Of the outlaws present Euchre appeared to be the one most inclined to
lend friendliness to curiosity; and he led Duane and the horses away
to a small adobe shack. He tied the horses in an open shed and removed
their saddles. Then, gathering up Stevens's weapons, he invited his
visitor to enter the house.
It had two rooms--windows without coverings--bare floors. One room
contained blankets, weapons, saddles, and bridles; the other a stone
fireplace, rude table and bench, two bunks, a box cupboard, and various
blackened utensils.
“Make yourself to home as long as you want to stay,” said Euchre. “I
ain't rich in this world's goods, but I own what's here, an' you're
welcome.”
“Thanks. I'll stay awhile and rest. I'm pretty well played out,” replied
Duane.
Euchre gave him a keen glance.
“Go ahead an' rest. I'll take your horses to grass.” Euchre left Duane
alone in the house. Duane relaxed then, and mechanically he wiped the
sweat from his face. He was laboring under some kind of a spell or shock
which did not pass off quickly. When it had worn away he took off his
coat and belt and made himself comfortable on the blankets. And he had a
thought that if he rested or slept what difference would it make on the
morrow? No rest, no sleep could change the gray outlook of the future.
He felt glad when Euchre came bustling in, and for the first time he
took notice of the outlaw.
Euchre was old in years. What little hair he had was gray, his face
clean-shaven and full of wrinkles; his eyes were half shut from long
gazing through the sun and dust. He stooped. But his thin frame denoted
strength and endurance still unimpaired.
“Hey a drink or a smoke?” he asked.
Duane shook his head. He had not been unfamiliar with whisky, and he
had used tobacco moderately since he was sixteen. But now, strangely, he
felt a disgust at the idea of stimulants. He did not understand clearly
what he felt. There was that vague idea of something wild in his blood,
something that made him fear himself.
Euchre wagged his old head sympathetically. “Reckon you feel a little
sick. When it comes to shootin' I run. What's your age?”
“I'm twenty-three,” replied Duane.
Euchre showed surprise. “You're only a boy! I thought you thirty
anyways. Buck, I heard what you told Bland, an' puttin' thet with my
own figgerin', I reckon you're no criminal yet. Throwin' a gun in
self-defense--thet ain't no crime!”
Duane, finding relief in talking, told more about himself.
“Huh,” replied the old man. “I've been on this river fer years, an' I've
seen hundreds of boys come in on the dodge. Most of them, though, was no
good. An' thet kind don't last long. This river country has been an' is
the refuge fer criminals from all over the states. I've bunked with
bank cashiers, forgers, plain thieves, an' out-an'-out murderers, all
of which had no bizness on the Texas border. Fellers like Bland are
exceptions. He's no Texan--you seen thet. The gang he rules here come
from all over, an' they're tough cusses, you can bet on thet. They live
fat an' easy. If it wasn't fer the fightin' among themselves they'd
shore grow populous. The Rim Rock is no place for a peaceable, decent
feller. I heard you tell Bland you wouldn't join his gang. Thet'll not
make him take a likin' to you. Have you any money?”
“Not much,” replied Duane.
“Could you live by gamblin'? Are you any good at cards?”
“No.”
“You wouldn't steal hosses or rustle cattle?”
“No.”
“When your money's gone how'n hell will you live? There ain't any work
a decent feller could do. You can't herd with greasers. Why, Bland's men
would shoot at you in the fields. What'll you do, son?”
“God knows,” replied Duane, hopelessly. “I'll make my money last as long
as possible--then starve.”
“Wal, I'm pretty pore, but you'll never starve while I got anythin'.”
Here it struck Duane again--that something human and kind and eager
which he had seen in Stevens. Duane's estimate of outlaws had lacked
this quality. He had not accorded them any virtues. To him, as to the
outside world, they had been merely vicious men without one redeeming
feature.
“I'm much obliged to you, Euchre,” replied Duane. “But of course I won't
live with any one unless I can pay my share.”
“Have it any way you like, my son,” said Euchre, good-humoredly. “You
make a fire, an' I'll set about gettin' grub. I'm a sourdough, Buck.
Thet man doesn't live who can beat my bread.”
“How do you ever pack supplies in here?” asked Duane, thinking of the
almost inaccessible nature of the valley.
“Some comes across from Mexico, an' the rest down the river. Thet river
trip is a bird. It's more'n five hundred miles to any supply point.
Bland has mozos, greaser boatmen. Sometimes, too, he gets supplies in
from down-river. You see, Bland sells thousands of cattle in Cuba. An'
all this stock has to go down by boat to meet the ships.”
