Sleepy and the men from the Tumbling H rode back to Pinnacle with the
intention of enlisting the assistance of the sheriff and deputy. They
realized that their force was all too small for an invasion of Mexico.
But they found Cloudy Day leaning against the Greenback bar, singing a
mournful song, and too drunk to be of any use. Lon Pelly was in a poker
game, also very drunk, but with all the appearance of a sober man. He
left the game at Sleepy’s request, and went outside while they told him
what they intended to do.
They only told him that they needed his help in going to the Rancho
Sierra to find some folks who had been kidnapped, but Lon was too drunk
to take an interest in the matter.
“Aw, let the damn fool go back to his game!” grunted Ike. “He’s only
good for poker-playin’.”
Lon took no offense, but went back to his game.
“What did they want, Lon?” asked Faro Lanning.
“They’re all crazy,” declared Lon owlishly. “They want me to go to the
Rancho Shierra to whip Mexico. Nawshir, not me. Whose deal?”
“Your deal,” said Faro, turning and motioning to Arkansas Jones, who was
standing at the bar.
Faro got up and told Arkansas to take charge of the game. “I’m goin’ to
eat,” he said.
He hurried out through the rear door, went out to his stable, where he
saddled a horse and rode away. Judging from appearances, Faro Lanning
was going quite a way to get a meal.
Sleepy and Big Medicine went to a store and purchased some rifle
cartridges, while Ike, Musical, and Cleve procured a few articles of
food, which might be carried in their pockets or tied to a saddle.
They rode out of Pinnacle, as if heading for the Tumbling H, but changed
their course toward the south as soon as they left the town. Big
Medicine had not complained over his loss, but there was an expression
in his eyes which boded no good to the guilty parties.
They crossed the divide and followed the old road to the border, where
they struck the trail to the Rancho Sierra. There were plenty of horse
tracks in the dusty trail, all pointing to the south.
“Plenty horses goin’ in,” observed Sleepy. “And we’ve got to be danged
observin’, gents. I understand that these folks down here get kinda
careless when it comes to foolin’ with another man’s life.”
“And I’m one of ’em, if I find the jigger that broke my phonygraft
record,” declared Musical. “That’s what yuh might call bein’ rowdyish,
ain’t it?”
“Aw, yuh can get another record,” growled Ike.
“Thasso? Not jist like that, Ike. That singer’s dead now.”
“I’d ’a’ bet on that,” said Cleve. “No danged human could sing thataway
and live.”
Musical grumbled to himself something about some folks not having an ear
for music, but finally dropped the subject. The trail wound in and out
of the rocky, brush-covered hills, where an army could hide.
Ike had ridden almost to the ranch one day, looking for stolen cattle,
and had viewed the place from a rocky point, so he was elected to guide
the party to this place.
After considerable loss of time Ike finally discovered the place where
he had left the trail, and they managed to reach the eminence, which was
about half a mile from the ranch. They crouched in the brush and watched
the ranch, but at that distance they were unable to distinguish
individuals.
“Must be at least twenty horses in that corral,” observed Sleepy. “If
there’s a man for every horse, we’ve got some gang to bust into.”
“And a very bad place to attack,” declared Big Medicine.
“Shore is,” agreed Musical. “Looks like our best bet was to make our big
move after dark.”
Sleepy had been studying the place for several minutes, while the others
discussed a possible point of attack.
“It’s a risky business to butt right into that place,” declared Sleepy.
“We don’t know a danged thing about who is there, nor what we’re goin’
up against. See that butte back of the house? That’s where I’m goin’.
I’ll circle back and manage to work my way over that butte, _sabe_?
“That’ll let me down pretty darned close. Mebbe I can get on their roof.
Anyway, I’ll scheme some way to find out what’s inside that place. They
won’t look for anybody to come in on ’em from that side. You stay here,
where yuh can see me work my way down the bluff. If nothin’ happens I’ll
go back the same way.”
“Suppose somethin’ happens?” questioned Musical.
“Then it happens,” grinned Sleepy. “If I don’t come back, you can come
ahead, but don’t do it in daylight.”
“All right, Stevens.” Big Medicine held out his hand. “Good luck to you.
If we hear any shooting, we won’t wait for darkness.”
“All right.”
Sleepy slipped off his cartridge belt, containing rifle cartridges, and
handed it to Musical, who also took charge of Sleepy’s rifle. He
intended to travel as light as possible.
