Gun Runners

by COLE JACKSON

  “The way to cure a sore is to treat it before it gets too big to be cured, even if it doesn’t seem worth noticing at first. Wait till it gets big enough to notice, and it’s liable to be too big to handle. I’m afraid Chadwick is a sore. Well, the Rangers have cured ‘sores’ before now. I reckon we can handle this one.”

  Things were gay in the river town of Zapata. The cantinas were decorated with flowers and colored cloth. Svelte señoritas, their dark eyes flashing like jewels, multicolored skirts billowing out from slim silken legs, danced with lithe young vaqueros in velvet and silver.

  Gay serapes, elaborate sombreros, and fluttering mantillas lent color to the scene. Everywhere was music, and laughter. In the sun-drenched plaza a crowd had gathered to hear the words of the alcalde. The mayor, his dark face wreathed with smiles, spoke from a raised platform — warmly lauding his friend, Don Amado Capistrano, who soon would be sheriff of the county.

  “It is the great honor to help elect our friend and patron,” the alcalde said. “Zapata will do her part, as will her sister towns. I ordain this a day of fiesta. Tomorrow — ”

  He paused at a sudden drumming of hoofs growing steadily louder. Persons glanced inquiringly one to another.

  “El bandidos?” ran a nervous whisper.

  Into the plaza thundered a veritable army of mounted men. There were fully fourscore riders. Each carried a heavy rifle of a pattern unusual along the Border. They crashed to a halt and their leader, a rangy, rawboned man with a low-drawn hat brim, rode through the crowd that made way for him. At his back rode two dark-faced, sinewy men. The grim trio halted beside the platform. The tall leader leaned forward in his saddle and addressed the apprehensive mayor.

  “Mister,” he said harshly, “yuh been barkin’ on the wrong side of the fence. Yuh need a lesson.”

  He gestured to his two dark followers, who instantly swung to the platform and seized the mayor.

  An angry mutter ran through the crowd, rising to a sullen growl. Instantly there was a thunderous crash of rifles. Lead squalled over the heads of the crowd. Acrid smoke swirled about the plaza.

  Demoralized, panic-stricken, the people huddled together. In the cantinas the music was stilled. Shutters closed hastily.

  The two men who had seized the mayor ripped the gay silk shirt from his back, baring his shoulders. The tall leader dismounted and vaulted upon the platform, running muscular fingers along the lash of his heavy quirt.

  Then the quirt rose, and fell. A red welt leaped across the mayor’s dark shoulders. Again the lash whistled through the air, and again. The mayor writhed. An agonized groan burst from his lips. Then a shriek as blood spurted under the lash. The shrieks merged in a gabbling crescendo of screams as the quirt rose and fell.

  Finally the rawboned man turned from his moaning victim, flicked drops of blood from his lash and faced the crowd.

  “Jest in case yuh folks don’t know it,” he said harshly, “I’m here to tell yuh we got the right kind of a sheriff in this county right now, and we aim to keep him. Bear that in mind t’morrer.”

  He swung into the saddle, running his fingers along the blood-soaked quirt.

  “All right,” he told his followers, glancing at the sun, “get goin’. We got three more towns to visit, then we ride north. Got to be in Helidoro before dark.”

  In a cloud of dust the grim band thundered away. The stricken people of Zapata crept into their homes, casting many a fearful glance in the direction of that diminishing dust cloud. Shaking men succored the quivering mayor. The fiesta had become a tragedy.

  Helidoro was also gay as the sun sank in scarlet and gold and the western peaks were ringed about with saffron flame. Crowds jostled in the streets. Other crowds thronged the bars. Roulette wheels whirred busily. Cards slithered and dice galloped across the green cloth. Boots thumped and high heels clicked.

  Lithe cowboys from the valley ranches rubbed shoulders with brawny miners. Gamblers in somber black raked hard-earned gold across their tables. Bartenders were too busy to make change; the drinkers too busy to ask for it. Fiddles squeaked and guitars thrummed.

  In the streets hastily organized bands blared forth weird discords that were enthusiastically received as music. Everywhere there was a holiday air, for the mines and the ranches had paid off that evening in anticipation of election day on the morrow.

