by COLE JACKSON
With a rattling crash, both Colts let go. Fire streamed from their black muzzles, smoke wisped up before the Ranger’s grim face. He swayed and weaved in the saddle, a deceptive, uncertain figure in the deepening dusk. A bullet flicked a bit of skin from his neck. Another plucked at his shirt sleeve like a ghostly hand. Again his big single-actions roared.
Yells of rage and pain answered the boom of the Lone Wolf’s guns. A man reeled in the saddle, gripping his smashed shoulder with reddened fingers. Another toppled sideways and thudded in the dust of the road, where he lay without sound or movement. Still another pitched forward onto his horse’s neck and slithered to the ground as the group crashed past Hatfield. As they passed he saw that one was clutching the pommel to stay on his horse.
Hatfield jammed his empty guns into their sheaths and slid his rifle from the saddle boot. He flung the heavy Winchester to his shoulder and his finger crooked on the trigger. Then he hesitated, the sights of the long gun lining on the back of the rearmost rider. Without pulling the trigger, he lowered the rifle.
After all, he was not sure just what was going on. He had come out very much ahead in the encounter and it took a good deal of justification to shoot a man in the back. The whole business might be a case of the defeated contingent in some sort of a personal row fleeing the scene and mistaking the Ranger for an obstacle in their path.
A moment later, he was sorry he had held his fire.
Down the street came a group of men on foot, shouting, yelling, brandishing rifles and revolvers. In their lead was a tall, handsome man with iron-gray hair and flashing dark eyes. Beside him lumbered a squat individual with a tremendous spread of shoulders, a beefy face and a hard mouth. A silver star gleamed on the front of his sagging vest. In his hands he carried a heavy rifle. An instant later the muzzle of the rifle lined with Hatfield’s broad breast.
“Drap that shootin’ iron ‘fore I plug yuh!” bellowed the sheriff. “Drap it, I say!”
Jim had no desire to argue with the forces of law and order. He did not drop the rifle, but with a slow gesture that could not be misunderstood, he shoved the weapon into the saddle boot.
“Guess that’ll do just as well,” he drawled, “and it won’t get all full of dirt that way. Anything else you’d like me to do?”
“Yeah, get yore hands up!” snarled the sheriff. “Get his belt guns, Chadwick.”
An amused light in his eyes, the Lone Wolf raised his slim hands to the height of his shoulders. The tall man moved toward him somewhat uncertainly.
“Maybe this fellow wasn’t one of them, after all, Horton,” he said.
“What’s he doin’ here with a gun in his hand, then?” growled the sheriff. “We can’t take any chances, John.”
“Here’s two of ‘em, stone dead!” a voice suddenly shouted.
Men were bending over the two riders Hatfield had downed.
“And here’s nearly all of the money from the bank,” another voice shouted. “Where’s Elder? Let him check it and see.”
The tall man had hesitated at the shouts. Now, however, he moved forward again and reached up for Hatfield’s guns. As he did so a clear voice cut through the babel of whirling words like a silver knife blade of sound.
“Those guns are empty, Chadwick. You will find the bullets in the bodies of those two dead bandits there in the dust. I see our estimable sheriff is running true to form. The chances are that if he started out to arrest a card shark, he’d bring in the village padre.”
Sheriff Horton whirled to face the far side of the street.
“Listen, Capistrano,” he cried, “you’ll horn into my affairs once too often sometime! I ain’t takin’ yore word for nothin’.”
“It isn’t necessary for you to do so,” replied the silvery voice. “Señor Walsh here saw the whole thing also. Surely you will not contradict the president of the bank.”
A thin little man came hurrying from between a couple of shacks. In his hands he carried a rifle.
“Amado’s right,” he said. “I was at his place when a boy ran in and yelled that the bank was being held up. We hurried over here hoping to intercept the outlaws as they rode out of town. We were too late, but we saw this man shoot it out with them and get two of them. I think he wounded one or two others. You should be thanking him, Sheriff, instead of thinking of arresting him.”
The sheriff sputtered and rumbled in his throat.