It did not take Sleepy long to find that it was impossible to use his
horse, unless he was equipped to cut a trail through the brush, so he
left the animal with the others and went on. By a dint of maneuvering he
was able to work his way across the hills, in and out of narrow cañons,
where the mesquite threatened to make rags of all of his clothes.
It took him at least an hour to gain the foot of the tall bluff, and
another hour to reach the top. He was thoroughly tired out and bleeding
from innumerable scratches. The ranch-house was not visible, nor could
he determine just which pinnacle the gang were inhabiting, so he waved
his hat wildly several times, hoping that they would catch his signal.
Then he began the descent. He was about to remove his boots, thinking
that it might lessen the sound of his approach, but a big rattler buzzed
at him from a rubble of rocks, and he voted to keep his boots where they
belonged.
Darkness follows the sunset quickly in the border country; there is no
twilight worthy of the name, and the sun had set. Sleepy knew that he
was getting well down the bluff, and that it behooved him to go softly.
A dislodged stone would probably roll all the way to the ranch-house, so
Sleepy peered closely before placing his heels.
It was very brushy; dry brush, which crackled at the touch. And the
light was failing very fast. Already the darkness had blotted out the
pinnacle beyond.
Sleepy felt that he was near the edge of the bluff. He could smell the
odors of cooking and of wood smoke. He eased his foot through a tangle
of brush, tested the ground, and swung his body forward.
As he brought his two feet together, something seemed to jerk the ground
from under his feet and he shot downward into a hole. He seemed to be
falling down an incline, fairly going end over end, the bottom of the
fall ending in a blaze of glory, in which Sleepy lost all interest in
things.
* * * * *
But just a few minutes before the Tumbling H men had reached the lookout
point, Faro Lanning had ridden up to the Rancho Sierra. He had been
passed by the guards, who knew him, and had told them to keep a good
watch.
And he had walked into the ranch-house only to find the K-10 gang making
merry over their meal.
“What in hell are you doin’ down here?” demanded Baldy.
“Riding around,” said Lanning uneasily. “Where’s Torres?”
One of the men indicated Torres, asleep on the table. Lanning shook him,
but Torres merely grunted and continued to snore.
“C’mon and have drink,” invited Kohler. “What the hell, we’re all good
fellers together.”
“All right.”
Lanning realized that they were all half-drunk. He accepted a bottle and
cup and sat down at the table.
“This is all right,” said Baldy seriously, “but what are you doin’ here,
Faro? What’s the idea?”
“I might ask the same question, if I was curious.”
“Well, I am curious, Faro.”
“All right.”
Faro drained his cup and threw it back on the table.
“You might like to know that Big Medicine and his gang are comin’ here.
I heard ’em say they were. They tried to get Lon Pelly to come with ’em,
but Lon was too drunk. I had a hunch that some of my friends might like
to know it.”
“_Esta buena!_” grunted Guadalupe. “We will welcome ’em, eh?”
“Damn right!” chuckled Kohler. “Whatcha say, Gonzales?”
“We will show them the good time, _compadre_.”
“I saw the guards,” offered Faro. “I warned ’em.”
Faro saw Hashknife, and a grin wreathed his lips.
“He won’t be much help to Hawkworth,” laughed Baldy.
* * * * *
Hashknife did not speak to Faro, and the gang went back to their
drinking. Lee Yung drank little. He considered Faro Lanning
thoughtfully, distrustfully. He knew that Faro had some real reason for
riding down there. And he had asked for Torres.
In spite of his dangerous predicament Hashknife smiled to himself. It
was evident that there were two factions, composed of the K-10 outfit on
one side, and Torres and Lanning on the other. He wondered who else was
connected with Torres’ side.
He knew now that Jack Hill was Jack Meline, and that the elder Meline
was closely associated with both Lee Yung and Baldy Kern. He wondered
what Sleepy and the Tumbling H gang were doing, and from the talk he had
heard he knew that the K-10 outfit had nothing to do with the kidnapping
of Lucy and Wanna. He was also beginning to fear that Big Medicine was
wrong in thinking that the women had been taken to this ranch.
Hashknife noted with satisfaction that everyone was drinking
considerable liquor. Given enough time, he was sure that Sleepy and the
gang would make a desperate attempt to find him. But Baldy was hardly
satisfied with Faro Lanning’s explanation of his appearance. Baldy was
just drunk enough to be suspicious.
