ANTONIO'S REVENGE
While Red had been trudging southward under his saddle and other
possessions a scene was being enacted on a remote part of the H2 range
which showed how completely a cowboy leased his very life to the man
who paid him his monthly wage, one which serves to illustrate in a way
how a ranchman was almost a feudal lord. There are songs of men who
gave up their lives to save their fellows, one life for many, and they
are well sung; but what of him who risks his life to save one small,
insignificantly small portion of his employer's possessions, risks it
without hesitation or fear, as a part of his daily work? What of the
man who, not content with taking his share of danger in blizzard,
fire, and stampede, on drive, roundup, and range-riding, leaps
fearlessly at the risk of his life to save a paltry head or two of
cattle to his ranch's tally sheet? Such men were the rule, and such a
one was Curley, who, with all his faults, was a man as a man should
be.
Following out his orders he rode his part of the range with alertness,
and decided to explore the more remote southwestern angle of the
ranch. Doc had left him an hour before to search the range nearer
Eagle and would not be back again until time to return to the ranch
house for the night. This was against Meeker's orders, for they had
been told to keep together for their own protection, but they had
agreed that there was little risk and that it would be better to
separate and cover more ground.
The day was bright and, with the exception of the heat, all he could
desire. His spirits bubbled over in snatches of song as he cantered
hither and yon, but all the time moving in the general direction of
the little-ridden territory. On all sides stretched the same
monotonous view, sage brush, mesquite, cactus, scattered tufts of
grass, and the brown plain, endless, flat, wearying.
The surroundings did not depress him, but only gradually slowed the
exultant surge of his blood and, as he hummed at random, an old
favorite came to him out of the past, and he sung it joyously:
My taste is that of an aristocrat,
My purse that of a pauper:
I scorn the gold her parents hold--
But shore I love their daughter.
Hey de diddle de, hey de dee,
But shore I love their daughter.
When silvery nights my courting light
An' souls of flowers wander,
Then who's to blame if I loved th' game
An' did not pause to ponder?
Hey de diddle de, hey de dee,
An' did not pause to ponder.
Her eyes are blue, an' oh, so true--
Th' words were said ere thought, Lad.
Her father swore we'd meet no more--
But I am not distraught, Lad.
Hey de diddle de, hey de de--
But I am not distraught, Lad.
He ceased abruptly, rigidly erect, staring straight ahead as the
significance of the well trodden trail impressed itself on his mind.
He was close to the edge of a steep-walled basin; and leading to it
was a narrow, steep gully, down which the beaten trail went. Riding
closer he saw that two poles were set close to the wall of the gully,
and from one of them dangled a short, frayed hempen rope. There was a
water hole in the basin, surrounded by a muddy flat, and everywhere
were the tracks of cattle.
As he hesitated to decide whether or not it would be worth while to
ride through the depression he chanced to look south, and the question
decided itself. Spurring savagely, he leaned forward in the saddle,
the wind playing a stern song in his ears, a call to battle for his
ranch, his pride, and his hatred for foul work. He felt the peculiar,
compelling delight, the surging, irresistible intoxication of his kind
for fighting, the ecstasy of the blood lust, handed down from his
Saxon forefathers.
A mile ahead of him was a small herd of cattle, being driven west by
two men. Did he stop to return to the ranch for assistance? Did he
count the odds? Not he, for he saw the perpetrators of the insults he
and his companions had chafed under--the way was clear, the quarry
plain, and he asked naught else.
They saw him coming--one of them raised a pair of glasses to his eyes
and looked closely at him and from him all around the plain. All the
time they were driving the cattle harder, shouting and whipping about
them with their rawhide quirts; and constantly nearer came the cowboy,
now standing up in his stirrups and lashing his straining mount
without mercy. Soon he thought he recognized one of the herders, and
he flung the name on the whistling wind in one contemptuous shout:
"_Antonio!_ D--n his soul!" and fell to beating the horse all the
harder.
It was Antonio, and a puff of smoke arose from the Mexican's shoulder
and streaked behind, soon followed by another. Curley knew the rifle,
a .40-90 Sharps, and did not waste a shot, for he must be on equal
terms before he could hope to cope with it. Another puff, then another
and another, but still he was not hit. Now he drew his own rifle from
its holster and hazarded a shot, but to no avail. Then the second
herder, who had not as yet fired, snatching the rifle from Antonio's
hands and, checking his horse, leaped off and rested the weapon across
the saddle. Taking deliberate aim, he fired, and Curley pitched out of
the saddle as his horse stumbled and fell. The rider scrambled to his
feet, dazed and hurt, and ran to his horse, but one look told the
story and he ended the animal's misery with a shot from his Colt.
The herder and the cattle were rapidly growing smaller in the distance
but the Mexican rode slowly around the man on foot, following the
circumference of a large circle and shooting with calm deliberation.
The bullets hummed and whined viciously past the H2 puncher, kicking
up the dust in little spurts, and cold ferocity filled his heart as he
realized the rustler's purpose. He raised his own rifle and fired--and
leaded the barrel. When he had fallen the barrel had become choked
with sand and dust and he was at the mercy of his gloating enemy, who
would now wipe out the insult put upon him at the bunk house. Slowly
Antonio rode and carefully he fired and then, seeing that there was
something wrong with Curley's rifle, which the puncher threw aside, he
drew closer, determined to shoot him to pieces.
