BULL MALVEY
Malvey, when not operating a machine gun for Mexican bandits, was
usually busy evading a posse on the American side of the border.
Needless to say, he knew the country well--and the country knew him
only too well. He had friends--of a kind--and he had enemies of every
description and color from the swart, black-eyed Cholas of Sonora to
the ruddy, blue-eyed Rangers of Texas. He trusted no man--and no man
who knew him trusted him--not even The Spider, though he could have
sent Malvey to the penitentiary on any one of several counts.
Malvey had no subtlety. He simply knew the game and possessed a
tremendous amount of nerve. Like most red-headed men, he rode
rough-shod and aggressively to his goal. He "bulled" his way through,
when more capable men of equal nerve failed.
Riding beside him across the southern desert, Young Pete could not help
noticing Malvey's hands--huge-knuckled and freckled--and Pete surmised
correctly that this man was not quick with a gun. Pete also noticed
that Malvey "roughed" his horse unnecessarily; that he was a good
rider, but a poor horseman. Pete wondered that desert life had not
taught Malvey to take better care of his horse.
As yet Pete knew nothing of their destination--nor did he care. It was
good to be out in the open, again with a good horse under him. The
atmosphere of The Spider's saloon had been too tense for comfort. Pete
simply wanted to vacate Showdown until such time as he might return
safely. He had no plan--but he did believe that Showdown would know
him again. He could not say why. And it was significant of Young
Pete's descent to the lower plane that he should consider Showdown safe
at any time.
Pete was in reality never more unsafe than at the present time. While
space and a swift pony between his knees argued of bodily freedom, he
felt uneasy. Perhaps because of Malvey's occasional covert glance at
Blue Smoke--for Pete saw much that he did not appear to see. Pete
became cautious forthwith, studying the lay of the land. It was a bad
country to travel, being so alike in its general aspect of butte and
arroyo, sand and cacti, that there was little to lay hold upon as a
landmark. A faint line of hills edged the far southern horizon and
there were distant hills to the east and west. They journeyed across
an immense basin, sun-smitten, desolate, unpromising.
"Just plain hell," said Malvey as though reading Pete's thought.
"You act like you was to home all right," laughed Pete.
Malvey glanced quickly at his companion, alive to an implied insult,
but he saw only a young, smooth-cheeked rider in whose dark eyes shone
neither animosity nor friendliness. They jogged on, neither speaking
for many miles. When Malvey did speak, his manner was the least bit
patronizing. He could not quite understand Pete, yet The Spider had
seemed to understand him. As Pete had said nothing about the trouble
that had driven him to the desert, Malvey considered silence on that
subject emanated from a lack of trust. He wanted to gain Pete's
confidence--for the time being at least. It would make it that much
easier to follow The Spider's instructions in regard to Pete's horse.
But to all Malvey's hints Pete was either silent or jestingly
unresponsive. As the journey thinned the possibilities of Pete's
capture, it became monotonous, even to Malvey, who set about planning
how he could steal Pete's horse with the least risk to himself. Aside
from The Spider's instructions Malvey coveted the pony--a far better
horse than his own--and he was of two minds as to whether he should not
keep the pony for his own use. The Concho was a long cry from
Showdown--while the horse Malvey rode had been stolen from a more
immediate neighborhood. As for setting this young stranger afoot in
the desert, that did not bother Malvey in the least. No posse would
ride farther south than Showdown, and with Pete afoot at Flores's
rancho, Malvey would be free to follow his own will, either to Blake's
ranch or farther south and across the border. Whether Pete returned to
Showdown or not was none of Malvey's affair. To get away with the
horse might require some scheming. Malvey made no further attempt to
draw Pete out--but rode on in silence.
They came upon the cañon suddenly, so suddenly that Pete's horse shied
and circled. Malvey, leading, put his own pony down a steep and
winding trail. Pete followed, fixing his eyes on a far green spot at
the bottom of the cañon, and the thin thread of smoke above the trees
that told of a habitation.
At a bend in the trail, Malvey turned in the saddle: "We'll bush down
here. Friends of mine."
Pete nodded.
They watered their horses at the thin trickle of water in the cañon-bed
and then rode slowly past a weirdly fenced field. Presently they came
to a rude adobe stable and scrub-cedar corral. A few yards beyond, and
hidden by the bushes, was the house. A pock-marked Mexican greeted
Malvey gruffly. The Spider's name was mentioned, and Pete was
introduced as his friend. The horses were corralled and fed.