“You must ’a’ hurried, Faro,” he observed.
“I didn’t lose much time,” agreed Faro indifferently.
“How did yuh know yuh had friends here?”
“Guessed it.”
Faro winked wisely.
“What made Big Medicine think we came here?”
“I dunno. Pass me that bottle, will yuh, Kohler? I never asked Big
Medicine ’cause I didn’t talk to him. Lon told me.”
“Uh-huh.” Baldy glowered drunkenly. “And why did you ask for Torres?”
“I--I dunno,” Faro faltered. “Mebbe Lon mentioned Torres.”
“Very likely.”
“We’re all friends together,” mumbled Kohler. “Whatsa use of quarrelin’?
Steve, my bottle is empty.”
“Just like yore head,” grumbled Baldy. “We’re in a hell of a fix, if yuh
ask me. That damned outfit knows that we came here.”
“What if they do?” Thus Horan boastingly. “We’re here first.”
“I have my men watching,” stated Gonzales easily.
“Yeah--fine. They was half-drunk when we came. Hell, a railroad train
could pass them two jiggers.”
Baldy got up from the table and went unsteadily to the door, giving
Hashknife a nasty look as he passed. The others laughed at Baldy’s
fears, while Guadalupe brought more liquor.
It was light enough for Baldy to distinguish objects at a distance, and
as he leaned against the side of the door, two riders came around the
corner of the house and drew up near the door.
One was Felipe, the half-wit, and the other was unmistakably a priest.
Baldy whirled, shut the door, and called to Guadalupe:
“Steve, who in hell sent for a priest?”
“_Diablo!_” exploded Guadalupe. “I did not expect him so soon. Quick!
Take your prisoner!”
Guadalupe ran to the corner, swung the old bunk aside, and lifted the
trap, while Baldy and Gonzales picked Hashknife up bodily and hurried
him the length of the room. His legs were bound so he could not walk,
and they lowered him swiftly to Guadalupe, after which Gonzales helped
him below.
It was only a matter of a few moments before Guadalupe and Gonzales came
back, closed the trap, and were ready when Felipe opened the door and
admitted the priest.
The priest was a small man, with a thin face, almost chalklike in color.
He halted just inside the door and surveyed the company.
“I am Father Francisco,” he announced in a monotone. “Felipe met me on
the road, so I saved him the trip to Santa Isabella. He said that you
had need of my services.”
“Welcome, Father,” said Guadalupe. “I shall have Lopez bring food and
wine at once.”
“Thank you, son,” replied the priest.
Baldy laughed aloud. It amused him to have a priest, at least twenty
years younger than Guadalupe, call him son.
“They sent for yuh, did they?” asked Baldy, addressing the priest.
“So I believe.”
“Uh-huh.”
Baldy squinted narrowly at Guadalupe, who turned toward the kitchen.
“Say, Stevie,” he said thickly, “what’s the idea of this priest comin’
here? Who sent for him?”
Guadalupe hesitated for a moment before pointing at Gonzales.
“Ask Gonzales.”
“_Buena_,” laughed Gonzales. “I can tell you. It is to marry Gonzales
that the priest comes, my friend.”
“You lie!” Torres straightened up, seemingly sober and glared at
Gonzales. “You lie, you _ladron_!”
Gonzales almost fell down in starting toward Torres, but Baldy blocked
him.
“Hang on to yourself,” advised Baldy.
“Torres you set down, before I come over there and knock yuh down.
Now”--he shook the massive Gonzales--“tell me about it. Let Torres
alone, I tell yuh!”
“She is my woman,” declared Torres. “I brought her here. That pig of a
_contrabandista_ would steal her from me.”
“Thish is gettin’ good,” declared Kohler drunkenly, while the rest of
his companions agreed that it was worth listening to.
“You brought her, eh?” grunted Baldy. “How about it, Gonzales?”
“I do not deny it. But he is not a man. This woman is fit to mate with a
man, with me!”
“Egotist!” spat Lee Yung.
“Where is this woman?” demanded Baldy. “Who is she?”
“She is the daughter of Hawkworth,” said Torres.
He did not want them to know this, but there was no way out of it.
“Hawkworth’s daughter! So you stole her, eh? You poor fool! If I was
Hawkworth I’d flay you and use yore hide for a saddle cover. But where
is she?”
“Who knows?” laughed Gonzales. “She will be here at the wedding.”
