A GAMBLE
On either side of a faint trail rose the dreary, angling grotesques of
the cactus, and the dried and dead stalks of the soapweed. Beyond, to
the south, lay a sea of shimmering space, clear to the light blue that
edged the sky-line. The afternoon sun showed copper-red through a
faint haze which bespoke a change of weather. The miles between the
Olla and that tiny dot on the horizon--the Ortez hacienda--seemed
endless, because of no pronounced landmarks. Pete surmised that it
would be dark long before they reached their destination. Incidentally
he was amazed by the speed of the thoroughbreds, who ran so easily, yet
with a long, reaching stride that ate into the miles. To Pete they
seemed more like excellent machines than horses--lacking the pert
individuality of the cow-pony. Stall-fed and groomed to a satin-smooth
glow, stabled and protected from the rains--pets, in Pete's
estimation--yet he knew that they would run until they dropped, holding
that long, even stride to the very end. He reached out and patted his
horse on the neck. Instantly the sensitive ears twitched and the
stride lengthened. Pete tightened rein gently. "A quirt would only
make him crazy," he thought; and he grinned as he saw that Brevoort's
horse had let out a link or two to catch up with its mate.
The low sun, touching the rim of the desert, flung long crimson shafts
heavenward--in hues of rose and amethyst, against the deep umber and
the purple of far spaces. From monotonous and burning desolation the
desert had become a vast momentary solitude of changing beauty and
enchantment. Then all at once the colors vanished, space shrank, and
occasional stars trembled in the velvet roof of the night. And one
star, brighter than the rest, grew gradually larger, until it became a
solitary camp-fire on the level of the plain.
"Don't like the looks of that," said Brevoort, as he pulled up his
horse. "It's out in front of the 'dobe--and it means the Ortez has got
company."
"Soldiers?"
"Looks like it."
"Arguilla's men?"
"I reckon so. And they're up pretty clost to the line--too clost to
suit me. We'll ride round and do our talkin' with Ortez."
"Ain't they friendly?" queried Pete.
"Friendly, hell! Any one of 'em would knife you for the hoss you're
ridin'! Hear 'em sing! Most like they're all drunk--and you know what
that means. Just follow along slow; and whatever you run into don't
get off your hoss."
"Ain't them there coyotes friendly to Ortez?"
"S' long as he feeds 'em. But that don't do us no good. Ought to be
some of the Ortez riders hangin' round somewhere. They don't mix much
with Arguilla's men."
"She's a lovely lay-out," said Pete. "But I'm with you."
Circling the ranch, Brevoort and Pete rode far out into the desert,
until the camp-fire was hidden by the ranch-buildings. Then they
angled in cautiously, edging past the 'dobe outbuildings and the
corrals toward the hacienda. "Don't see anybody around. Guess they
're all out in front drinkin' with the bunch," whispered Brevoort.
Just as Pete was about to make a suggestion, a figure rose almost
beneath the horse's head, and a guttural Mexican voice told him to
halt. Pete complied, telling the Mexican that they were from the Olla,
that they had a message for Ortez.
"No use arguin'," said Brevoort--and Pete caught Brevoort's meaning as
another man appeared.
"Ask him if Arguilla is here," said Brevoort. And Pete knew that these
were Arguilla's men, for none of the Ortez vaquero's carried
bolt-action rifles.
The sentry replied to Pete's question by poking him in the ribs with
the muzzle of his rifle, and telling his to get down muy pronto.
"Tell him our message is for Arguilla--not Ortez," suggested Brevoort.
"There's something wrong here. No use startin' anything," he added
hastily, as he dismounted. "Ortez is agent for Arguilla's outfit. If
you get a chance, watch what they do with our horses."
"We came to see El Comandante," said Pete as the sentries marched them
to the house. "We're his friends--and you'll be coyote-meat before
mornin' if you git too careless with that gun."
The sentry grunted and poked Pete in the back with his rifle, informing
him in that terse universal idiom that he could "tell it to El
Comandante."
From the outer darkness to the glare of the light in the 'dobe was a
blinding transition. Pete and Brevoort blinked at the three figures in
the main room: Arguilla, who sat at the long table, his heavy features
glistening with sweat, his broad face flushed to a dull red, had his
hand on a bottle of American whiskey, from which he had just filled his
glass. Near him sat the owner of the rancho, Ortez, a man much older,
bearded and lean, with face lined and interlined by weather and age.
At the closed door stood a sentry. From without came raucous laughter
and the singing of the soldiers. The sentry nearest Pete told Arguilla
that the Gringoes had been caught sneaking in at the back of the
hacienda.
Pete briskly corrected this statement. "We're from the Olla--about the
cattle--for your army," added Pete, no whit abashed as he proffered
this bit of flattery.
