EL PASO
As the tail-lights of the train disappeared, Pete and Brevoort rose and
walked down the track several hundred yards. Pete was certain that
they had retraced too far, but Brevoort assured him that he knew about
where to look for the saddle-bags. "I noticed that we passed a pile of
new ties, jest after you dropped 'em," said the Texan.
Pete insisted that they had come too far until they almost walked into
the ties. They searched about in the darkness, feeling along the
ground with their feet, until finally Brevoort stumbled over the
saddle-bags at the bottom of the ditch along the right-of-way. He
picked them up. Pete was still rummaging around as Brevoort
straightened. For an instant the Texan was tempted to keep up the
pretense of searching and so drift farther from Pete, until under cover
of darkness he could decamp with the money--across the border and make
a fresh start with it--as he told himself, "something to start on."
But suddenly, and most absurdly alien to his present mood, came the
vivid recollection of Pete's face when he had smelled those
unforgettable eggs in the box-stall of the Ortez stables. Why this
should have changed Brevoort's hasty inclination is explainable,
perhaps, through that strange transition from the serious to the
humorous; that quick relief from nervous tension that allows a man to
readjust himself toward the universe. Brevoort cursed softly to
himself as he strode to Pete. "Here they are. Found them back there a
piece. Now we got to foot it acrost this end of the town and drift
wide of the white-lights. Down to the south end we kin get somethin'
to eat, and some new clothes. Them Jew stores is open late."
Following the river road they skirted the town until opposite the
Mexican quarter, where, Brevoort explained, they would be comparatively
safe, so long as they attended to their own business.
Pete was amazed by the lights and the clamor--a stringed orchestra
playing in this open front, and a hot-dog vender declaiming in this
open front; a moving-picture entrance brilliantly illuminated, and a
constant movement of folk up and down the streets in free-and-easy
fashion, and he almost forgot the cumulative hazards of their
companionship in experiencing his first plunge into city life.
Brevoort, who knew the town, made for a Mexican lodging-house, where
they took a room above the noisy saloon, washed, and after downing a
drink of vile whiskey, crossed the street to a dingy restaurant. Later
they purchased some inconspicuous "town-clothes" which they carried
back to their room.
Pete was for staying right where they were until morning, but Brevoort,
naturally restless, suggested that they go to a moving-picture theater.
They changed their clothes. Pete felt decidedly uncomfortable in the
coat, and was only persuaded to wear it when Brevoort pointed out that
it was a case of either leave their guns in the room or wear something
to cover them. Then came the question of what they were to do with the
money. Pete was for taking it along with them, but Brevoort vetoed the
suggestion. "It's as safe here as in a bank," he said, and taking the
two sacks from the saddle-pockets he lowered each one gently into the
big water-pitcher. "Nothin' in there but water, which don't interest a
Chola nohow. But I'll cinch it." Which he did downstairs, as he drew
a handful of gold pieces from his pocket, counted them carefully, and
left something like fifty dollars with the proprietor, asking him to
take care of the money for them, as they did not want to get "plumb
broke" the first night in town. The Mexican grinned understandingly.
He was familiar with the ways of cowboys. Their money would be safe
with him.
Outside Pete asked Brevoort if he had not "jest about made a present of
fifty to that Mex."
"Not any. He figures he'll get his share of it when we git to hittin'
the high-spots--which we don't aim to hit, this journey. That Mexican
sure thinks he's got all the money we own except what's on us right
now. So he won't ever think of goin' through our stuff upstairs. That
fifty was insurance on the big money. Let's go where we kin git a real
drink--and then we'll have a look at a show."
The "real drink" was followed by another. When Brevoort suggested a
third, Pete shook his head. "It's all right, if you want to hit it,
Ed--but it's takin' a big chanct. Somethin' might slip. 'T ain't the
drinkin'--but it's the drinkin' right now."
"Reckon you 're right," concurred Brevoort. "But I ain't had a drink
for so long--let's go see that show."
