by Zane Grey
But one cannot sleep well with a tropic sun in the heavens, and since there was really nothing for her to do until the heat abated, Alaire, when she awoke, obliged the Ranger to amuse her.
Although she was in fact younger than he, married life had matured her, and she treated him therefore like a boy. Law did not object. Mrs. Austin’s position in life was such that most men were humble in her presence, and now her superior wisdom seemed to excite the Ranger’s liveliest admiration. Only now and then, as if in an unguarded moment, did he appear to forget himself and speak with an authority equaling her own. What he said at such times indicated either a remarkably retentive memory or else an ability to think along original lines too rare among men of his kind to be easily credited.
For instance, during a discussion of the Mexican situation—and of course their talk drifted thither, for at the moment it was the one vitally interesting topic along the border—he excused the barbarous practices of the Mexican soldiers by saying:
“Of course they’re cruel, vindictive, treacherous, but after all there are only a hundred and forty generations between us and Adam; only a hundred and forty lifetimes since the Garden of Eden. We civilized peoples are only a lap or two ahead of the uncivilized ones. When you think that it takes ten thousand generations to develop a plant and root out some of its early heredities, you can see that human beings have a long way yet to go before they become perfect. We’re creatures of environment, just like plants. Environment has made the Mexican what he is.”
Certainly this was an amazing speech to issue from a sun-browned cowboy sitting cross-legged under a mesquite-tree.
From under her hat-brim Alaire Austin eyed the speaker with a curiosity into which there had come a vague hostility. For the moment she was suspicious and piqued, but Law did not appear to notice, and as he talked on her doubts gradually subsided.
“You said, last night, that you were born on the other side?” She inclined her ruddy head to the west.
“Yes’m. My father was a mining man, and he done well over there until he locked horns with the Guadalupes. Old Don Enrique and him had a run-in at the finish, over some land or something. It was when the Don was gobbling all the property in the state, and laying the foundation for his big fortune. You know he had permission from the president to steal all the land he cared to, just like the rest of those local governors had. Well, Guadalupe tried to run my people out.”
“Did he succeed?”
“No’m. He killed ’em, but they stayed.”
“Not—really?” The listener was shocked. “American citizens, too?”
“Times wasn’t much different then than now. There’s plenty of good Americans been killed in Mexico and nothing done about it, even in our day. I don’t know all the details—never could get ’em, either—for I was away at school; but after I came back from the Philippines the Madero fuss was just brewing, so I went over and joined it. But it didn’t last long, and there wasn’t enough fighting to suit me. I’ve been back, off and on, since, and I’ve burned a good deal of Guadalupe property and swum a good many head of Guadalupe stock.”
As the morning progressed Law proved himself an interesting companion, and in spite of the discomforts of the situation the hours slipped past rapidly. Luncheon was a disagreeable meal, eaten while the arroyo baked and the heat devils danced on the hills; but the unpleasantness was of brief duration, and Law always managed to banish boredom. Nor did he seem to waste a thought upon the nature of that grim business which brought him to this place. Quite the contrary, in the afternoon he put his mare through her tricks for Alaire’s edification, and gossiped idly of whatever interested his guest.
Then as the sun edged to the west and Mrs. Austin became restless, he saddled Bessie Belle and led her down the gulch into a safer covert.
Returning, he carefully obliterated all traces of the camp. He watered the ashes of the fire, gathered up the tell-tale scraps of paper and fragments of food, and then when the place suited him fell to examining his rifle.
Alaire watched him with interest. “Where shall I go,” she asked, “and what shall I do?”
“You just pick out a good cover beyond the water-hole and stay there, ma’am. It may be a long wait, for something may have happened. If so we’ll have to lie close. And don’t worry yourself none, ma’am; he won’t make no trouble.”
The afternoon drew to a close. Gradually the blinding white glare of the sun lessened and yellowed, the shadow of the bluffs began to stretch out. The shallow pool lay silent, deserted save for furtive little shapes that darted nervously out of the leaves, or for winged visitors that dropped out of the air.