"Si! You would talk with the patron then?"--and Arguilla gestured
toward Ortez.
"We got orders from Brent--he's our boss---to make our talk to you,"
said Pete, glancing quickly at Brevoort.
"How did you know that I was here with my army?" queried Arguilla.
"Shucks! That's easy. It's in all the papers," asserted Pete, rather
proud of himself, despite the hazard of the situation.
Arguilla's chest swelled noticeably. He rose and strutted up and down
the room, as though pondering a grave and weighty question. Presently
he turned to Ortez. "You have heard, señor?"
Ortez nodded. And in that nod Brevoort read the whole story. Ortez
was virtually a prisoner on his own ranch. The noble captain of
Liberty had been known to use his best friends in this way.
"When will the cattle arrive at the Olla?" asked Arguilla, seating
himself.
"To-morrow, Señor Comandante. That is the word from Sam Brent."
"And you have come for the money, then?"
Pete barely hesitated. "No. Brent said there ain't no hurry about
that. He said you could figure on two hundred head"--Pete recalled
Harper's statement--"and that you would send your agent over to the
Olla with the cash."
Arguilla glanced at Ortez. "You have heard, señor?"
Ortez nodded dejectedly. He had heard, but he dare not speak. As the
trusted agent of the financiers backing Arguilla, he had but recently
been given the money for the purchase of these supplies, and almost on
the heels of the messenger bearing the money had come Arguilla, who at
once put Ortez under arrest, conveyed the money to his own coffers, and
told the helpless Ortez that he could settle with the Gringo Brent
according to the understanding between them.
Brevoort, silently eying Arguilla, saw through the scheme. Arguilla
had determined to have both the money and the cattle. This explained
his unwonted presence at the Ortez hacienda.
Arguilla took a stiff drink of whiskey, wiped his mustache and turned
to Brevoort. "You have heard?" he said.
Brevoort knew enough Mexican to understand the question. "We'll tell
Brent that everything is all right," he said easily. "But he's a dam'
liar," he added in an undertone to Pete. Brevoort had made the mistake
of assuming that because he did not understand Mexican, Arguilla did
not understand English. Arguilla did not hear all that Brevoort said,
but he caught the one significant word. His broad face darkened.
These Gringoes knew too much! He would hold them until the cattle had
been delivered--and then they could join his army--or be shot. A mere
detail, in either event.
"Put these men under arrest!" he commanded the sentries. "If they
escape--you are dead men."
"What's the idee--" began Pete, but the noble captain waved his hand,
dismissing all argument, along with the sentries, who marched their
prisoners to the stable and told them plainly that they had much rather
shoot them than be bothered with watching them; a hint that Pete
translated for Brevoort's benefit.
One of the sentries lighted a dusty lantern and, placing it on the
floor of a box stall, relieved his captives of their belts and guns.
The sentries squatted at the open end of the stall and talked together
while Brevoort and Pete sat each in a corner staring at the lantern.
Presently Brevoort raised his head. "Find out if either of 'em sabe
American talk," he whispered.
"You sabe my talk?" queried Pete.
One of the sentries turned to stare at Pete. The Mexican shook his
head.
"You're a liar by the watch--and your father was a pig and the son of a
pig, wasn't he?" asked Pete, smiling pleasantly.
"Si!" said the Mexican, grinning as though Pete had made a friendly
joke.
"And the other fella there, with ears like the barndoor in a wind, he's
jest nacherally a horn-toad that likes whiskey and would jest as soon
knife his mother as he would eat a rattlesnake for supper, eh?" And
Pete smiled engagingly.
"Si. It is to laugh."
"You sabe whiskey?"
The Mexican shook his head.
"You sabe dam' fool?" Pete's manner was serious as though seeking
information.
Again the Mexican shook his head.
"He sure don't," said Pete, turning to Brevoort--"or he'd 'a' jest
nacherally plugged me. If a Chola don't know what whiskey or dam' fool
means, he don't know American."
Meanwhile the two guards had turned to the natural expedient of
gambling for Pete's belt and gun. The elaborately carved holster had
taken their fancy. Pete and his companion watched them for a while.
Presently Pete attracted Brevoort's attention by moving a finger.
"Hear anything?" he whispered.
"I hear 'em eatin'," said Brevoort. He was afraid to use the word
"horses."
Pete nodded. "Speakin' of eatin'--you hungry, Ed?"
"Plumb empty. But I didn't know it till you asked me."
"Well, I been feelin' round in the hay--and right in my corner is a
nest full of eggs. There's so doggone many I figure that some of 'em
is gettin' kind of ripe. Did you ever git hit in the eye with a ripe
egg?"
"Not that I recollect'."
