THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL
Panhandle Sears, in a back room in the Hole-in-the-Wall, was ugly drunk.
The Hole-in-the-Wall had the reputation of running a straight game.
Whether or not the game was straight, Panhandle had managed to drop his
share of the money from the sale of the Box-S horses. He had had nothing
to do with the actual stealing of them, but he had, with the assistance
of his Mexican companion Posmo, engineered the sale to a rancher living
out of Tucson. It was understood that the horses would find their way
across the border.
Now Panhandle was broke again. He stated that unpleasant fact to his
companions, Posmo and Shorty,--the latter a town loafer he had picked up
in Antelope. Shorty had nothing to say. Panhandle's drunken aggressive
cowed him. But Posmo, who had really found the market for the stolen
stock, felt that he had been cheated. Panhandle had promised him a third
of his share of the money. Panhandle had kept on promising from day to
day, liquidating his promises with whiskey. And now there was no money.
Posmo knew Panhandle well enough not to press the matter, just then. But
Panhandle, because neither of his companions had said anything when told
that he was broke, turned on Posmo.
"What you got to say about it, anyway?" he asked with that curious
stubbornness born in liquor.
"I say that you owe me a hundred dollar," declared Posmo.
"Well, go ahead and collect!"
"Yes, go ahead and collect," said Shorty, suddenly siding with
Panhandle. "We blowed her in. We're broke, but we ain't cryin' about
it."
"That is all right," said Posmo quietly. "If the money is gone, she is
gone; yes?"
"That's the way to say it!" asserted Panhandle, changing front and
slapping Posmo on the shoulder. "We're broke, and who the hell cares?"
"Let's have a drink," suggested Shorty. "I got a couple of beans left."
They slouched out from the back room and stood at the bar. Panhandle
immediately became engaged in noisy argument with one of the frequenters
of the place. Senator Brown's name was mentioned by the other, but
mentioned casually, with no reference whatever to stolen horses.
Panhandle laughed. "So old Steve is down here lookin' for his hosses,
eh?"
"What horses?"
The question, spoken by no one knew whom, chilled the group to silence.
Panhandle saw that he had made a blunder. "Who wants to know?" he
queried, gazing round the barroom.
"Why, it's in all the papers," declared the bartender conciliatingly.
"The Box-S horses was run off a couple of weeks ago."
Panhandle turned his back on the group and called for a drink.
Shorty was tugging gently at his sleeve. "Posmo's beat it, Pan."
"To hell with him! Beat it yourself if you feel like it."
"I'll stick Pan," declared Shorty, yet his furtive eyes belied his
assertion.
* * * * *
For three days Bartley had tried to find where Cheyenne was staying, but
without success, chiefly because Cheyenne kept close to his room during
the daytime, watching the entrance to the Hole-in-the-Wall, waiting for
Panhandle to step out into the daylight, when there would be folk on the
street who could witness that Panhandle had drawn his gun first.
Cheyenne determined to give his enemy that chance, and then kill him.
But thus far Panhandle had not appeared on the street in the daytime, so
far as Cheyenne knew.
Incidentally, Senator Steve had warned Bartley to keep away from the
Hole-in-the-Wall district after dark, intimating that there was more in
the wind than Cheyenne's feud with Panhandle Sears. So Bartley contented
himself with acting as a sort of private secretary for the Senator, a
duty that was a pleasure. The hardest thing Bartley did was to refuse
bottled entertainment, at least once out of every three times it was
offered.
On the evening of the fourth day after Pelly had wired the Senator that
Sneed and his men had ridden north from Tucson, Posmo, hanging about the
eastern outskirts of Phoenix, saw a small band of horsemen against the
southern sky-line. Knowing the trail they would take, north, Posmo had
timed their arrival almost to the hour. They would pass to the east of
Phoenix, and take the old Apache Trail, North. Posmo had his horse
saddled and hidden in a draw. He mounted and rode directly toward the
oncoming horsemen.
He sang as he rode. It was safer to do that, when it was growing dark.
The riders would know he was a Mexican, and that he did not wish to
conceal his identity on the road. He did not care to be mistaken for an
enemy, especially so near Phoenix.
Sneed, a giant in the dusk, reined in as Posmo hailed the group. Sneed
asked his name. Posmo replied, and was told to ride up. Sneed,
separating himself from his men, rode a little ahead and met Posmo.
"Panhandle is give the deal away," stated Posmo.
"How?"
"He drunk and spend all the money. He do not give me anything for that I
make the deal--over there," and Posmo gestured toward the south.
"Double-crossed you, eh? And now you're sore and want his scalp."
"He talk too much of the Box-S horses in that cantina," stated Posmo
deliberately. "He say that you owe him money." This was an afterthought,
and an invention.
"Who did he say that to?" queried Sneed.
"He tell everybody in that place that you turn the good trick and then
throw him hard."
"Either you're lyin', or Panhandle's crazy." Sneed turned and called to
his men, a few paces off. They rode up on tired horses. "What do you
say, boys? Panhandle is talkin', over there in Phoenix. Posmo, here,
says Panhandle is talkin' about us. Now nobody's got a thing on us. We
been south lookin' at some stock we're thinkin' of buyin'. Want to ride
over with me and have a little talk with Panhandle?"
"Ain't that kind of risky, Cap?"
"Every time! But it ain't necessary to ride right into the marshal's
office. We put our little deal through clean. The horses we're ridin'
belong to us. And who's goin' to stop us from ridin' in, or out, of
town? I aim to talk to Panhandle into ridin' north with us. It's safer
to have him along. If you all don't want to ride with me, I'll go in
alone."
"We're with you, Cap," said one of the men.
"Mebby it's safer to ride through the towns from now on than to keep
dodgin' 'em," suggested Lawson.
"Come on, then," and Sneed indicated Posmo.
"And don't make any mistakes," threatened Lawson, riding close to the
Mexican. "If you do--you won't last."
Posmo had not counted on this turn of affairs. He had supposed that his
news would send Sneed and his men in to have it out with Panhandle, or
that one of them would ride in and persuade Panhandle to join them. But
he now knew that he would have to ride with Sneed, or he would be
suspected of double-dealing.
At the fork of the road leading into Phoenix, Sneed reined in. "We're
ridin' tired horses, boys. And we ain't lookin' for trouble. All we want
is Panhandle. We'll get him."
Sitting his big horse like a statue, his club foot concealed by the long
_tapadero_, his physical being dominating his followers, Sneed headed
the group that rode slowly down the long open stretch bordering on the
east of the town. They entered town quietly and stopped a few doors
below the lighted front of the Hole-in-the-Wall.
"Just step in and tell Panhandle I want to see him," and Sneed indicated
one of his riders.
The man went in and came out again with the information that Panhandle
had left the saloon about an hour ago; that he had told the bartender he
was going out to get some money and come back and play the wheel.
"Get on your horse," said Sneed, who had been gazing up the street while
listening to the other. "Here comes Panhandle now. I'll do the talking."