Conchita, the old man's daughter, brought me fresh coffee, some tortillas, and beans, placing them on a table beside me. Glad of somebody to talk to, she spoke of the town and the people. She was a bright girl, very much aware of her town and of California.
"Do you read, Conchita?"
"Yes. My mother taught me to read. She taught all of us papa, too."
"She was Spanish?"
"No, she was an Indian. She was a Chumash."
"The ones who built the red boats? And who went to Catalina and the Channel Islands?"
"Yes. They lived sometimes there, sometimes on shore.
My mother's people lived up the coast near Malibu."
We talked of the area, of her people, and of Los Angeles. From time to time I would get up and look around, for I wanted no one coming close to me unbeknownst.
"The men of business are Irish or German, most of them: she said. "Mr. Downey is the richest man, I think.
"We are poor people, senor, but we live very well here, for there is game in the mountains, and we raise our own vegetables. My grandfather has cattle, and some horses. Sometimes on Sundays we go to the Washington Gardens in Los Angeles, or to Old Santa Monica, to swim. We like the old town best"
She was leading up to something, and not just talking at random, for I had noticed that she was a young lady of purpose, rarely given to idle talk or waste motion.
"Senior," she said suddenly, "if you wish to remain close there is a cabin in the canyon nearby. It is higher up than this. My father built it, for one day he hoped to live there. It is a place no one knows, and if you wished to stay there and watch, it could be arranged."
"I have men to follow," I said doubtfully, "and I must find them."
"They will come to you, senor. Villareal looks for you, and it is not for himself. I think when he finds you he will tell them."
The vague, haunted feeling stayed with me. I had an idea I had been followed, even though I had seen no indication of it. Perhaps they had traced my actions on my previous ride ... a few inquiries might have done that, for almost no one moves entirely unseen. People are curious, wondering at strangers, or curious about anyone who is seen at unlikely times or in unlikely places.
I did not want to endanger my friends. "This place you spoke of, Old Santa Monica?" I asked Conchita. "It is near the sea?"
She explained that the trail to the plateau would take me there. The carriages would stop at Old Santa Monica Corral and at Frank's Saloon, a large pavilion with a rustic porch running across the front. There was a brook nearby and a clump of alders.
For another hour I waited, and then the old man returned leading a line-back dun, with legs black to the knee, and black mane and tail.
"Seventy dollars," he said, "and it is cheap."
When evening came to the valley below, and when lamps were being lit in the scattered houses, I said my good-byes and rode down the slope through the brush, turned off the trail, and cut across the grassland, losing myself in the shadows. It was chill, for when the sun goes down in that country the cold air comes, as it came now.
The dun went with a long, easy stride. Westward I rode, across the darkening plains, down the slope of the long hill and across the wide pastureland, until I could see the Santa Monica road, white in the moonlight, but I avoided it, holding to the north of it until the lights of the town were close.
I felt sure there would be little about the area that Villareal did not know. I rode over the plateau and down to Old Santa Monica, where there were lights in Frank's Saloon, and the sound of the surf along the beach. Dismounting at the corral, I tied my horse, and waited there in the shadows, letting my ears get used to the rustle of the leaves, the movements of the sea, and the sound of voices from the saloon. Only then did I cross the hard-packed clay of the yard and go up the steps to the wide porch.
There were half a dozen people in the saloon, several drinking at the bar, and two who sat at a table nearby with a bottle of country wine.
The table I chose was at one side, on the edge of the light. I sat down, put my hat on the chair beside me, and soon a waiter came over to my table.
When I had ordered a meal and coffee, I began to relax. It was an easy, pleasant place. The talk was friendly, and I sensed at once that it was a good place to be.
Frank I supposed it to be Frank came to my table.
"You wish to stay the night? I have rooms," he said.
"I would."
He glanced at the pistol in its holster. "You will not need that here, my friend. We are a friendly people."
"I am sure." I smiled at him. "I do not carry it for you or your people," "I said, "but for others who may come along."
"You have enemies?"
"Doesn't everyone? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. But tonight I want only to rest and listen to the sea, to eat a good dinner, to drink coffee, and to wait. Tomorrow? It is another day, and when tomorrow comes I shall go over the mountain, I think, or follow some of the Chumash trails toward Ventura."
"You know about the Chumash? They were a good people, and a daring people. There are caves in these mountains with their paintings. I have found many myself. They were not such a simple people as some would have you believe. Their lives, yes, and their customs were simple, but not their thinlcing."
When he had gone I ate and listened to a girl singing somewhere out of sight, a pleasant old song in Spanish.
Soon, after a good dinner and several cups of coffee, I was thoroughly at ease. So much so that when the stranger walked in I scarcely noticed him. Not, at least, until his face turned toward me.
It was Doc Sites.
Chapter 15
His eyes met mine across the room, and for a moment he remained still His fingers were on the bar-edge, his body close against it. I did not want to Idle him and to draw against me he must move back from the bar and turn. For the moment the advantage was mine.
"How are you Doc? Looking for me?"
He had difficulty saving it but he finally got it out "No," he said hoarsely "no, I ain't. I'm lookin' for them.