"Well, you would--if you had. Now I don't know what that swelled up
gent in there figures on doin' with us. And I don't aim to hang around
to find out. These here Cholas is gamblin' for our hosses, right now.
It kind of looks to me like if we stayed round here much longer we
ain't goin' to need any hosses or anything else. I worked for a
Mexican onct--and I sabe 'em. You got to kind of feel what they mean,
and never mind what they are sayin'. Now I got a hunch that we don't
get back to the Olla, never--'less we start right now."
"But how in--"
"Wait a minute. I'm goin' to dig round like I was goin' to take a
sleep--and find these here eggs. Then I'm goin' to count 'em nacheral,
and pile 'em handy to you. Then we rig up a deal like we was gamblin'
for 'em, to kind of pass the time. If that don't git them two coyotes
interested, why, nothin' will. Next to gamblin' a Chola likes to
_watch_ gamblin' better 'n 'most anything. When you git to win all my
eggs, I make a holler like I'm mad. You been cheatin'. And if them
two Cholas ain't settin' with their mouths open and lookin' at us, why,
I don't know Cholas. They're listenin' right now--but they don't sabe.
Go ahead and talk like you was askin' me somethin'."
"What's your game after we start beefin' about the eggs?"
"You pick up a couple--and I pick up a couple. First you want to move
round so you kin swing your arm. When I call you a doggone bald-face
short-horn, jest let your Chola have the eggs plumb in his eye. If
they bust like I figure, we got a chanct to jump 'em--but we got to
move quick. They's a old single-tree layin' right clost to your elbow,
kind of half under the hay. Mebby it'll come handy. I figure to kick
my friend in the face when I jump. Do I find them eggs?"
"Dig for 'em," drawled the Texan.
"If we miss the first jump, then they shoot, and that'll be our finish.
But that's a heap better 'n gittin' stood up against a 'dobe wall. I
jest found them eggs."
And Pete uttered an exclamation as he drew his hand from the straw
behind him, and produced an egg. The Mexicans glanced up. Pete dug in
the straw and fetched up another egg--and another. Brevoort leaned
forward as though deeply interested in some sleight-of-hand trick. Egg
after egg came from the abandoned nest. The Mexicans laughed. The
supply of eggs seemed to be endless.
Finally Pete drew out his hand, empty. "Let's count 'em," he said, and
straightway began, placing the eggs in a pile midway between himself
and his companion. "Twenty-eight. She was a enterprisin' hen."
"I'll match for 'em," said Brevoort, hitching round and facing Pete.
"I'll go you!" And straightway Brevoort and Pete became absorbed in
the game, seemingly oblivious to the Mexicans, who sat watching, with
open mouths, utterly absorbed in their childish interest. Two Gringoes
were gambling for bad eggs.
Pete won for a while. Then he began to lose. "They're ripe all right.
I can tell by the color. Plumb ready to bust. The Cholas sabe that.
Watch 'em grin. They 're waitin' for one of us to bust a egg. That'll
be a big joke, and they'll 'most die a-laughin'--'cause it's a
joke--and 'cause we're Gringoes."
"Then here's where I bust one," said Brevoort. "Get a couple in your
hand. Act like you was chokin' to death. I'll laugh. Then I'll kind
of get the smell of that lame egg and stand up quick. Ready?"
"Shoot," said Pete.
Brevoort tossed an egg on the pile. Several of the eggs broke with a
faint "plop." Pete wrinkled his nose, and his face expressed such
utter astonishment, disgust, even horror, as the full significance of
the age of those eggs ascended to him, that he did not need to act his
part. He got to his feet and backed away from those eggs, even as
Brevoort rose slowly, as though just aware that the eggs were not
altogether innocent. The two Mexicans had risen to their knees and
rocked back and forth, laughing at the beautiful joke on the Gringoes.
Plop!--Plop!--Plop! and three of the four eggs targeted an accurate
twelve o'clock. Pete leaped and kicked viciously. His high heel
caught one choking Mexican in the jaw just as Brevoort jumped and swung
the single-tree. Pete grabbed up his belt and gun.
Brevoort had no need to strike again.
"You go see if the horses are saddled. I'll watch the door," said
Brevoort.
Arguilla was awakened from a heavy sleep by the sound of a shot and the
shrill yelp of one of his men. A soldier entered and saluted. "The
Americans have gone," he reported.
Arguilla's bloated face went from red to purple, and he reached for his
gun which lay on the chair near his bed. But the lieutenant who had
reported the escape faced his chief fearlessly.
Arguilla hesitated. "Who guarded them?" he asked hoarsely.
The lieutenant named the men.
"Take them out and shoot them--at once."
"But, Señor Comandante, they may not stand. The Americans have beaten
them so that they are as dead."
"Then shoot them where they lay--which will be easier to do."