They crowded into a cheap and odoriferous nickel theater, and
straightway Pete forgot where he was and all about who he was in
watching the amazing offerings of the screen. The comedy feature
puzzled him. He thought that he was expected to laugh--folks all round
him were laughing--but the unreality of the performance left him
staring curiously at the final tangle of a comedy which struggled to be
funny to the bitter end. His attention was keen for the next picture,
a Western drama, entitled "The Battle of the Border," which ran swiftly
to lurid climax after climax, until even Pete's unsophisticated mind
doubted that any hero could have the astounding ability to get out of
tight places as did the cowboy hero of this picture. This sprightly
adventurer had just killed a carload of Mexicans, leaped from the roof
of an adobe to his horse, and made off into the hills--they were real
hills of the desert country, sure enough--as buoyantly as though he had
just received his pay-check and was in great haste to spend it, never
once glancing back, and putting his horse up grades at a pace that
would have made an old-timer ashamed of himself had he to ride sixty
miles to the next ranch before sundown--as the lead on the picture
stated. Still, Pete liked that picture. He knew that kind of
country--when suddenly he became aware of the tightly packed room, the
foul air laden with the fumes of humanity, stale whiskey, and tobacco,
the shuffling of feet as people rose and stumbled through the darkness
toward the street. Pete thought that was the end of the show, but as
Brevoort made no move to go, he fixed his attention on the screen
again. Immediately another scene jumped into the flickering square.
Pete stiffened. Before him spread a wide cañon. A tiny rider was
coming down the trail from the rim. At the bottom was a Mexican 'dobe,
a ramshackle stable and corral. And there hung the Olla beneath an
acacia. A saddle lay near the corral bars. Several horses moved about
lazily . . . The hero of the recent gun-fight was riding into the yard
. . . Some one was coming from the 'dobe. Pete almost gasped as a
Mexican girl, young, lithe, and smiling, stepped into the foreground
and held out her hands as the hero swung from his horse. The girl was
taller and more slender than Boca--yet in the close-up which followed,
while her lover told her of the tribulations he had recently
experienced, the girl's face was the face of Boca--the same sweetly
curved and smiling mouth, the large dark eyes, even the manner in which
her hair was arranged . . .
Pete nudged Brevoort. "I reckon we better drift," he whispered.
"How's that, Pete?"
"The girl there in the picture. Mebby you think I'm loco, but there's
somethin' always happens every time I see her."
"You got a hunch, eh?"
"I sure got one."
"Then we play it." And Brevoort rose. They blinked their way to the
entrance, pushed through the crowd at the doorway, and started toward
their room. "I didn't want to say anything in there," Brevoort
explained. "You can't tell who's sittin' behind you. But what was you
gettin' at, anyhow?"
"You recollect my tellin' you about that trouble at Showdown? And the
girl was my friend? Well, I never said nothin' to you about it, but I
git to thinkin' of her and I can kind of see her face like she was
tryin' to tell me somethin', every doggone time somethin's goin' to go
wrong. First off, I said to myself I was loco and it only happened
that way. But the second time--which was when we rode to the Ortez
ranch--I seen her again. Then when we was driftin' along by that
cactus over to Sanborn I come right clost to tellin' you that I seen
her--not like I kin see you, but kind of inside--and I knowed that
somethin' was a-comin' wrong. Then, first thing I know--and I sure
wasn't thinkin' of her nohow--there is her face in that picture. I
tell you, Ed, figuring out your trail is all right, and sure wise--but
I'm gettin' so I feel like playin' a hunch every time."
"Well, a drink will fix you up. Then we'll mosey over to the room.
Our stuff'll be there all right."
"'T ain't the money I'm thinkin' about. It's you and me."
"Forget it!" Brevoort slapped Pete on the shoulder. "Come on in here
and have something."
"I'll go you one more--and then I quit," said Pete. For Pete began to
realize that Brevoort's manner was slowly changing. Outwardly he was
the same slow-speaking Texan, but his voice had taken on a curious
inflection of recklessness which Pete attributed to the few but
generous drinks of whiskey the Texan had taken. And Pete knew what
whiskey could do to a man. He had learned enough about that when with
the horse-trader. Moreover, Pete considered it a sort of weakness--to
indulge in liquor when either in danger or about to face it. He had no
moral scruples whatever. He simply viewed it from a utilitarian angle.