As Pete entered the adobe, a thin, listless Mexican woman--Flores's
wife--called to some one in an inner room. Presently Flores's daughter
appeared, supple of movement and smiling. She greeted Malvey as though
he were an old friend, cast down her eyes at Pete's direct gaze, and
straightway disappeared again. From the inner room came the sound of a
song. The young stranger with Malvey was good-looking--quite worth
changing her dress for. She hoped he would think her pretty. Most men
admired her--she was really beautiful in her dark, Southern way--and
some of them had given her presents--a cheap ring, a handkerchief from
Old Mexico, a pink and, to her, wonderful brush and comb. Boca
Dulzura--or "pretty mouth" of the Flores rancho--cared for no man, but
she liked men, especially when they gave her presents.
When she came from her room, Malvey laughingly accused her of "fixing
up" because of Pete, as he teased her about her gay rebosa and her
crimson sash. She affected scorn for his talk--but was naturally
pleased. And the young stranger was staring at her, which pleased her
still more.
"This here hombre is Pete," said Malvey. "He left his other name to
home." And he laughed raucously.
Pete bowed, taking the introduction quite seriously.
Boca was piqued. This young caballero did not seem anxious to know
her--like the other men. He did not smile.
"Pete," she lisped, with a tinge of mockery in her voice. "Pete has
not learned to talk yet--he is so young?"
Malvey slapped his thigh and guffawed. Pete stood solemnly eying him
for a moment. Then he turned to the girl. "I ain't used to talkin' to
women--'specially pretty ones--like you."
Boca clapped her hands. "There! 'Bool' Malvey has never said anything
so clever as that."
"Bool" Malvey frowned. But he was hungry, and Flores's wife was
preparing supper. Despite Boca's pretty mouth and fine dark eyes,
which invited to conversation, Pete felt very much alone--very much of
a stranger in this out-of-the-way household. He thought of his chum
Andy White, and of Ma Bailey and Jim, and the boys of the Concho. He
wondered what they were doing--if they were talking about him--and
Gary. It seemed a long time since he had thrown his hat in the corner
and pulled up his chair to the Concho table. He wished that he might
talk with some one--he was thinking of Jim Bailey--and tell him just
what there had been to the shooting. But with these folks . . .
The shadows were lengthening. Already the lamp on Flores's table was
lighted, there in the kitchen where Malvey was drinking wine with the
old Mexican. Pete had forgotten Boca--almost forgotten where he was
for the moment, when something touched his arm. He turned a startled
face to the girl. She smiled and then whispered quickly, "It is that I
hate that 'Bool' Malvey. He is bad. Of what are you thinking, señor?"
Pete blinked and hesitated. "Of my folks--back there," he said.
Boca darted from him as her mother called her to help set the table.
Pete's lips were drawn in a queer line. He had no folks "back
there"--or anywhere. "It was her eyes made me feel that way," he
thought. And, "Doggone it--I'm livin'--anyhow."
From the general conversation at the table that evening Pete gathered
that queer visitors came to this place frequently. It was a kind of
isolated, halfway house between the border and Showdown. He heard the
name of "Scar-Face," "White-Eye," "Sonora Jim," "Tio Verdugo," a rare
assortment of border vagabonds known by name to the cowboys of the high
country. The Spider was frequently mentioned. It was evident that he
had some peculiar influence over the Flores household, from the
respectful manner in which his name was received by the whole family.
And Pete, unfamiliar with the goings and comings of those men, their
quarrels, friendships, and sinister escapades, ate and listened in
silence, realizing that he too had earned a tentative place among them.
He found himself listening with keen interest to Malvey's account of a
machine-gun duel between two white men,--renegades and leaders in
opposing factions below the border,--and how one of them, shot through
and through, stuck to his gun until he had swept the plaza of enemy
sharp-shooters and had then crawled on hands and knees to the other
machine gun, killed its wounded operator with a six-shooter, and turned
the machine gun on his fleeing foes, shooting until the Mexicans of his
own company had taken courage enough to return and rescue him. "And
he's in El Paso now," concluded Malvey, "at the hospital. He writ to
The Spider for money--and The Spider sure sent it to him."
"Who was he fightin' for?" queried Pete, interested in spite of himself.
"Fightin' for? For hisself! Because he likes the game. You don't
want to git the idea that any white man is down there fightin' just to
help a lot of dirty Greasers--on either side of the scrap."
A quick and significant glance shot from Boca's eyes to her mother's.
Old Flores ate stolidly. If he had heard he showed no evidence of it.
"'Bull' Malvey! A darn good name for him," thought Pete. And he felt
a strange sense of shame at being in his company. He wondered if
Flores were afraid of Malvey or simply indifferent to his raw talk.