They cut out and left me They took it A'
"They aren't going to keep it Doc."
"You're damn right they ain't! I'm goin' to find them, and "
"Find who?" It was Bob Heseltine. He stepped in out of the darkness, a gun in his hand.
Behind me Bid Reese spoke. "An' you set still, Shell, or FU--
Frank had a double-barreled shotgun in his hands and it was covering Heseltine. "Your fight is your own and I want no part of it, but if you fire that pistol I'll knock you right off those steps. I just mopped this floor, and blood is hard to get up."
I tilted on the balls of my feet, clearing three legs of the chair off the floor and spinning on the other. I turned low and hard swinging my arms wide. One of them struck the Bid's wrist and knocked his arm over and I came up driving into him with all my strength.
He was slim and wiry not as strong as I was by a good bit, and my attack had taken him by surprise, his attention drawn by the bartender's sudden challenge of Heseltine. He staggered back, and I slugged him hard in the wind, my left hand gripping his gun wrist. The gun went off into the floor and I hit him again.
He lost his grip on the gun and I turned loose with both hands. I had never realized how much I wanted to hit Kid Reese. He had always treated me with contempt, and I had always known he despised me but I had not wanted to admit it. My blows were not only for him, but for the fact that I had once been stupid enough to want to be like him.
I smashed him again and again in the face and the body until he sagged to the floor, blood dripping from a broken nose, his cheek ripped open by a blow.
Then I turned sharply around. Heseltine, his gun in hand, was standing very still, Frank's shotgun held steady on his belt buckle. No man in his right mind, and especially not such a gun-canny man as Heseltine, wanted to tackle a shotgun at twelve feet "He's supposed to be very good, Frank," I said. "Let him holster his gun and then turn him l
oose. I want to see how good he is."
"Nothing doing." Frank's voice was casual. "I have no part in your troubles. I want no shooting in here."
He gestured with the muzzle. "You there! Shove that mouse back into its hole. Then you back out of here, get on your horse, and ride out One wrong move and I'll cut you in two.
"In case you want to know, by this time, my cook is settin' by the back door with a Winchester, and he'll have you dead in his sights from the moment you step outside. You ride out of here, and I don't give a damn where you go, but get out"
"As for you" he spoke to me without turning his head "you ride right after him ... and don't come back here wearing a gun. Now start moving."
Bob Heseltine backed toward the door. There he stopped. "You'll get your chance, Tucker. I'll see to that."
"Thanks, Bob," I said. "I've been wondering why you were ducking me. Your friend Al Cashion couldn't do your dirty work for you. I figured when you sent him you'd lost your nerve."
"Lost my nerve? Why, you."
"Mover Frank yelled at him. 'Note Heseltine vanished through the doorway and I turned slowly to look at Kid Reese He was on his hands and knees now, blood dripping in slow drops from his nose.
Doc Sites was still standing at the bar. He had held very still, his hands on the bar, his face dead white. He was scared ... scared stiff.
"Thanks, Frank," I said, "I'll be leaving."
"Don't thank me. Just get out, this here is a decent place. I want no shooting."
"Let these two go together," I suggested. "They deserve each other."
With that I stepped out into the darkness, listening to the fading sound of Heseltine's horse's hoofs. For a moment I waited in the shadows then crossed swiftly to the corral and pulled the drawstring on the slipknot with which I had tied my horse.
I swung into the saddle and turned up the coast I had no intention of following Heseltine into the dark and into a possible ambush. Right now I wanted to get away. The sudden flurry of fighting with Kid Reese had taken a lot of the animosity out of me.
As for Doc Sites I had nothing to do with him. He had been shot he had evidently been robbed by his former companions and he would suffer enough What would happen between him and Kid Reese I neither knew nor cared The thing I wanted was my money.
Suddenly, I wondered . . . where was that money?
Who had it now? Ruby Shaw? She had some, perhaps, but not all. I could not believe Heseltine would be so gullible.
Turning my horse into deeper darkness, I rode with caution seekin" the whit line of a trail that led along the plateau and through the brush and clumps of pin oak. And then I knees what I would do and I circled and rode hard for the hills above the La Ballona ranch.
As I rode it came to me what I had done Only a few minutes before I had challenged Bob Heseltine to a shoot-out! I had done that.
Conchita put her head out of the window as I rode into the yard. Yes, I could have a horse. Her father was gone; only her brother was here. Swiftly, I swapped horses and rode out of the yard and down the trail toward Los Angeles.
When I rode down the street, across the Plaza, and into Sonora Town, it was nearly two o'clock in the morning. I knew the house to which I was going, and I dismounted in the shadows of an alleyway nearby. Heseltine might be here, but the chances were he had not yet returned--if, indeed, he was coming back at all.
Villareal's house was dark. It was a small adobe with a porch across the front and a backyard with a board fence around it. There was a stable with a door opening to the alley.
Stepping into the stable door I stood at one side, my hand on my gun, waiting and listening.
The horses rolled their eyes at me. There was a smell of hay, of horse manure, and of sweat. I eased across the barn, speaking softly to the horses. One of them snorted a little, not loudly, but I spoke again and the horses continued with their chomping of hay.