A man with the fine edge of his wits benumbed by whiskey was apt to
blunder. And Pete knew only to well that they would have need for all
of their wits and caution to get safely out of El Paso. And to blunder
now meant perhaps a fight with the police--for Pete knew that Brevoort
would never suffer arrest without making a fight--imprisonment, and
perhaps hanging. He knew little of Brevoort's past record, but he knew
that his own would bulk big against him. Brevoort had taken another
drink after they had tacitly agreed to quit. Brevoort was the older
man, and Pete had rather relied on his judgment. Now he felt that
Brevoort's companionship would eventually become a menace to their
safety.
"Let's get back to the room, Ed," he suggested as they came out of the
saloon.
"Hell, we ain't seen one end of the town yet."
"I'm goin' back," declared Pete.
"Got another hunch?"--and Brevoort laughed.
"Nope. I'm jest figurin' this cold. A good gambler don't drink when
be's playin'. And we're sure gamblin'--big."
"Reckon you're right, pardner. Well, we ain't far from our blankets.
Come on."
The proprietor of the rooming-house was surprised to see them return so
soon and so unauspiciously. He counted out Brevoort's money and gave
it back to him.
"Which calls for a round before we hit the hay," said Brevoort.
The room upstairs was hot and stuffy. Brevoort raised the window,
rolled a cigarette and smoked, gazing down on the street, which had
become noisier toward midnight. Pete emptied the pitcher and stowed
the wet sacks of gold in his saddle-pockets.
"Told you everything was all right," said Brevoort, turning to watch
Pete as he placed the saddlebags at the head of the bed.
"All right, so far," concurred Pete.
"Say, pardner, you losin' your nerve? You act so dam' serious. Hell,
we ain't dead yet!"
"No, I ain't losin' my nerve. But I'm tellin' you I been plumb scared
ever since I seen that picture. I don't feel right, Ed."
"I ain't feelin' so happy myself," muttered Brevoort, turning toward
the window.
Pete, sitting on the edge of the bed, noticed that Brevoort's face was
tense and unnatural. Presently Brevoort tossed his cigarette out of
the window and turned to Pete. "I been thinkin' it out," he began
slowly. "That hunch of yours kind of got me goin'. The best thing we
kin do is to get out of this town quick. We got to split--no way round
that. We're all right so far, but by to-morrow they'll be watchin'
every train and every hotel, and doggin' every stranger to see what
he's doin'. What you want to do is to take them sacks, wrap 'em up in
paper, put ole E. H. Hodges's name on it--he's president of the
Stockmen's Security Bank here, and a ole pal of The Spider's--and pack
it over to the express company and git a receipt. _They'll_ sure git
that money to the bank. And then you want to fan it. If you jest was
to walk out of town, no'th, you could catch a train for Alamogordo,
mebby, and then git a hoss and work over toward the Organ Range, which
is sure open country--and cattle. You can't go back the way we
come--and they'll be watchin' the border south."
"Where is that express outfit, anyhow?"
"You know that street where we seen the show? Well, if you keep right
on you'll come to the Square and the express company is right on the
corner."
"All right, Ed. But what you goin' to do?"
"I'm goin' to git a soogun to-morrow mornin', roll my stuff and head
for the border, afoot. I'm a ranch-hand lookin' for work. I know
where I kin get acrost the river. Then I aim to hit for the dry spot,
bush out, and cross the line where they won't be lookin' for a man
afoot, nohow."
"Why don't you git to movin' right now?" Brevoort smiled curiously.
"They's two reasons, pardner; one is that I don't want to git stood up
by a somebody wantin' to know where I'm goin' at night with my
war-bag--and I sure aim to take my chaps and boots and spurs and stuff
along, for I'm like to need 'em. Then you ain't out of town yet."
"Which is why you're stickin' around."
"If we only had a couple of hosses, Pete. It's sure hell bein' afoot,
ain't it?"
"It sure is. Say, Ed, we got to split, anyhow. Why don't you git to
goin'? It ain't like you was quittin' me cold."
"You're a mighty white kid, Pete. And I'm goin' to tell you right now
that you got a heap more sense and nerve than me, at any turn of the
game. You been goin' round to-night on cold nerve and I been travelin'
on whiskey. And I come so clost to gittin' drunk that I ain't sure I
ain't yet. It was liquor first started me ridin' the high trail."
Brevoort had seated himself on the bed beside Pete. As the big Texan
rolled a cigarette, Pete saw that his hands trembled. For the first
time that evening Pete noticed that his companion was under a high
tension. He could hardly believe that Brevoort's nerve was really
shaken.