  At either end of town was a final political rally. At one end Sheriff Horton, candidate for re-election, held forth. At the opposite end, Amado Capistrano, who was seeking the office of sheriff, planned to address a huge crowd made up chiefly of mill and mine workers. Dark faces were predominant in that crowd and there were more “vivas” heard than “hurrahs!”

  Jim Hatfield, lounging on the outskirts of the crowd, chuckled to himself.

  “Amado’s got four times the turnout Horton has,” he grinned. “If this is the way things are going in the river towns, he’ll win hands down. Looks like Señor Chadwick might find a tangle in his rope before he’s finished.”

  Excited cheering broke forth, and a moment later Amado Capistrano mounted the low platform and stood smiling his melancholy smile. He began speaking in his musical voice and the crowd hushed expectantly. The western peaks were wreathed in shadow now and the dusk was purply thick.

  Hatfield was suddenly conscious of a low drumming filtering out of the deepening dusk. He turned in surprise, his eyes narrowing.

  “Horses,” he muttered, “lots of them, and coming fast.”

  Others had heard the sound and were glancing in the direction of the San Simon Trail. The sound swiftly grew louder. Something huge and menacing loomed against the gray surface of the trail.

  What happened next did so with paralyzing suddenness. Out of the night burst a compact band of mounted men. Straight for the crowd about the platform they rode, quirting their horses, shouting loudly.

  Panic was immediate and universal. Men fought madly to escape the churning hoofs of the horses and the slashing quirts of the riders. Many fell and were trampled by their frenzied companions or ridden down by the horses. The platform went to pieces with a crash and in the glare of the falling flares, Hatfield saw a rope snake through the air, the loop settling about Amado Capistrano’s shoulders. The hunchback was hurled to the ground and jerked along it as the rope tightened.

  Jim Hatfield streaked across the intervening space like a flickering shadow. He seized the rope with both sinewy hands and surged backward with all his iron strength. The horse which drew it, just getting under way, faltered in his stride.

  Again the Ranger put forth every ounce of his strength. The muscles of his splendid back and shoulders stood out like writhing snakes. The veins of his forehead were big as cords. One final mighty effort. The saddle girth burst and rider and saddle hurtled to the ground.

  The man lit on his head, flopped over on his side and lay with twitching limbs, his neck twisted to a horrid, unnatural angle. Capistrano and the Ranger sprawled together, the coils of the loosened rope tangled about them.

  Rifles crashed a volley and lead stormed over the prostrate pair. Yells of agony arose from the milling crowd. Again the rifles crashed, and again cries of pain followed the blast of lead. Hatfield, rolling over on his side, jerked both his guns and emptied them after the fleeing horsemen. Other shots sounded, but the mysterious band was already out of range. The rope wielder, a sinewy young Mexican, appeared to have been their only casualty.

  Men from the other end of town were running down the street. As Hatfield helped the badly shaken Capistrano to his feet, Sheriff Horton pounded up.

  “It’s too bad that you fellers can’t hold a political meetin’ without turnin’ it into a riot!” he bellowed. “What is goin’ on here, anyhow?”

  Jim Hatfield glanced down at him from his great height.

  “Horton,” he drawled, “some day you’re going to head in the wrong direction so fast you’ll meet yourself coming back!”

  That night it rained, and all the next day. Toward evening, Ama
do Capistrano’s election headquarters were as gloomy as the day. The river towns had registered a mere trickle of votes, and the turnout of miners in Helidoro was negligible.

  “Horton wins, hands down,” the conceded with a wry smile. “I imagine they’re having quite a celebration over at the town hall.”

  Jim Hatfield dropped into the hall a little later. Sheriff Horton, his mouth stretched in a grin of triumph, was speaking from the stage.

  “That’s all I got to say, boys,” he concluded, “I jest say, ‘much obliged,’ and yuh done yoreselves proud. Now I want yuh to listen to somebody else for a spell. I want yuh to listen to the Honorable John Chadwick, our next governor!”

  As Chadwick arose from his chair and cheers rocked the building, the Lone Wolf smiled thinly with his lips — his eyes were icy cold — and left the room.