“Where on earth are the cattle driven down to the river?” asked Duane.
“Thet's not my secret,” replied Euchre, shortly. “Fact is, I don't know.
I've rustled cattle for Bland, but he never sent me through the Rim Rock
with them.”
Duane experienced a sort of pleasure in the realization that interest
had been stirred in him. He was curious about Bland and his gang, and
glad to have something to think about. For every once in a while he had
a sensation that was almost like a pang. He wanted to forget. In the
next hour he did forget, and enjoyed helping in the preparation and
eating of the meal. Euchre, after washing and hanging up the several
utensils, put on his hat and turned to go out.
“Come along or stay here, as you want,” he said to Duane.
“I'll stay,” rejoined Duane, slowly.
The old outlaw left the room and trudged away, whistling cheerfully.
Duane looked around him for a book or paper, anything to read; but
all the printed matter he could find consisted of a few words on
cartridge-boxes and an advertisement on the back of a tobacco-pouch.
There seemed to be nothing for him to do. He had rested; he did not want
to lie down any more. He began to walk to and fro, from one end of the
room to the other. And as he walked he fell into the lately acquired
habit of brooding over his misfortune.
Suddenly he straightened up with a jerk. Unconsciously he had drawn his
gun. Standing there with the bright cold weapon in his hand, he looked
at it in consternation. How had he come to draw it? With difficulty
he traced his thoughts backward, but could not find any that was
accountable for his act. He discovered, however, that he had a
remarkable tendency to drop his hand to his gun. That might have come
from the habit long practice in drawing had given him. Likewise, it
might have come from a subtle sense, scarcely thought of at all, of the
late, close, and inevitable relation between that weapon and himself. He
was amazed to find that, bitter as he had grown at fate, the desire to
live burned strong in him. If he had been as unfortunately situated, but
with the difference that no man wanted to put him in jail or take his
life, he felt that this burning passion to be free, to save himself,
might not have been so powerful. Life certainly held no bright prospects
for him. Already he had begun to despair of ever getting back to his
home. But to give up like a white-hearted coward, to let himself be
handcuffed and jailed, to run from a drunken, bragging cowboy, or be
shot in cold blood by some border brute who merely wanted to add another
notch to his gun--these things were impossible for Duane because there
was in him the temper to fight. In that hour he yielded only to fate and
the spirit inborn in him. Hereafter this gun must be a living part
of him. Right then and there he returned to a practice he had long
discontinued--the draw. It was now a stern, bitter, deadly business with
him. He did not need to fire the gun, for accuracy was a gift and had
become assured. Swiftness on the draw, however, could be improved, and
he set himself to acquire the limit of speed possible to any man. He
stood still in his tracks; he paced the room; he sat down, lay down,
put himself in awkward positions; and from every position he practiced
throwing his gun--practiced it till he was hot and tired and his arm
ached and his hand burned. That practice he determined to keep up every
day. It was one thing, at least, that would help pass the weary hours.
Later he went outdoors to the cooler shade of the cottonwoods. From
this point he could see a good deal of the valley. Under different
circumstances Duane felt that he would have enjoyed such a beautiful
spot. Euchre's shack sat against the first rise of the slope of the
wall, and Duane, by climbing a few rods, got a view of the whole valley.
Assuredly it was an outlaw settle meet. He saw a good many Mexicans,
who, of course, were hand and glove with Bland. Also he saw enormous
flat-boats, crude of structure, moored along the banks of the river. The
Rio Grande rolled away between high bluffs. A cable, sagging deep in
the middle, was stretched over the wide yellow stream, and an old scow,
evidently used as a ferry, lay anchored on the far shore.
The valley was an ideal retreat for an outlaw band operating on a big
scale. Pursuit scarcely need be feared over the broken trails of the Rim
Rock. And the open end of the valley could be defended against almost
any number of men coming down the river. Access to Mexico was easy and
quick. What puzzled Duane was how Bland got cattle down to the river,
and he wondered if the rustler really did get rid of his stolen stock by
use of boats.
Duane must have idled considerable time up on the hill, for when he
returned to the shack Euchre was busily engaged around the camp-fire.
“Wal, glad to see you ain't so pale about the gills as you was,” he
said, by way of greeting. “Pitch in an' we'll soon have grub ready.
There's shore one consolin' fact round this here camp.”
“What's that?” asked Duane.
“Plenty of good juicy beef to eat. An' it doesn't cost a short bit.”
“But it costs hard rides and trouble, bad conscience, and life, too,
doesn't it?”
