the side that faced uphill to the
hogback. There Abel Dorales rejoined them. There he set the battered
little suitcase on the ground.
"I should have given this to Sandy," he said, "but I forgot it. Now,
Mrs. Crump, your friend Shea stole this from the ranch of Mackintavers.
Here is what he stole."
With a swift movement he opened the suitcase and dumped out the seven
stone gods. They strewed the ground in grotesque attitudes. One fell
upright, grinning stonily as if delighted by the feat. Dorales tossed
the little suitcase away.
"Ah, yes!" It was Coravel Tio who spoke, unexpectedly. He spoke as
though in recognition. "The gods of the San Marcos! But you are wrong,
senor. Our friend Shea did not steal these things. They were stolen by a
Navaho, a buck who was hired to steal them because he knew the ranch
house of Mackintavers very well. He was hired by Thomas Twofork, who
comes from the Cochiti pueblo. These gods were the gods of the San
Marcos, you understand, and they were the gods of Thomas Twofork's
fathers. That Navaho buck was killed in an accident. How Senor Shea
obtained these gods, I do not know."
Dorales laughed.
"It doesn't matter particularly now. Anyway, we'll concede that Shea
didn't steal them, eh? All right. Sandy wanted these gods back, so I
fetched them along. In my hurry to get this property located, I forgot
to give them----"
"Where's Thady Shea?" cried out Mrs. Crump, suddenly. "Where is he?"
Abel Dorales looked at her, his lips curving in cruel enjoyment.
"Dead. This location was in his name. I believe that he is without
heirs; since he is dead, I believe that his location reverts to the
government. Whoever is first to file upon it, gets it. You see? The
notices have been posted. Sandy has gone to file the location--now do
you understand?"
"Liar!" Mrs. Crump flung the word at him in blind, gasping incredulity.
"He ain't dead! Thady Shea ain't dead!"
"Oh, you need not blame me!" said Dorales, and laughed again. "I
followed him, yes; but I came too late. I found him in a canon over on
the divide--Beaver Canon."
"There was a Mexican refugee camped there with his family; a
sheep-herder. Shea had come and had drunk mescal. He had become drunk,
beastly drunk. I am not certain of what took place, because
unfortunately I arrived too late--but the woman was dead, and Shea had
fallen over the edge of a gully, breaking his neck. He had been shot,
also. I think the woman must have shot him--first."
Under the lash of these slow words, delivered with a frightful
appearance of truth, Mrs. Crump had gone quite livid. A hoarse,
inarticulate growl came from her throat. The mortal pallor of a fury
beyond all control came upon her; she trembled with sheer passion.
Then she started forward--but the hand of Coravel Tio gripped into her
wrist.