And Pete--who had never gone out of his way to make a friend--decided
to be as careful of what he said as Malvey was careless. Pete had
never lacked nerve, but he was endowed with considerable caution--a
fact that The Spider had realized and so had considered him worth the
trouble of hiding--as an experiment.
After supper the men sat out beneath the vine-covered portal--Malvey
and Flores with a wicker-covered demijohn of wine between them--and
Pete lounging on the doorstep, smoking and gazing across the cañon at
the faint stars of an early evening. With the wine, old Flores's
manner changed from surly indifference to a superficial politeness
which in no way deceived Pete. And Malvey, whose intent was plainly to
get drunk, boasted of his doings on either side of the line. He hinted
that he had put more than one Mexican out of the way--and he slapped
Flores on the back--and Flores laughed. He spoke of raids on the
horse-herds of white men, and through some queer perversity inspired in
his drink, openly asserted that he was the "slickest hoss-thief in
Arizona," turning to Pete as he spoke.
"I'll take your word for it," said Pete.
"But what's the use of settin' out here like a couple of dam' buzzards
when the ladies are waitin' for us in there?" queried Malvey, and be
leered at Flores.
The old Mexican grunted and rose stiffly. They entered the 'dobe,
Malvey insisting that Pete come in and hear Boca sing.
"I can listen out here." Pete was beginning to hate Malvey, with the
cold, deliberate hatred born of instinct. As for old Flores, Pete
despised him heartily. A man that could hear his countrymen called "a
dirty bunch of Greasers," and have nothing to say, was a pretty poor
sort of a man.
Disgusted with Malvey's loud talk and his raw attitude toward Boca,
Pete sat in the moon-flung shadows of the portal and smoked and gazed
at the stars. He was half-asleep when he heard Boca tell Malvey that
he was a pig and the son of a pig. Malvey laughed. There came the
sound of a scuffle. Pete glanced over his shoulder. Malvey had his
arm around the girl and was trying to kiss her. Flores was watching
them, grinning in a kind of drunken indifference.
Pete hesitated. He was there on sufferance--a stranger. After all,
this was none of his business. Boca's father and mother were also
there . . .
Boca screamed. Malvey let go of her and swung round as Pete stepped
up. "What's the idee, Malvey?"
"You don't draw no cards in this deal," snarled Malvey.
"Then we shuffle and cut for a new deal," said Pete.
Malvey's loose mouth hardened as he backed toward the corner of the
room, where Boca cringed, her hands covering her face. Suddenly the
girl sprang up and caught Malvey's arm, "No! No!" she cried.
He flung her aside and reached for his gun--but Pete was too quick for
him. They crashed down and rolled across the room. Pete wriggled free
and rose. In a flash he realized that he was no match for Malvey's
brute strength. He had no desire to kill Malvey--but he did not intend
that Malvey should kill him. Pete jerked his gun loose as Malvey
staggered to his feet, but Pete dared not shoot on account of Boca. He
saw Malvey's hand touch the butt of his gun--when something crashed
down from behind. Pete dimly remembered Boca's white face--and the
room went black.
Malvey strode forward.
Old Flores dropped the neck of the shattered bottle and stood gazing
down at Pete. "The good wine is gone. I break the bottle," said
Flores, grinning.
"To hell with the wine! Let's pack this young tin-horn out where he
won't be in the way."
But as Malvey stooped, Boca flung herself in front of him. "Pig!" she
flamed. She turned furiously on her father, whose vacuous grin faded
as she cursed him shrilly for a coward.
Listless and heavy-eyed came Boca's mother. Without the slightest
trace of emotion she examined Pete's wound, fetched water and washed
it, binding it up with a handkerchief. Quite as listlessly she spoke
to her husband, telling him to leave the wine and go to bed.
Flores mumbled a protest. Malvey asked him if he let the women run the
place. Boca's mother turned to Malvey. "You will go," she said
quietly. Malvey cursed as he stepped from the room. He could face
Boca's fury, or face any man in a quarrel, but there was something in
the deathlike quietness of the sad-eyed Mexican woman that chilled his
blood. He did not know what would happen if he refused to go--yet he
knew that something would happen. It was not the first time that
Flores's wife had interfered in quarrels of the border outlaws
sojourning at the ranch. In Showdown men said that she would as soon
knife a man as not. Malvey, who had lived much in Old Mexico, had seen
women use the knife.
He went without a word. Boca heard him speak sharply to his horse, as
she and her mother lifted Pete and carried him to the bedroom.