“Well, if that’s the way of it, Walsh,” he said, “we made a mistake. Yuh can’t hardly blame us, though. Runnin’ onto this man with a saddle gun in his hand right while we was chasin’ them bandits did look sorta suspicious.”
Hatfield nodded briefly, accepting the sheriff’s gruff apology. He already had catalogued Horton as being a slow thinking individual with a one-track mind. Clever enough in some ways, doubtless, but liable to mistakes where quick decisions were required. And excited men, the smartest of them, are apt to jump to wrong conclusions.
In fact, he hardly heard Horton’s rumbled words. His whole attention was riveted on the extraordinary individual who had shuffled from the shadows with the banker Walsh. He was hatless and a bar of light from a lighted window revealed hair like crisply curling gold. Beneath the golden hair was the most astonishing handsome face Jim Hatfield had ever looked upon. The shapely head was set on a columnar neck that might have graced a heroic Greek statue.
But below the classic neck was pitiful distortion. There was a hump on the twisted back, another on the broad but misshapen breast. The mighty shoulders of the dwarf — he was not over five feet in height — were hunched, the arms amazingly long and powerful, ending in finely formed hands. The legs were crooked and bowed and dragged from the hips.
“Looks like God and the Devil both had a hand in making him!” the Lone Wolf exclaimed under his breath.
He was suddenly aware that the tall Chadwick was reaching up to shake his hand.
“You sure did a fine job, stranger,” the big rancher congratulated. “Any time you feel like riding out to my place, I’d be mighty pleased to have a talk with you.”
Hatfield had heard of the cattle baron, but had never before seen him. Chadwick was a fine figure of a man and his appearance justified the stories told about him. A light seemed to burn in the depths of his gray eyes. His jaw was heavy and powerful, his mouth firm. His nose was hooked like the beak of a hawk and more than hinted of strength and ability.
“A real fighting man who gets things done,” was Hatfield’s decision.
He shook hands with Chadwick and thanked him for his invitation. Walsh’s voice broke in on their conversation.
“It looks like most of the money must be here,” said the banker. “I can’t say for sure. Where’s Elder? He can tell in a minute.”
“You mean the cashier?” asked a gangling cowboy. “Huh! he’s daid. That tall man who rode in front shot him plumb ‘tween the eyes!”
CHAPTER 6
MORE men were arriving on the scene. Among them was Long John Dyson, the sheriff’s deputy. Horton immediately gave him instructions as to the disposal of the dead outlaws.
“I’ll be expectin’ yuh to show up at the coroner’s inquest t’morrer, stranger,” the sheriff told Hatfield. “Don’t yuh be leavin’ town till I give yuh permission.”
Then he hurried back to the bank. Chadwick and Walsh went with him.
“Drop into the bank in the morning, I’d appreciate it,” were the banker’s last words to the Ranger.
Hatfield glanced down at a movement beside his horse. The hunchback was standing there, an amused gleam in his clear blue eyes.
“Invitations appear to be in order,” he observed in his musical voice, “so I’ll just add another one. After you have stabled your horse — Flintlock Horner runs a good stable a little ways down the next street you cross — come over to my place, Una Golondrina. It’s on this street a little ways further on. You can’t miss it. You can eat there, if you’re hungry.”
“I could do with about ten pounds
of steak,” Hatfield admitted. “I’ll be there as soon as I look after old Goldy.”
The hunchback nodded and vanished in the shadows. Hatfield stared after him thoughtfully. Glancing around he met the eye of a smiling young Mexican.
“Know that fellow?” he asked, jerking his thumb in the direction the hunchback had taken.
“Si,” replied the Mexican pleasantly. “Eet ees Don Amado Capistrano. He ees the very rich man. He owns the Cibola mine.”
“A mining man, eh?” nodded Hatfield. “I had a notion he might be a cattleman. Legs look that way.”
“Si,” the Mexican agreed. “Don Amado ees descended from those who once owned much land and many cattle. It was he who first discovered the silver in the hills. He staked the first claim and built thees town. Si.”