The street below had grown quieter. From below came the sound of a
door being closed. Brevoort started, cursed, and glanced at Pete.
"Closin' up for the night," he said. Pete quickly shifted his gaze to
the open window. He did not want Brevoort to know that he had noticed
the start, or those hands that trembled.
They rose early, had breakfast at the restaurant across the street, and
returned to the room, Brevoort with a sogun in which he rolled and
corded his effects and Pete with some brown paper in which he wrapped
the sacks of gold. Brevoort borrowed a pencil from the proprietor and
addressed the package.
"But how's the bank goin' to know who it's from?" queried Pete,
"That's right. I'll put The Spider's name here in the corner. Say, do
you know we're takin' a whole lot of trouble for a man that wouldn't
lift a hand to keep us from bein' sent up?" And Brevoort weighed the
package thoughtfully. "By rights we ought to hang onto this dough. We
earned it."
"I sure don't want any of it, Ed. I'm through with this game."
"I reckon you're right. Well, next off, you git it to that express
office. I'll wait till you git back."
"What's the use of my comin' back, anyhow?" queried Pete. "We paid for
our room last night."
"Ain't you goin' to take your stuff along? You can pack it same as
mine. Then when you git to a ranch you are hooked up to ride."
"Guess you're right, Ed. Well, so-long."
"See you later."
Brevoort, who seemed to have recovered his nerve, added, "I aim to
light out jest as quick as you git back."
Pete was so intent on his errand that he did not see Conductor Stokes,
who stood in the doorway of the El Paso House, talking to a man who had
a rowdy rolled under his arm, wore overalls, and carried a dinner-pail.
The conductor glanced sharply at Pete as he passed, then turned
abruptly, and stepped to a man who stood talking to the clerk at the
desk.
"I jest saw one of 'em," said the conductor. "I never forget a face.
He was rigged out in town-clothes--but it was him--all right."
"You sure, Len?"
"Pretty darned sure."
"Well, we can find out. You set down over there in the window and be
reading a paper. I'll go out and follow him. If he comes back this
way, you take a good look at him and give me the high sign if it's one
of 'em. And if it is, he'll be connectin' up with the other one,
sooner or later. I'll jest keep my eye on him, anyway. You say he had
on a dark suit and is dark-complexioned and young?"
"Yes--that one. The other was bigger and taller and had light hair and
gray eyes. Both of 'em were in their range clothes on number three."
"All right." And the plain-clothes man hastened out and up the street
until he had "spotted" Pete, just entering the doorway of the express
office.
Pete came out presently, glanced about casually, and started back for
the room. Half a block behind him followed the plain-clothes man, who
glanced in as he passed the hotel. The conductor nodded. The
plain-clothes man hastened on down the street. He saw Pete turn a
corner several blocks south. When the detective arrived at the corner
Pete was just entering the door of the little clothing-store next to
the restaurant. Presently Pete came out and crossed to the saloon.
The detective sauntered down the opposite walk and entering the
restaurant telephoned to headquarters. Then he called for coffee and
sat watching the saloon across the way.
Brevoort, who had been sitting on the bed gazing down at the street,
saw Pete turn the corner and enter the store. He also saw the
plain-clothes man enter the restaurant and thought nothing of it until
presently he saw another man enter the place. These two were talking
together at the table near the front window. Brevoort grew suspicious.
The latest arrival had not ordered anything to eat, nor had he greeted
the other as men do when they meet. And they did not seem quite the
type of men to dine in such a place. Pete, cording his belongings in
the new sogun, heard Brevoort muttering something, and turned his head.
"I'm watchin' a couple of fellas acrost the street," explained
Brevoort. "Keep back out of sight a minute."
Pete, on his knees, watched Brevoort's face. "Anything wrong, Ed?" he
queried presently.
"I dunno. Jest step round behind me. Kin you see that eatin'-place?"
"Yes."
"Did you see either of them guys when you was out on the street?"
"Why, no. Hold on a minute! That one with the gray clothes was
standin' on the corner by the express office when I come out. I
recollec' now. He was smokin' a cigar."
"Yes. And he thrun it away when he went in there. I seen him at the
telephone there on the desk--and pretty soon along comes his friend.
Looks kind of queer that he was up at the Square when you was, and then
trails down here where we be."