“At my wedding,” corrected Torres. “I demand that I have the right to
marry her. Didn’t I bring both of them here?”
“Both of ’em?” wondered Baldy. “F’r God’s sake, what’s the idea of
bringin’ two?”
“Her mother came also.”
Baldy threw back his head and laughed loudly.
“Well, he started in right, boys; he took mamma along. Now the question
is who will marry her? What’ll yuh do, draw straws or roll the dice? Yuh
can’t fight it out. Torres is too small.”
“A knife makes us even, _señor_,” said Torres stiffly.
“And she’d sure have a bloody bridegroom,” declared Horan. “I’ve seen
the finish of a few knife fights. Why not leave it to the padre?”
“That’s the stuff,” agreed Baldy. “You pick the winner, old priest. Look
’em over and see which one would make the best husband for a girl.”
“Not without an understanding,” said the priest. “What was meant by
saying that the girl was stolen?”
“Aw, that was a joke,” said Kohler. “Everythin’ is all right, Father
Francisco.”
“But has the girl no choice in the matter?”
“Well,” laughed Baldy, “it kinda looks like Torres was goin’ to marry
her, until along comes Gonzales and smears things. If the girl wants
Torres, she’ll have Torres, I reckon. Hey! Steve! Bring out the bride.
We’ll find out who she wants.”
Guadalupe opened the trap and went down the short flight of stairs,
while they opened more liquor and joked about the coming nuptials. The
priest looked on gravely, wondering what he should do under the
circumstances.
Lucy, the old squaw, was first up the ladder, followed closely by Wanna.
Guadalupe came up behind them, but did not close the trap. Jack Meline
started toward them, but his father drew him back.
“Oh, this is a rotten deal!” declared Jack hotly.
He was not so drunk that he did not realize what it meant.
“You keep out of it!” snapped the elder Meline. “It is none of your
affair.”
Neither of the women spoke. Lucy seemed at the verge of exhaustion, but
Wanna looked at them defiantly. Her eyes rested on Jack Meline’s face
and she gave a start.
“You here?” she said dully.
“Yes, I’m here,” he replied.
“And you keep your beak out of it,” warned Baldy.
“We don’t need yore help.”
He turned to Wanna and looked her over appraisingly.
“So yo’re Big Medicine’s girl, eh? Not such a bad looker, at that. What
we want to know is this”--indicating Gonzales and Torres, with a sweep
of his hand--“which one do yuh want?”
Wanna looked wonderingly at the two men, and shook her head.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said slowly.
“Don’tcha? Well, both of ’em want to marry yuh. Which one do yuh choose?
It don’t make a damn bit of difference to us. Pick yore man and we’ll
see that the other keeps out. The priest is ready and the goose hangs
high.”
“Neither,” said Wanna defiantly.
Baldy laughed at Gonzales and Torres.
“That’s another angle,” he chuckled. “It seems that the lady don’t care
for either of yuh. Well, I don’t blame her a damn bit.”
“We do not ask you to decide,” reminded Torres. “This marriage has
nothing to do with you, Kern.”
“Thasso?” Baldy laughed. “Keep yore shirt on, Torres. There’s goin’ to
be a marriage, and yuh can bet on that.”
“There’s several of us here,” laughed Kohler. “Why marry her off to
either one of them _colorado maduros_, when there’s good white men to be
had for the askin’?”
“Wanna”--it was Jack Meline--“will you marry me?”
His answer came in a back-handed slap from his father, and he went back
against the wall, bleeding at the mouth.
“Keep out of this, you fool!” roared Meline.
He was half-drunk, and caught at the corner of the table to keep his
balance. Jack wiped the blood from his lips, but said nothing. He had
tried to do what he considered the decent thing, as long as they
intended to force marriage upon her.
“Let’s pull off a raffle,” suggested Kohler. “The lucky man marries the
girl. How’s that for an idea?”
But before Baldy could digest the idea, one of the guards fairly fell in
through the doorway, with the other close behind.
“They come!” panted one of the guards. “Four riders.”
“How close?” demanded Gonzales anxiously.
“Not too far. It is better to get them here than to fight in the dark.
They will soon be here, because the house seems dark.”
“Big Medicine and his gang!” exploded Baldy. “We’ll trap ’em. Take the
women into the kitchen. Leave the lamp as it is. Scatter and lie down on
the floor, but keep yore guns ready. By God, we’ve got ’em, boys! Make
it fast.”