  CHAPTER 16

  TWO DAYS later, Hatfield rode back to San Rosita. He found his friend the bartender in the little cantina all smiles. Instead of serving Hatfield’s drink at the bar, he hurried him to a table in a corner.

  “Be pleased to sit, señor,” he bobbed. “I will return with the much speed.”

  Summoning an assistant to take over the bar, he hurried from the room. Hatfield sipped his drink reflectively and waited. Soon the bartender returned. He brought with him a sinewy, dark little man with lank black hair, high cheekbones and glittering black eyes.

  “Thees ees Pancho,” he introduced. “He would speak with the señor.”

  Pancho, whom Hatfield placed as an almost pure Yaqui Indian, sat down diffidently and accepted a drink. He stared steadily at the tall Ranger, his black eyes inscrutable. After his first greeting, Hatfield said nothing. He was content to let Pancho begin the conversation. He did so in a surprising manner.

  “Señor,” he said softly, “the Señor Shafter whom you seek was of the Rangers?”

  Hatfield returned the Yaqui’s steady gaze. “What makes you think so?” he parried. Pancho’s eyes did not waver.

  “The Señor Webb, he too was of the Rangers and,” the Yaqui added, “the Señor Webb was my friend. He saved my little daughter from the river. Si, he was my amigo.”

  “I begin to understand,” replied Hatfield.

  Pancho leaned close.

  “You, too, tall señor, are of the Rangers,” he whispered. “Pancho has eyes that see much. Pancho knows! You come to avenge your brothers. Si, it is so?”

  Hatfield made a quick decision. He decided the little man was trustworthy and his affection for the slain Ranger, Dick Webb, was undoubtedly real. The hatred that burned in his black eyes when he spoke of avenging Webb’s murder was too vibrantly real to be simulated.

  “Yes, I come to avenge,” he replied simply, employing the terms Pancho would understand and appreciate. “I have to find the men that did it.”

  “Pancho knows,” said the Yaqui. “Pancho told the Señor Shafter. He departed and returned not. Perhaps the tall señor knows where he may be found?”

  “Yes, I know where he can be found,” Hatfield replied briefly. “It’s the men who killed him and Webb I’m interested in, Pancho.”

  The little Yaqui leaned forward, his eyes glowing.

  “Listen, Señor,” he whispered. “Listen closely — ”

  Under cover of darkness, Hatfield and the Yaqui left town. Hatfield rode his tall sorrel horse, but the little tracker trotted easily at his stirrup, scorning the mount Hatfield offered to obtain for him.

  “When the caballo falls with rolling eyes and heaving sides, Pancho runs on and is not tired,” he declared proudly in Spanish.

  “I believe you,” Hatfield nodded, glancing at the coiling ropes of muscle that showed plainly through the thin pantaloons the Yaqui wore.

  North by west they travelled, under the golden stars that studded the purple-blue vault of the sky; until the stars faded in the dawn of a new day. They were among the gaunt Tamarra Hills now, and as the east brightened Pancho stealthily led the way to the lip of a great hollow brimful with purple shadows.

  At Pancho’s advice, Hatfield tethered Goldy in a dense thicket. Then he crouched on the lip of the hollow beside the Yaqui and waited while daylight brightened, revealing the hollow to be grass grown and dense with undergrowth. Through the undergrowth ran a trail, twisting up the far slope and vanishing into a dark opening beneath a huge overhang of reddish stone.

  “It is there they meet and plan,” whispered the Yaqui. “There their stores are kept. It is from there that they ride forth to do evil.”

  “Regular hole-in-the-wall outfit,” muttered Hatfield. “They — say, there’s something coming out of there now!”

  Tense, eager, the Ranger and the Yaqui tracker watched the long line of loaded pack mules wind from the dark cavern opening. Each mule was half hidden beneath a great rawhide aparejo, or kyack, as cowboys often called the unwieldy pack sacks.

  More than a score of the sturdy animals emerged from the cave, trotted across the hollow and vanished over its lip. Beside and behind the mules rode dark-faced, watchful men. When the last had dipped over the lip of the hollow, Pancho turned a bewildered face to the Ranger.

  “Señor, I know not what that may mean,” he said.

  “I have a notion, Pancho, and a good hunch,” Hatfield replied, his eyes glowing with excitement. “We’ve got to see inside that-cave. I wonder if anybody is left behind on guard.”