Curley was stung with rage now. He knew that it was only a question of
waiting until the right bullet came, and scorning to hug the sand for
the "Greaser" he held in such contempt, and vaguely realizing that
such an act would not change the result, he put all his faith in a
dash. He ran swiftly towards his astonished enemy, who expected him to
seek what cover the dead horse would give him, Colt in hand, cursing
at every jump and hoping to be spared long enough to get within range
with his six-shooter, if only for one shot. Antonio did not like this
close work and cantered away, glancing back from time to time. When
Curley finally was forced to stop because of exhaustion the rider also
stopped and slipped off his horse to have a rest for the rifle. Curley
emptied the Colt in a futile, enraged effort to make a lucky hit while
his enemy calmly aimed from across the saddle. Hastily reloading the
Colt as he ran, the puncher dashed forward again, zig-zagging to avoid
being hit. There was a puff of gray smoke, but Curley did not hear
the report. He threw one arm half up as if to ward off the shot and
pitched forward, face down in the dust, free from all pain and strife.
Antonio fired again and then cautiously drew nearer to his victim, the
rifle at the ready. Turning shortly he made a quick grab at his horse,
fearing that it might leave him on foot to be caught by some wandering
H2 puncher. Springing into the saddle he rode forward warily to get a
closer look at the man he had murdered, proud of his work, but fearful
that Curley was playing dead.
When assured that he had nothing to fear from the prostrate form, he
rode close. "Knock me down, will you!" he gritted, urging the horse to
trample on the body, which the animal refused to do. "Call me an
unwashed Greaser coyote, hey! Come out looking for us, did you? Well,
you found us, all right, but a h--l of a lot of good it did you, you
American dog! You ain't saying a word, are you, you carrion? You ain't
got no smart come-back now, an' you ain't throwing no wash water on
me, are you?"
He started and looked around nervously, fearful that he might be
caught and left lying on the sand as he had left Curley. One or two of
the H2 outfit carried single-shot rifles which shot as far if not
farther than his own, and the owners of them knew how to shoot.
Wheeling abruptly he galloped after the herd, looking back constantly
and thinking only of putting as great a distance as possible between
himself and the scene of the killing.
A lizard crawled out of a hillock and stared steadily at the quiet
figure and then, making a tentative sortie, disappeared under the
sand; but the man who had sung so buoyantly did not mind it, he lay
wrapped in the Sleep Eternal. He had died as he had lived, fearlessly
and without a whimper.
Late in the afternoon Doc Riley, sweeping on a circling course, rode
through chaparrals, alert even after his fruitless search, looking
around on all sides, and wondered if Curley and he would meet before
they reached the ranch proper. Suddenly something caught his eye and
he stood up in the stirrups to see it better, a ready curse leaping
from his lips. He could not make out who it was, but he had fears and
he spurred forward as hard as he could go. Then he saw the horse and
knew.
Riding close to the figure so as to be absolutely sure, he knew beyond
a hope of mistake and looked around the plain, his expression
malevolent and murderous.
"Curley! Curley!" he cried, leaping off his horse and placing a heavy,
kindly hand on the broad, sloping shoulder of the man who had been his
best friend for years. "So they got you, lad! They got you! In God's
name, why did I leave you?" he cried in bitter self-condemnation.
"It's my fault, it's my fault, lad!" He straightened up suddenly and
glared around through tear-dimmed eyes. "_But by th' living God I'll
pay them for this,_ I'll pay them for this! D--n their murdering
souls!"
He caught sight of an empty cartridge shell and snatched it up
eagerly. ".40-90, by G-d! That's Antonio's! Curley, my lad, I'll get
him for you--an' when I _do_! I'll send his soul to th' blackest pit
in h--l, an' send it _slow!_"
He noticed and followed the tracks in the sand, reading them easily.
He found the Winchester and quickly learned its story, which told him
the whole thing. Returning to the body of his friend he sat by it
quietly, looking down at it for several minutes, his sombrero in his
hand.
"Well, wishing won't do no good," he muttered, dismounting. "I'll take
you home, lad, an' see you put down too deep for coyotes to bother
you. An' I'll square yore scores or join you trying."
He lifted the body across the withers of his horse and picked up the
Colt. Mounting, he rode at a walk towards the bunk house, afire with
rage and sorrow.
* * * * *
For the third time Meeker strode to the door of the bunk house and
looked out into the darkness, uneasy and anxious. Chick sauntered over
to him and leaned against the frame of the door. "They'll show up
purty soon, Jim," he remarked.
"Yes. I reckon so--Salem!" the foreman called. "Put their grub where
it'll keep warm."
"Aye, aye, sir. I was just thinking I ought to. They're late, ain't
they, sir?" he asked. "An' it's dark, too," he added, gratis.
"Why, is it, Salem?" queried Dan, winking at Jack Curtis, but Salem
disappeared into the gallery.