"You think mebby--"
"I dunno. If it is we better drift out at the back afore any of 'em
gits round there."
"And leave our stuff, eh?"
"Yes. We got to move quick. They 're sizin' up this buildin' right
now. Don't show yourself. Wait! One of 'em is comin' out and he's
headed over here."
Brevoort drew back, and stepping to the door opened it and strode
swiftly down the dim hall to a window at its farther end. Below the
window was a shed, and beyond the farther edge of the shed-roof was an
alley. He hastened back to the room and closed and locked the door.
"You loco?" he growled. Pete had drawn a chair to the window and was
sitting there, looking out as casually as though there was no danger
whatever.
"I thought you made your get-away," said Pete, turning. "I was jest
keepin' that hombre interested in watchin' me. Thought if he seen
somebody here he wouldn't make no quick move to follow you."
"So you figured I quit you, eh? And you go and set in that winda so
they'd think we was in the room here? And you done it to give me a
chanct? Well, you got me wrong. I stick."
"Then I reckon somebody's goin' to git hurt," said Pete, "for I'm goin'
to stick too."
Brevoort shook his head. "The first guy most like come over to ask the
boss who's up here in this room. The boss tells him about us. Now,
them coyotes sure would like it a heap better to git us out on the
street--from behind--than to run up against us holed up here, for they
figure somebody'll git hurt. Now you slip down that hall, easy, and
drop onto the shed under the winda and fan it down the alley back
there. You got a chanct. I sized up the layout."
"Nothin' doin'. Why don't you try it yourself?"
"'Cause they'll git one of us, anyhow, and it'll be the fella that
stays."
"Then I'll flip a dollar to see which stays," said Pete.
Before Brevoort could speak, Pete drew a dollar from his pocket and
flipped it toward his companion. It fell between them. "I say heads,"
said Pete. And he glanced at the coin, which showed tails. "The
dollar says you go, Ed. You want to git a-movin'!"
Brevoort hesitated; Pete rose and urged him toward the door. "So-long,
Ed. If you'd 'a' stayed we'd both got shot up. I'll set in the winda
so they'll think we 're both here."
"I'll try her," said Brevoort. "But I'd 'a' stayed--only I knowed you
wouldn't go. So-long, pardner." He pulled his gun and softly unlocked
the door. There was no one in the hall--and no one on the narrow
stairway to the right. He tiptoed to the window, climbed out, and let
himself down to the shed-roof. From the roof he dropped to the alley,
glanced round, and then ran.
Pete locked the door and went back to his chair in front of the window.
He watched the man in the restaurant, who had risen and waved his hand,
evidently acknowledging a signal from some one. It was the man Pete
had seen near the express office--there was no doubt about that. Pete
noticed that he was broad of shoulder, stocky, and wore a heavy gold
watch-chain. He disappeared within the doorway below. Presently Pete
heard some one coming up the uncarpeted stairway--some one who walked
with the tread of a heavy person endeavoring to go silently. A brief
interval in which Pete could hear his own heart thumping, and some one
else ascended the stairway. The boards in the hallway creaked. Some
one rapped on the door.
"I guess this is the finish," said Pete to himself. Had he been
apprehended in the open, in a crowd on the street, he would not have
made a fight. He had told himself that. But to be run to earth this
way--trapped in a mean and squalid room, away from the sunlight and no
slightest chance to get away . . . He surmised that these men knew
that the men that they hunted would not hesitate to kill. Evidently
they did not know that Brevoort was gone. How could he hold them that
Brevoort might have more time? He hesitated. Should he speak, or keep
silent?
He thought it better to answer the summons. "What do you want?" he
called.
"We want to talk to your partner," said a voice.
"He's sleepin'," called Pete. "He was out 'most all night."
"Well, we'll talk with you then."
"Go ahead. I'm listenin'."
"Suppose you open the door."
"And jest suppose I don't? My pardner ain't like to be friendly if
he's woke up sudden."
Pete could hear the murmuring of voices as if in consultation. Then,
"All right. We'll come back later."
"Who'll I say wants to see him?" asked Pete.
"He'll know when he sees us. Old friends of his."
Meanwhile Pete had risen and moved softly toward the door. Standing to
one side he listened. He heard footsteps along the hall--and the sound
of some one descending the stairs. "One of 'em has gone down. The
other is in the hall waitin'," he thought. "And both of 'em scared to
bust in that door."