With the sunset there came the sound of hoofs upon loose stones, branches rustled against breasting bodies, and Mrs. Austin cowered low in her hiding-place. But it was only the advance-guard of a bunch of brush cattle coming to water. They paused at a distance, and nothing except their thirst finally overcame their suspicions. One by one they drifted into sight, drank warily at the remotest edge of the tanque, then, alarmed at some imaginary sight or sound, went clattering up the ravine.
Once again the water-hole lay sleeping.
Alaire’s retreat was far from comfortable; there was an ants’ nest somewhere near her and she thought of moving; but suddenly her breath caught and her heart jumped uncontrollably. She crouched lower, for directly opposite her position, and outlined against the sky where the sharp ridge cut it, was the figure of a mounted man. Rider and horse were silhouetted against the pearl-gray heaven like an equestrian statue. How long they had been there Alaire had no faintest notion. Perhaps it was their coming which had alarmed the cattle. She was conscious that a keen and hostile pair of eyes was searching the coverts surrounding the charco. Then, as silently as it had appeared, the apparition vanished beyond the ridge, and Alaire wondered if the rider had taken alarm. She earnestly hoped so; this breathless vigil was getting on her nerves, and the sight of that threatening figure had set her pulses to throbbing. The rider was on his guard, that was plain; he was armed, too, and probably desperate. The ominous possibilities of this ambush struck her forcibly.
Alaire lay close, as she had been directed, praying that the horseman had been warned; but shortly she heard again the rustle of stiff branches, and out into the opening rode a Mexican. He was astride a wiry gray pony, and in the strong twilight Alaire could see his every feature—the swarthy cheeks, the roving eyes beneath the black felt hat. A carbine lay across his saddle-horn, a riata was coiled beside his leg, a cartridge-belt circled his waist. There was something familiar about the fellow, but at the moment Alaire could not determine what it was.
After one swift appraising glance the new-comer rode straight to the verge of the water-hole and dismounted; then he and his horse drank side by side.
It was the moment for a complete and effective surprise, but nothing happened. Why didn’t Law act? Alaire bent low, straining eyes and ears, but no command came from the Ranger. After a while the traveler rose to his feet and stretched his limbs. Next he walked to the ashes of the fire and looked down at them, stirring them with his toe. Apparently satisfied, he lit a cigarette.
Could it be that something had gone wrong with the Ranger’s plan? Had something happened to him? Alaire was startled by the possibility; this delay was beyond her comprehension.
Then, as if in answer to her perplexity, a second horseman appeared, and the woman realized how simply she had been fooled.
III
WHAT HAPPENED AT THE WATER-HOLE
The new-comers exchanged a word or two in Spanish, then the second rider flung himself from his saddle and made for the water. He was lying prone and drinking deeply when out of nowhere came a sharp command.
“Oiga! Hands up, both of you!”
The first arrival jumped as if a rattlesnake had buzzed at his back, the second leaped to his feet with a
n oath; they stared in the direction whence the voice had come.
“Drop your gun, companero!” The order was decisive; it was directed at the man who had first appeared, for the other had left his Winchester in its scabbard.
Both Mexicans cried, as if at a cue, “Who speaks?”
“A Ranger.”
The fellow Law had addressed let fall his rifle; two pairs of dark hands rose slowly. Then the Ranger went on in Spanish:
“Anto, lower your left hand and unbuckle your belt.” Anto did as he was told, his revolver and cartridge-belt dropped to the ground. “And you, compadre, do the same. Mind you, the left hand! Now face about and walk to the charco, both of you. Good!”
Law stepped into view, his Winchester in the crook of his arm. He emptied the three discarded weapons, then, walking to Anto’s horse, he removed the second carbine from beneath the saddle-flap and ejected its shells into his palm.
This done, he addressed the stranger. “Now, friend, who are you, and why are you riding with this fellow?”
“My name is Panfilo Sanchez, señor. Before God, I have done nothing.” The speaker was tremendously excited.
“Well, Panfilo, that will take some proving,” the Ranger muttered.
“What do you say?”
The gist of this statement having been repeated in Spanish, both prisoners burst into clamorous explanation of their presence together. Panfilo, it seemed, had encountered his companion purely by chance, and was horrified now to learn that his newly made friend was wanted by the authorities. In the midst of his incoherent protestations Mrs. Austin appeared.
“He is telling you the truth, Mr. Law,” she said, quietly. “He is one of my men.”