"Listen!--I hear 'em!" exclaimed Chick.
"You hear one of 'em," corrected Meeker, turning to the table to
finish drinking his coffee. "Hey, Salem! Never mind warming that
grub--rustle it in here. One of 'em's here, an' he'll be starved,
too."
Suddenly Chick started back with an exclamation as Doc Riley loomed up
in the light of the door, carrying a body over his shoulder. Stepping
into the room while his friends leaped to their feet in amazement and
incredulity, he lowered his burden to a bench and faced them, bloody
and furious.
"What's th' matter?" exclaimed Meeker, the first to find his voice,
leaping forward and dropping the cup to the floor. "Who did that?"
Doc placed his sombrero over the upturned face and ripped out a savage
reply. "Antonio! Yore broncho-buster! Th' snake that's raising all th'
devil on this range! Here--see for yoreself!" tossing the cartridge
shell to his foreman, who caught it clumsily, looked at it, and then
handed it to Dan. Exclamations and short, fierce questions burst from
the others, who crowded up to see the shell.
"Tell me about it, Doc," requested Meeker, pacing from wall to wall.
"He was shot down like a dog!" Doc cried, his rage sweeping over him
anew in all its savagery. "I saw th' whole thing in th' sand, plain as
day. Th' Greaser got his cayuse first an' then rode rings around him,
keeping out of range of Curley's Colt, for Curley had leaded his
rifle. It was Colt against Sharps at five hundred, that was what it
was! He didn't have a show, not a measly show for his life! Shot down
like _a dog!_"
"Where'd it happen?" asked Chick, breathlessly, while the low-voiced
threats and imprecations swelled to an angry, humming chorus.
"Away down in th' southwest corner," replied Doc, and he continued
almost inaudibly, speaking to himself and forgetful of the others. "Me
an' him went to school together an' I used to lick every kid that
bullied him till he got big enough to do it hisself. We run away
together an' shared th' same hard luck. We went through that Sioux
campaign together, side by side, an' to think that after he pulled out
of _that_ alive he had to be murdered by a yaller coward of a Greaser!
If he'd been killed by a human being an' in a fair fight it would be
all right; but by that coyote--it don't seem possible, not noway. I
licked th' feller that hurt him on his first day at school--I'm going
to kill th' last!
"Meeker," he said, coming to himself and facing the angry foreman,
"I'm quitting to-night. I won't punch no more till I get that Greaser.
I take up that trail at daylight an' push it to a finish even if it
takes me into Mexico--it's got to be him or me, now."
"You don't have to quit _me_ to do that, an' you _know_ it!" Meeker
cried. "I don't care if yo're gone for six months--yore pay goes on
just th' same. He went down fighting for me, an' I'll be everlastingly
condemned if I don't have a hand in squaring up for it. Yo're going on
special duty for th' H2, Doc, an' yore orders are to get Antonio.
Why, by th' Lord, I'll take up th' trail with you, Doc, an' with th'
rest of th' boys behind me. This ranch can go galley-west an' crooked
till we get that snake. Dan an' Salem stays with my girl an' to watch
th' ranch--th' rest of us are with you--we're as anxious as you to
push him Yonder, Doc."
"If I can get him alive, get my two hands on his skinny neck," Doc
muttered, his fingers twitching, "I'll kill him slow, so he'll feel it
longer, so he'll be shore to know why he's going. I want to _feel_ his
murdering soul dribble hell-wards, an' let him come back a couple of
times so I can laugh in his yaller face when he begs! I want to get
him--_so!_" and Chick shuddered as the knotted, steel-like fingers
opened and shut, for Doc was half devil now. While Chick stared, the
transformed man walked over to the bench and picked up the body in his
brawny arms and strode into the blackness--Curley was going to lie in
the open, with the stars and the sky and the sighing wind.
"God!" breathed Chick, looking around, "I never saw a man like _that_
before!"
"I hope he gets what he wants!" exclaimed Dan, fiercely.
"You fellers get yore traps ready for a chase," Meeker ordered as he
strode to the door of the gallery. "Fifty rounds for six-shooters an'
fifty for rifle, an' plenty of grub. It's a whole lot likely that th'
Greaser headed for his gang, an' we've got to be ready to handle
everything that comes up. Hey, Salem!" he shouted.
"Aye, aye, sir!" replied Salem, who had just come in from one of the
corrals and knew nothing of what had occurred.
"Did you cure that beef I told you to?" demanded the foreman.
"Yes, sir; but it ain't had time to cure--th' weather's not been
right. Howsomever, I smoked some. That'll be ship-shape."
"Well, have it on our cayuses at daylight. Did you cut this beef in
strips, or in twenty-pound chunks, like you did th' last?"
"Strips, _little_ strips--I ain't trying to sun-cure no more big
hunks, not me, sir."
Meeker turned and went towards the outer door.
"Don't waste no time, boys," he said. "Get all th' sleep you can
to-night--you'll need it if I reckon right. Good-night," and he
stepped out into the darkness. "D--n them dogs!" he muttered,
disappearing in the direction of the kennels, from which came
quavering, long-drawn howls.