“I ain't shore about the bad conscience. Mine never bothered me none.
An' as for life, why, thet's cheap in Texas.”
“Who is Bland?” asked Duane, quickly changing the subject. “What do you
know about him?”
“We don't know who he is or where he hails from,” replied Euchre.
“Thet's always been somethin' to interest the gang. He must have been
a young man when he struck Texas. Now he's middle-aged. I remember how
years ago he was soft-spoken an' not rough in talk or act like he is
now. Bland ain't likely his right name. He knows a lot. He can doctor
you, an' he's shore a knowin' feller with tools. He's the kind thet
rules men. Outlaws are always ridin' in here to join his gang, an' if
it hadn't been fer the gamblin' an' gun-play he'd have a thousand men
around him.”
“How many in his gang now?”
“I reckon there's short of a hundred now. The number varies. Then Bland
has several small camps up an' down the river. Also he has men back on
the cattle-ranges.”
“How does he control such a big force?” asked Duane. “Especially when
his band's composed of bad men. Luke Stevens said he had no use for
Bland. And I heard once somewhere that Bland was a devil.”
“Thet's it. He is a devil. He's as hard as flint, violent in temper,
never made any friends except his right-hand men, Dave Rugg an' Chess
Alloway. Bland'll shoot at a wink. He's killed a lot of fellers, an'
some fer nothin'. The reason thet outlaws gather round him an' stick is
because he's a safe refuge, an' then he's well heeled. Bland is rich.
They say he has a hundred thousand pesos hid somewhere, an' lots of
gold. But he's free with money. He gambles when he's not off with a
shipment of cattle. He throws money around. An' the fact is there's
always plenty of money where he is. Thet's what holds the gang. Dirty,
bloody money!”
“It's a wonder he hasn't been killed. All these years on the border!”
exclaimed Duane.
“Wal,” replied Euchre, dryly, “he's been quicker on the draw than the
other fellers who hankered to kill him, thet's all.”
Euchre's reply rather chilled Duane's interest for the moment. Such
remarks always made his mind revolve round facts pertaining to himself.
“Speakin' of this here swift wrist game,” went on Euchre, “there's been
considerable talk in camp about your throwin' of a gun. You know, Buck,
thet among us fellers--us hunted men--there ain't anythin' calculated
to rouse respect like a slick hand with a gun. I heard Bland say this
afternoon--an' he said it serious-like an' speculative--thet he'd
never seen your equal. He was watchin' of you close, he said, an' just
couldn't follow your hand when you drawed. All the fellers who seen you
meet Bosomer had somethin' to say. Bo was about as handy with a gun as
any man in this camp, barrin' Chess Alloway an' mebbe Bland himself.
Chess is the captain with a Colt--or he was. An' he shore didn't like
the references made about your speed. Bland was honest in acknowledgin'
it, but he didn't like it, neither. Some of the fellers allowed your
draw might have been just accident. But most of them figgered different.
An' they all shut up when Bland told who an' what your Dad was. 'Pears
to me I once seen your Dad in a gunscrape over at Santone, years ago.
Wal, I put my oar in to-day among the fellers, an' I says: 'What ails
you locoed gents? Did young Duane budge an inch when Bo came roarin'
out, blood in his eye? Wasn't he cool an' quiet, steady of lips, an'
weren't his eyes readin' Bo's mind? An' thet lightnin' draw--can't
you-all see thet's a family gift?'”
Euchre's narrow eyes twinkled, and he gave the dough he was rolling a
slap with his flour-whitened hand. Manifestly he had proclaimed himself
a champion and partner of Duane's, with all the pride an old man could
feel in a young one whom he admired.
“Wal,” he resumed, presently, “thet's your introduction to the border,
Buck. An' your card was a high trump. You'll be let severely alone by
real gun-fighters an' men like Bland, Alloway, Rugg, an' the bosses of
the other gangs. After all, these real men are men, you know, an' onless
you cross them they're no more likely to interfere with you than you
are with them. But there's a sight of fellers like Bosomer in the river
country. They'll all want your game. An' every town you ride into will
scare up some cowpuncher full of booze or a long-haired four-flush
gunman or a sheriff--an' these men will be playin' to the crowd an'
yellin' for your blood. Thet's the Texas of it. You'll have to hide fer
ever in the brakes or you'll have to KILL such men. Buck, I reckon this
ain't cheerful news to a decent chap like you. I'm only tellin' you
because I've taken a likin' to you, an' I seen right off thet you ain't
border-wise. Let's eat now, an' afterward we'll go out so the gang can
see you're not hidin'.”