Hatfield was very thoughtful as he rode slowly toward the livery stable.
“Staked the first claim,” he repeated the young Mexican’s words. “That’s interesting. Wonder if the ore out of the Cibola is full of funny zigzag threads of silver that sort of follow the same pattern?”
The sinewy fingers of one hand dropped into a side pocket and touched the fragment of stone which rested there.
He chuckled a little later, as he passed a building whose sign proclaimed it to be “Una Golondrina.”
“Una Golondrina!” said Hatfield. “That means ‘one swallow’ in Spanish. Must be a saloon!”
It was, and a big one. Hatfield returned to it after turning Goldy over to the care of Flintlock Horner, a six foot six individual with a pessimistic outlook on life.
“Almighty fine hoss,” said Flintlock sadly, looking Goldy over with an appreciative eye. “Too fine. Chances are he’ll get stole or somethin’ ‘fore long. That’s the way things us’ally work out. He sorta reminds me of my fourth wife — no it was my fifth. She was a sorrel, too. She only had two feet, though, which made her sorta dif’rent from this cayuse. Does he kick and bite? Nope? Well, he ain’t much like her after all. Yeah, I’ll look after him good, don’tcha worry. I like hosses and wimmen, and they sorta take to me, too. That’s how I come to lose my sixth — wife, I mean, not hoss. Never had six hosses, ‘ceptin’ at one time onct.”
It was early in the evening when Hatfield pushed through the swinging doors, but already the Una Golondrina was doing a roaring business. There was a long bar running the entire length of the room on one side. Across from the bar was a lunch counter with stools and tables. There was a dance floor, two roulette wheels, a faro bank and a number of poker tables. Threading his way through the crowd, Hatfield saw the hunchback seated by himself at a corner table. He saw the Ranger and nodded an invitation.
Hatfield sat down and the hunchback ordered a meal. The Ranger, who appreciated good food when it came his way, did ample justice to the spread. After the dishes were removed, they rolled cigarettes and sat smoking in silence. Finally the hunchback asked:
“Are you just passing through, or figuring on stopping in this district a while?”
Hatfield smoked contemplatively a moment before replying.
“Depends on whether I can find a job in this section,” he said. “I’m not particular, one way or another. I’ve got to stay around for the coroner’s inquest tomorrow. After that I’m sort of uncertain about just what I’ll do. I’ll have to drop my loop on a job of some kind before long. There ought to be something for a hand on one of these big spreads hereabouts. This is just about the finest stretch of rangeland I’ve seen for a long time. Folks are mighty lucky to own land in this section.”
A cloud seemed to drift across the hunchback’s clear eyes; the deep blue turned to a smoky gray. His delicately formed lips straightened to a hard line and the strong chin thrust out grimly. Hatfield saw the slim powerful hands ball into iron-hard fists. But when he spoke, his voice was unchanged in its bell-like quality and as softly modulated as before.
“Yes,” he said, “it is a wonderful country and people living here are indeed fortunate. The very best of the land is owned by John Chadwick, but there are other fine ranches. I own a small one myself, adjoining Chadwick’s property and bordering on the river. I acquired it recently from the widow of a man who died.”
He was silent for a moment, and gradually his eyes changed color again and the hard lines of his mouth straightened out. He smiled suddenly at the tall Ranger and his teeth flashed. Again he spoke, almost diffidently.
“I was planning on offering you a job,” he said. “I can use a hand or two on my little ranch, but that is not what I really had in mind. Would you consider a job other than cow punching?”
Hatfield considered a moment, his mind working swiftly.
“Depends on what it happens to be,” he said at length. “I’m not much on working indoors if I can get out of it, but I’ll take anything if I have to, particularly if the pay happens to be good.”
“What I have to offer will pay you better than range riding, and it is not apt to keep you inside much,” replied Amado Capistrano earnestly. “Ranching is but a side issue with me — as yet. My chief interest lies in my silver mine, the Cibola.”
“Looks to me like you’ve got a gold mine right here,” interpolated Hatfield, nodding toward the crowded bar and busy tables.