He tiptoed back to the window and glanced down. The heavy-shouldered
man had crossed the street and was again in the restaurant. Pete saw
him step to the telephone. Surmising that the other was telephoning
for reinforcements, Pete knew that he would have to act quickly, or
surrender. He was not afraid to risk being killed in a running fight.
He was willing to take that chance. But the thought of imprisonment
appalled him. To be shut from the sun and the space of the
range--perhaps for life--or to be sentenced to be hanged, powerless to
make any kind of a fight, without friends or money . . . He thought of
The Spider, of Boca, of Montoya, and of Pop Annersley; of Andy White
and Bailey. He wondered if Ed Brevoort had got clear of El Paso. He
knew that there was some one in the hall, waiting. To make a break for
liberty in that direction meant a killing, especially as Brevoort was
supposed to be in the room. "I'll keep 'em guessin'," he told himself,
and went back to his chair by the window. And if there was supposed to
be another man in the room, why not carry on the play--for the benefit
of the watcher across the street? Every minute would count for or
against Brevoort's escape.
Thrusting aside all thought of his own precarious situation, Pete began
a brisk conversation with his supposed companion. "How does your head
feel?" he queried, leaning forward and addressing the empty bed. He
nodded as if concurring in the answer.
Then, "Uh-huh! Well, you look it, all right!"
"You don't want no breakfast? Well, I done had mine."
....................
"What's the time? 'Bout ten. Goin' to git up?"
....................
Pete gestured as he described an imaginative incident relative to his
supposed companion's behavior the preceding night. "Some folks been
here askin' for you." Pete shook his head as though he had been asked
who the callers were. He had turned sideways to the open window to
carry on this pantomimic dialogue. He glanced at the restaurant across
the street. The heavy-shouldered man had disappeared. Pete heard a
faint shuffling sound in the hall outside. Before he could turn the
door crashed inward. He leapt to his feet. With the leap his hand
flashed to his side. Unaccustomed to a coat, his thumb caught in the
pocket just as the man who had shouldered the flimsy door down, reeled
and sprawled on the floor. Pete jerked his hand free, but in that lost
instant a gun roared in the doorway. He crumpled to the floor. The
heavy-shouldered man, followed by two officers, stepped into the room
and glanced about.
"Thought there was two? Where's the other guy?" queried the policeman.
The man on the floor rose and picked up his gun.
"Well, we got one, anyhow. Bill, 'phone the chief that one of 'em got
away. Have 'em send the wagon. This kid here is done for, I guess."
"He went for his gun," said the heavy-shouldered man. "It's a dam'
good thing you went down with that door. Gave me a chance to get him."
"Here's their stuff," said an officer, kicking Pete's pack that lay
corded on the floor.
"Well, Tim," said the man who had shouldered the door down, "you stay
here till the wagon comes. Bill and I will look around when he gets
back. Guess the other one made for the line. Don't know how he worked
it. Keep the crowd out."
"Is he all in?" queried the officer.
"No; he's breathin' yet. But he ain't got long. He's a young bird to
be a killer."
Late that afternoon Pete was taken from the Emergency to the General
Hospital. Lights were just being turned on in the surgical ward and
the newsboys were shouting an extra, headlining a border raid by the
Mexicans and the shooting of a notorious bandit in El Paso.
The president of the Stockmen's Security and Savings Bank bought a
paper as he stepped into his car that evening and was driven toward
home. He read the account of the police raid, of the escape of one of
the so-called outlaws, the finding of the murdered man near Sanborn,
and a highly colored account of what was designated as the invasion of
the United States territory by armed troops of Mexico.
Four thousand dollars in gold had been delivered to him personally that
day by the express company--a local delivery from a local source.
"Jim's man," he said to himself as the car passed through the Plaza and
turned toward the eastern side of the town. Upon reaching home the
president told his chauffeur to wait. Slitting an envelope he wrapped
the paper and addressed it to James Ewell, Showdown, Arizona.
"Mail it at the first box," he said. "Then you can put the car up. I
won't need it to-night."
The surgeon at the General Hospital was bending over Pete. The surgeon
shook his head, then turning he gave the attendant nurse a few brief
directions, and passed on to another cot. As the nurse sponged Pete's
arm, an interne poised a little glittering needle. "There's just a
chance," the surgeon had said.