I touched each one as I passed... and the last of the four horses was damp with sweat. It had been hard ridden, and not rubbed down.
Heseltine? Or Villareal?
I started to move on when a faint gleam from the back of the farthest horse drew my attention. It had been the first horse I had touched, when my eyes were not yet used to the darkness. I had merely put a hand on the horse's hip in passing.
Now I saw something I had not seen before. That horse was saddled.
I went back along the space behind the stalls and stepping into the last one I spoke to the horse, then patted it ... dry and cool. My hand went to the saddle, feeling the blanket. The blanket was damp.
I paused, listening. Somebody had ridden back here, riding hard. That somebody had swapped his saddle from the hard-ridden horse to a fresh horse and was evidently planning to leave at once.
He had gone into the house for something. For what?
For his gear? For food and a canteen? Or for those things, and the money as well?
Glancing around quickly, I looked for a biting place.
The stalls were divided merely by poles that were waist-high running from the wall to posts that supported the barn roof. I did not want to endanger the horses. The only place seemed beside the door.
As I turned to start for it the barn door opened, and there was a man with a lantern in one hand. a gun in the other. Over his shoulder was a pair of heavy saddlebags.
My own gun slid into my hand. "You can drop that gun," I said quietly.
Light from the lantern reflected from silver conches on the shotgun chaps. It was Villareal "No " he said.
"I do not want to shoot you, but the money is mine."
'But I have it " he replied as quietly as I had spoken.
"A dead man does not spend money " I told him.
"Nor does a dead man carry money away. You can die as well as me."
"Both of us can die " I agreed "or both of us can live.
You want the money for what it can buy you in Me,-ico.
But you know and I know that Bob Heseltine will follow you for it. and then he will kill you ... if not, you will live in fear from now on.
"If I take the money you will be as you were. You will be here. You will have what you have had, and you will have no fear."
For a moment I paused, and then I added. "I think I want that money more than you do. I think I might die to get it but I do not believe you want to die to keep it "In death." I added, "there are no pretty women.
There is no tequila, no food, no good horses, no sunshine or rain. A little money lasts a very short time, but death is for always."
"You are a philosopher," Villareal said.
"I am a man who has been robbed, a man who feels a debt to the poor men to whom this money belongs."
Quietly, there in the dark holding the gun in my hand, I
I told him of the hard-working men down in Texas, the children who must go to school, the wives who needed shoes, the hard times all must face.
"I see," he said quietly, "I did not know from whom the money had been taken."
I have followed Heseltine for many months," I said.
"My father has died because of this money. Doc Sites was shot and seriously wounded because of it. Al Cashion was killed, and another man too. As long as I live I shall follow him."
He dropped his gun into his holster. "I am a bad man, senor, but not so bad as to rob the poor. Take the money. Only a little of it is here. The girl has it."
He handed me the saddlebags, and I took them warily. "'Thank you, amigo," I said. "The men to whom this money belongs will speak well of Villareal. I shall tell them of your courtesy, and that you are a caballero."
"Gracias," he said. "And now, if you will permit?"
Backing from the door, he closed it behind him. Saddlebags in hand, I went out the other door, crossed to my horse, and rode back toward the Plaza.
I was coming from a street into the Plaza when suddenly I drew up.
It was Hampton Todd, and he had a rifle on me. "All right, where is she?" he demanded.
"Who do you want?"
"I want that damned girl, and you know where she is, damn you! Tell me, or I'll cut you down!" wish I knew where she is," I replied calmly. "I have been looking for her, and for the man she rides with."
"You're that man! You know where she is, and I want her. And I want my money."
"Your money?"
"My money!" He shouted it at me. Windows were opening. His fury was attracting attention, but it did me no good. The man was trembling with rage, and he was ready to fire. At the slightest move, he would, and at that range he could scarcely miss.
"I do not know where she is, or what was between you." I kept my voice even. "I do not deny that I followed her here, looking for the man who robbed me."
"A likely story. There was no other man you were the one!"
"Put the rifle down," I said, "and we can talk. The man you want is the man I want And where he is, the woman will be."
"No!" He lifted the rifle again. "Tell me, or I'll kill your I felt the whop of the bullet past my ear. I saw him jerk as I heard the report. His own rifle exploded. and the bullet missed me only by inches, and then he was staggering falling.
"He killed met" He spoke the words loudly and clearly, pointing at me. And then he rolled over into the dust.
Men were nmninv. Somebody yelled "Get a roper Sheriff Rowland was suddenly beside me. "All right," he said "Get ofr that horse "
"Sheriff, before I move I ask mu to check my rifle and my pistol. You will find that neither one has been fired."
"What are you trying to say?"
"Don't listen to him Rowland!" The man who spoke had obviously been drinking. His face was red and ugly-looking A dozen other men were around him. "Hamp named him pointed right at him!"
"Please, Sheriff," I said quietly.
He drew my Winchester from the scabbard. The barrel was cold, it held a bullet, the chamber was loaded. One by one he ejected the cartridges.
"As you see," I said, "the rifle has not been fired. Now the pistol before anybody touches it, including me."
Tucker (1971) Page 12