Amado Capistrano shrugged with Latin expressiveness.
“Yes, the place makes money,” he admitted. “I set it up after I saw the kind of dens the silver strike brought to life. I decided there should be at least one place in the town where my workers would not be robbed. The drinks sold here are good and the games are straight.”
Hatfield’s keen gaze had been studying the crowd for some time.
“Some of those fellows don’t look exactly like miners or waddies to me,” he remarked. The hunchback smiled a somewhat wry smile.
“No,” he admitted, “they don’t. In fact, they are neither one nor the other. It may seem strange, but the worst element was also attracted to a place where they could get good liquor and depend on a straight game. I think I am safe in hazarding the guess that a good many of the shady characters from the Tamarra Hills and from the other side of the river are here tonight, and most every other night.”
“It’s likely,” Hatfield replied. “You see, those fellows risk their lives, as a rule, for the pesos they manage to get their hands on. Naturally, they don’t want to have it taken away from them by a crooked wheel or an extra smooth dealer, or to shell it out for drinks that are a mixture of cactus juice, rattle-snake poison and barbed wire.”
“Their choice has caused me more than a little embarrassment,” Capistrano said. “But to get back to the matter we were discussing. As I stated, my chief interest is my mine. The Cibola is a rich claim and much of the ore is high-grade stuff. Not only is it rich in silver but the gold content is high. It doesn’t take much of that high-grade to mount into real money. Which brings me to the point, Señor — ” He glanced at the Ranger questioningly.
Hatfield supplied his name, giving his real one, as he did not have much fear of it being recognized. It was not an uncommon one throughout the Southwest, and he was comparatively new to the district.
“Señor Hatfield,” Capistrano continued, “I am being robbed; steadily, systematically and successfully robbed. High-grade ore is vanishing from my mine at an alarming rate. The veins are as rich as ever, but the cleanup at the mills has been steadily falling off. In some manner the rich ore is being pilfered from the mine and almost worthless rock put in its place.”
“What makes you think the stealing is going on at the mine?” Hatfield asked. “Maybe somebody is taking it out of the conveyor buckets on the way to the mills.”
Capistrano shook his head in a decided manner.
“It isn’t possible,” he explained. “The number of buckets that leave the mine must check with the number received at the mill. The buckets do not pause on their trip from the mine to the mill. If they did so, it would be instantly known. Once they leave the mine they must keep on moving until they reach the mill. Even
were it possible to empty them on the way down, the arrival of empty buckets at the mill would at once be noticed. No, the conveyor system is practically proof against theft. The robbing is done either at the mine or at the mill. The mill seems out of the question, so it must be the mine.”
Hatfield nodded, gazing expectantly at the other. He offered no further comment. Capistrano rolled a cigarette with his tapering fingers, lighted it and inhaled a lungful of smoke. Hatfield waited patiently.
“I’ve tried in various ways to run the thieves down,” the hunchback continued, “but as yet with no success. Complaints to the sheriff are useless — he is not overly fond of me — and my foremen and superintendents are thoroughly baffled. I watched you have that brush with Cartina and his men tonight, and I — ”
“Just a minute,” Hatfield interrupted. “How do you know that was the Cartina outfit?”
“The tall, black-eyed man with the lank hair, the one who rode in front, was Pedro Cartina,” the hunchback replied quietly.
Hatfield nodded. Capistrano spoke again.
“Before I offer you a job,” he said, “I am going to proffer some good advice — leave this district, now, tonight. Get on your horse and ride — any direction, just so it is away from the Tamarra Valley. Cartina never forgives, and he never forgets. He will avenge the killing of his men, and his vengeance is something to make the bravest shudder. You will not be safe a moment while you are here. He has followers everywhere. I would not be the least surprised if some are in this room at the moment. Cartina has power.”
Again Hatfield nodded.
“He sort of wobbled in his saddle when I was cutting down on the gang,” he remarked irrelevantly.
“He’s hard to kill,” replied Capistrano with instant understanding. “If you wounded him, that will just make his vengeance the more certain and the more terrible. I repeat, señor, ride, and at once.”