  “No, señor, I would say,” replied the Yaqui, “but Pancho will soon learn. Wait here!”

  Like a stealthy snake he was gone, worming through the undergrowth, vanishing from sight almost instantly. It was half an hour or more before he reappeared.

  “Señor, there is no one,” he reported. “I am sure.”

  Taking advantage of all possible cover, Hatfield followed him to the cave mouth. It was dark and silent. Pancho pointed out a heap of torches stacked in a cleft beside the entrance. They lighted one and stole along the comparatively narrow tunnel. The tunnel abruptly opened into a wide room with a lofty ceiling. The floor was level and smooth from the action of water in years gone by. Hatfield glanced about with increasing interest. Pancho exclaimed sharply as they approached a wall.

  Row on row stood scores of shiny new rifles of the same model as provided for United States Army use but lacking the army stamp and serial numbers.

  “They’re made in this country, shipped into Mexico to a captain of rurales, the manufacturers thinking they’re for Mexican Government service,” Hatfield explained. “Then they’re smuggled back across the Line and used to equip this outlaw gang. That way, they don’t attract any attention, as they would if they were shipped to somebody this side the Line. I guess each member of the gang is responsible for the gun issued to him and catches plenty if anything happens to it. That’s why that little Mex I found with one in the desert was so scared about it getting away from him.”

  Pancho nodded his understanding. He pointed to a stack of heavy square boxes.

  “Cartridges,” Hatfield replied. “That’s the kind of box I saw on the mules the night I was shot at there on the Huachuca Trail. I stumbled on part of this outfit and they let drive at me.”

  They were working their way toward the back of the great room. A moment later Hatfield gave an exclamation of satisfaction. He indicated two heavy cables stretching from a narrow gallery that opened onto the main room.

  “That’s just what I suspected,” he exulted. “Pancho, those mules we saw were loaded with ore from the Cibola mine. It comes in over those cables, somehow. Let’s go see how it’s done.”

  They lighted another torch and entered the gallery. For nearly a mile they followed it, the cables stretching on overhead. Pancho suddenly uttered a sharp grunt. Both halted instinctively.

  Almost at their feet yawned a dark gulf that seemed to be bottomless. Hatfield kicked a stone over the edge and, long moments later, a faint, muffled splash hissed up to them from the black depths.

  “Lord, what a hole!” growled the Ranger, “and look at the t
rail that leads past it.”

  Hugging the sheer wall was a narrow track over which the cables passed on supporting piles sunk into the crumbling stone.

  Gingerly, they edged out onto the ledge. For nearly a hundred yards it skirted the gulf. Then the unbroken floor of the gallery began once more. A slight distance further on the natural tunnel widened and the torch light revealed the simple but ingenious method utilized for robbing the Cibola mine of high-grade ore.

  Twin lines of cables similar to the conveyor lines stretching down the canyon and the wash to Helidoro ran toward the graying opening which was the cleft Hatfield had noted when examining the spilled ore beneath the conveyor line. There was a simple switch and cutback which could easily splice into the main conveyor lines. Along this cutback, loaded buckets of ore could be detoured from the conveyor line and other buckets loaded with base rock switched onto the line in their place. The buckets of rich ore were routed along the cables to the great room where the guns and ammunition were kept. There they were rifled of their precious contents and worthless rock substituted. The scheme was disarmingly simple, once it was understood.

  “But it took a mighty smart engineer to figure that out,” declared Hatfield. “I suppose this tunnel through the hills was taken into consideration when the conveyor lines were run. I wondered, the first time I saw them, why they swung over here by the cliffs. It would have been a more direct route to have run them further south.”

  The torch was burning low and they hurried back toward the main cave. Hatfield took time, however, to closely examine the crumbling ledge which skirted the gulf. The huge overhang of stone at the cavern mouth also excited his interest. He stared at it with calculating eyes and studied the trail that dipped across the hollow.

  “When they’re all here, it means nearly a hundred fighting men, well armed and ready for anything,” he mused. “Routing them out and putting them under arrest would be a mighty bloody business and peace officers’ blood isn’t to be wasted. Maybe a little brains will take the place of it.”