When Duane went out with Euchre the sun was setting behind a blue range
of mountains across the river in Mexico. The valley appeared to open to
the southwest. It was a tranquil, beautiful scene. Somewhere in a house
near at hand a woman was singing. And in the road Duane saw a little
Mexican boy driving home some cows, one of which wore a bell. The
sweet, happy voice of a woman and a whistling barefoot boy--these seemed
utterly out of place here.
Euchre presently led to the square and the row of rough houses Duane
remembered. He almost stepped on a wide imprint in the dust where
Bosomer had confronted him. And a sudden fury beset him that he should
be affected strangely by the sight of it.
“Let's have a look in here,” said Euchre.
Duane had to bend his head to enter the door. He found himself in a very
large room inclosed by adobe walls and roofed with brush. It was full of
rude benches, tables, seats. At one corner a number of kegs and barrels
lay side by side in a rack. A Mexican boy was lighting lamps hung on
posts that sustained the log rafters of the roof.
“The only feller who's goin' to put a close eye on you is Benson,”
said Euchre. “He runs the place an' sells drinks. The gang calls him
Jackrabbit Benson, because he's always got his eye peeled an' his ear
cocked. Don't notice him if he looks you over, Buck. Benson is scared to
death of every new-comer who rustles into Bland's camp. An' the reason,
I take it, is because he's done somebody dirt. He's hidin'. Not from
a sheriff or ranger! Men who hide from them don't act like Jackrabbit
Benson. He's hidin' from some guy who's huntin' him to kill him. Wal,
I'm always expectin' to see some feller ride in here an' throw a gun on
Benson. Can't say I'd be grieved.”
Duane casually glanced in the direction indicated, and he saw a spare,
gaunt man with a face strikingly white beside the red and bronze and
dark skins of the men around him. It was a cadaverous face. The black
mustache hung down; a heavy lock of black hair dropped down over the
brow; deep-set, hollow, staring eyes looked out piercingly. The man had
a restless, alert, nervous manner. He put his hands on the board that
served as a bar and stared at Duane. But when he met Duane's glance he
turned hurriedly to go on serving out liquor.
“What have you got against him?” inquired Duane, as he sat down beside
Euchre. He asked more for something to say than from real interest. What
did he care about a mean, haunted, craven-faced criminal?
“Wal, mebbe I'm cross-grained,” replied Euchre, apologetically. “Shore
an outlaw an' rustler such as me can't be touchy. But I never stole
nothin' but cattle from some rancher who never missed 'em anyway. Thet
sneak Benson--he was the means of puttin' a little girl in Bland's way.”
“Girl?” queried Duane, now with real attention.
“Shore. Bland's great on women. I'll tell you about this girl when we
get out of here. Some of the gang are goin' to be sociable, an' I can't
talk about the chief.”
During the ensuing half-hour a number of outlaws passed by Duane and
Euchre, halted for a greeting or sat down for a moment. They were all
gruff, loud-voiced, merry, and good-natured. Duane replied civilly
and agreeably when he was personally addressed; but he refused all
invitations to drink and gamble. Evidently he had been accepted, in a
way, as one of their clan. No one made any hint of an allusion to his
affair with Bosomer. Duane saw readily that Euchre was well liked. One
outlaw borrowed money from him: another asked for tobacco.
By the time it was dark the big room was full of outlaws and Mexicans,
most of whom were engaged at monte. These gamblers, especially the
Mexicans, were intense and quiet. The noise in the place came from the
drinkers, the loungers. Duane had seen gambling-resorts--some of the
famous ones in San Antonio and El Paso, a few in border towns where
license went unchecked. But this place of Jackrabbit Benson's impressed
him as one where guns and knives were accessories to the game. To his
perhaps rather distinguishing eye the most prominent thing about the
gamesters appeared to be their weapons. On several of the tables were
piles of silver--Mexican pesos--as large and high as the crown of his
hat. There were also piles of gold and silver in United States coin.
Duane needed no experienced eyes to see that betting was heavy and that
heavy sums exchanged hands. The Mexicans showed a sterner obsession, an
intenser passion. Some of the Americans staked freely, nonchalantly,
as befitted men to whom money was nothing. These latter were manifestly
winning, for there were brother outlaws there who wagered coin with
grudging, sullen, greedy eyes. Boisterous talk and laughter among the
drinking men drowned, except at intervals, the low, brief talk of the
gamblers. The clink of coin sounded incessantly; sometimes just low,
steady musical rings; and again, when a pile was tumbled quickly, there
was a silvery crash. Here an outlaw pounded on a table with the butt of
his gun; there another noisily palmed a roll of dollars while he studied
his opponent's face. The noises, however, in Benson's den did not
contribute to any extent to the sinister aspect of the place. That
seemed to come from the grim and reckless faces, from the bent, intent
heads, from the dark lights and shades. There were bright lights,
but these served only to make the shadows. And in the shadows lurked
unrestrained lust of gain, a spirit ruthless and reckless, a something
at once suggesting lawlessness, theft, murder, and hell.