At the quick stab of the needle, Pete's heavy eyes opened. The little
gray-eyed nurse smiled. The interne rubbed Pete's arm and stepped
back. Pete's lips moved. The nurse bent her head. "Did--Ed"--Pete's
face twitched--"make it?"
"You mustn't talk," said the nurse gently. And wishing with all her
heart to still the question that struggled in those dark, anxious eyes,
she smiled again. "Yes, he made it," she said, wondering if Ed were
the other outlaw that the papers had said had escaped. She walked
briskly to the end of the room and returned with a dampened towel and
wiped the dank sweat from Pete's forehead. He stared up at her, his
face white and expressionless. "It was the coat--my hand caught," he
murmured.
She nodded brightly, as though she understood. She did not know what
his name was. There had been nothing by which to identify him. And
she could hardly believe that this youth, lying there under that black
shadow that she thought never would lift again, could be the desperate
character the interne made him out to be, retailing the newspaper
account of his capture to her.
It was understood, even before the doctor had examined Pete, that he
could not live long. The police surgeon had done what he could. Pete
had been removed to the General Hospital, as the Emergency was crowded.
The little nurse was wondering if he had any relatives, any one for
whom he wished to send. Surely he must realize that he was dying! She
was gazing at Pete when his eyes slowly opened and the faintest trace
of a smile touched his lips. His eyes begged so piteously that she
stepped close to the cot and stooped. She saw that he wanted to ask
her something, or tell her something that was worrying him. "What did
it matter?" she thought. At any moment he might drift into
unconsciousness . . .
"Would you--write--to The Spider--and say I delivered the--goods?"
"But who is he--where--"
"Jim Ewell, Showdown--over in--Arizona."
"Jim Ewell, Showdown, Arizona." she repeated. "And what name shall I
sign?"
"Jest Pete," he whispered, and his eyes closed.
Pete's case puzzled Andover, the head-surgeon at, the General. It was
the third day since Pete's arrival and he was alive--but just alive and
that was all. One peculiar feature of the case was the fact that the
bullet--a thirty-eight--which had pierced the right lung, had not gone
entirely through the body. Andover, experienced in gun-shot wounds,
knew that bullets fired at close range often did freakish things.
There had been a man recently discharged from the General as
convalescent, who had been shot in the shoulder, and the bullet,
striking the collar-bone, had taken a curious tangent, following up the
muscle of the neck and lodging just beneath the ear. In that case
there had been the external evidence of the bullet's location. In this
case there was no such evidence to go by.
The afternoon of the third day, Pete was taken to the operating room
and another examination made. The X-ray showed a curious blur near the
right side of the spine. To extract the bullet would be a difficult
and savage operation, an operation which the surgeon thought his
patient in his present weakened condition could not stand. Pete lay in
a heavy stupor, his left arm and the left side of his face partially
paralyzed.
The day after his arrival at the General two plain-clothes men came to
question him. He was conscious and could talk a little. But they had
learned nothing of his companion, the killing of Brent, nor how
Brevoort managed to evade them. They gathered little of Pete's history
save that he told them his name, his age, and that he had no relatives
nor friends. On all other subjects he was silent. Incidentally the
officials gave his name to the papers, and the papers dug into their
back files for reference to an article they had clipped from the
"Arizona Sentinel," which gave them a brief account of the Annersley
raid and the shooting of Gary. They made the most of all this, writing
a considerable "story," which the president of the Stockmen's Security
read and straightway mailed to his old acquaintance, The Spider.
The officers from the police station had told Pete bluntly that he
could not live, hoping to get him to confess to or give evidence as to
the killing of Brent. Pete at once knew the heavy-shouldered man--the
man who had shot him down and who was now keen on getting evidence in
the case.
"So I'm goin' to cross over?" Pete had said, eying the other curiously.
"Well, all I wish is that I could git on my feet long enough--to--get a
crack at you--on an even break. I wouldn't wear no coat, neither."
The fact that Pete had bungled seemed to worry him much more than his
condition. He felt that it was a reflection on his craftmanship. The
plain-clothes man naturally thought that Pete was incorrigible, failing
to appreciate that it was the pride of youth that spoke rather than the
personal hatred of an enemy.