“Bland's not here to-night,” Euchre was saying. “He left today on one of
his trips, takin' Alloway an' some others. But his other man, Rugg, he's
here. See him standin' with them three fellers, all close to Benson.
Rugg's the little bow-legged man with the half of his face shot off.
He's one-eyed. But he can shore see out of the one he's got. An', darn
me! there's Hardin. You know him? He's got an outlaw gang as big as
Bland's. Hardin is standin' next to Benson. See how quiet an' unassumin'
he looks. Yes, thet's Hardin. He comes here once in a while to see
Bland. They're friends, which's shore strange. Do you see thet greaser
there--the one with gold an' lace on his sombrero? Thet's Manuel, a
Mexican bandit. He's a great gambler. Comes here often to drop his coin.
Next to him is Bill Marr--the feller with the bandana round his head.
Bill rode in the other day with some fresh bullet-holes. He's been shot
more'n any feller I ever heard of. He's full of lead. Funny, because
Bill's no troublehunter, an', like me, he'd rather run than shoot. But
he's the best rustler Bland's got--a grand rider, an' a wonder with
cattle. An' see the tow-headed youngster. Thet's Kid Fuller, the kid of
Bland's gang. Fuller has hit the pace hard, an' he won't last the year
out on the border. He killed his sweetheart's father, got run out of
Staceytown, took to stealin' hosses. An' next he's here with Bland.
Another boy gone wrong, an' now shore a hard nut.”
Euchre went on calling Duane's attention to other men, just as he
happened to glance over them. Any one of them would have been a marked
man in a respectable crowd. Here each took his place with more or less
distinction, according to the record of his past wild prowess and his
present possibilities. Duane, realizing that he was tolerated there,
received in careless friendly spirit by this terrible class of outcasts,
experienced a feeling of revulsion that amounted almost to horror.
Was his being there not an ugly dream? What had he in common with such
ruffians? Then in a flash of memory came the painful proof--he was a
criminal in sight of Texas law; he, too, was an outcast.
For the moment Duane was wrapped up in painful reflections; but Euchre's
heavy hand, clapping with a warning hold on his arm, brought him back to
outside things.
The hum of voices, the clink of coin, the loud laughter had ceased.
There was a silence that manifestly had followed some unusual word or
action sufficient to still the room. It was broken by a harsh curse and
the scrape of a bench on the floor. Some man had risen.
“You stacked the cards, you--!”
“Say that twice,” another voice replied, so different in its cool,
ominous tone from the other.
“I'll say it twice,” returned the first gamester, in hot haste. “I'll
say it three times. I'll whistle it. Are you deaf? You light-fingered
gent! You stacked the cards!”
Silence ensued, deeper than before, pregnant with meaning. For all that
Duane saw, not an outlaw moved for a full moment. Then suddenly the room
was full of disorder as men rose and ran and dived everywhere.
“Run or duck!” yelled Euchre, close to Duane's ear. With that he dashed
for the door. Duane leaped after him. They ran into a jostling mob.
Heavy gun-shots and hoarse yells hurried the crowd Duane was with
pell-mell out into the darkness. There they all halted, and several
peeped in at the door.
“Who was the Kid callin'?” asked one outlaw.
“Bud Marsh,” replied another.
“I reckon them fust shots was Bud's. Adios Kid. It was comin' to him,”
went on yet another.
“How many shots?”
“Three or four, I counted.”
“Three heavy an' one light. Thet light one was the Kid's.38. Listen!
There's the Kid hollerin' now. He ain't cashed, anyway.”
At this juncture most of the outlaws began to file back into the room.
Duane thought he had seen and heard enough in Benson's den for one night
and he started slowly down the walk. Presently Euchre caught up with
him.
“Nobody hurt much, which's shore some strange,” he said. “The Kid--young
Fuller thet I was tellin' you about--he was drinkin' an' losin'. Lost
his nut, too, callin' Bud Marsh thet way. Bud's as straight at cards as
any of 'em. Somebody grabbed Bud, who shot into the roof. An' Fuller's
arm was knocked up. He only hit a greaser.”