Both Mexicans looked blank. At sight of the speaker their mouths fell open, and Panfilo ceased his gesticulations.
Mrs. Austin went on: “He is my horse-breaker’s cousin. He couldn’t have had any part in that murder in Jim Wells County, for he was at Las Palmas when I left.”
Panfilo recovered from his amazement, removed his sombrero, and blessed his employer extravagantly; then he turned triumphantly upon his captor. “Behold!” cried he. “There you have the truth. I am an excellent, hard-working man and as honest as God.”
“Surely you don’t want him,” Alaire appealed to Law. “He was probably helping his countryman to escape—but they all do that, you know.”
“All right! If he’s your man, that’s enough,” Dave told her. “Now then, boys, it will soon be dark and we’ll need some supper before we start. It won’t hurt Anto’s horse to rest a bit, either. You are under arrest,” he added, addressing the latter. “You understand what that means?”
“Si, señor!”
“I won’t tie you unless—”
“No, señor!” Anto understood perfectly, and was grateful.
“Well, then, build a fire, and you, Panfilo, lend a hand. The señora will need a cup of tea, for we three have a long ride ahead of us.”
No time was lost. Both Mexicans fell to with a will, and in a surprisingly short time water was boiling. When it came Law’s turn to eat, Alaire, who was eager to be gone, directed her employee to fetch the Ranger’s horse. Panfilo acquiesced readily and buckled on his cartridge-belt and six-shooter. He was about to pick up his rifle, too, but finding Law’s eyes inquiringly fixed upon him, he turned with a shrug and disappeared down the arroyo. It was plain that he considered his friendly relations well established and resented the Ranger’s suspicion.
“How long has that fellow been working for you?” Law jerked his head in the direction Panfilo had taken.
“Not long. I—don’t know much about him,” Alaire confessed. Then, as if in answer to his unspoken question, “But I’m sure he’s all right.”
“Is he looking up range for you?”
“N-no! I left him at the ranch. I don’t know how he came to be here, unless—It is rather strange!”
Dave shot a swift, interrogatory glance at Panfilo’s traveling companion, but Anto’s face was stony, his black eyes were fixed upon the fire.
With an abrupt gesture Law flung aside the contents of his cup and strode to Panfilo’s horse, which stood dejectedly with reins hanging.
“Where are you—going?” Alaire rose nervously.
It was nearly dark now; only the crests of the ridges were plain against the luminous sky; in the brushy bottom of the arroyo the shadows were deep. Alaire had no wish to be left alone with the prisoner.
With bridle-rein and carbine in his left hand, the Ranger halted, then, stooping for Anto’s discarded cartridge-belt, he looped it over his saddle-horn. He vaulted easily into the seat, saying:
“I hid that mare pretty well. Your man may not be able to find her.” Then he turned his borrowed horse’s head toward the brush.
Anto had squatted motionless until this moment; he had not even turned his eyes; but now, without the slightest warning, he uttered a loud call. It might have served equally well as a summons or as an alarm, but it changed the Ranger’s suspicions into certainty. Dave uttered an angry exclamation, then to the startled woman he cried:
“Watch this man! He can’t hurt you, for I’ve got his shells.” To his prisoner he said, sharply: “Stay where you are! Don’t move!” The next instant he had loped into the brush on the tracks of Panfilo Sanchez, spurring the tired gray pony into vigorous action.
It was an uncomfortable situation in which Alaire now found herself. Law was too suspicious, she murmured to herself; he was needlessly melodramatic; she felt exceedingly ill at ease as the pony’s hoof-beats grew fainter. She was not afraid of Anto, having dealt with Mexican vaqueros for several years, yet she could not forget that he was a murderer, and she wondered what she was expected to do if he should try to escape. It was absurd to suppose that Panfilo, her own hired man, could be capable of treachery; the mere suspicion was a sort of reflection upon her.
Alaire was startled by hearing other hoof-beats now; their drumming came faint but unmistakable. Yes, there were two horses racing down the arroyo. Anto, the fugitive, rose to his feet and stared into the dusk. “Sit down!” Alaire ordered, sharply. He obeyed, muttering beneath his breath, but his head was turned as if in an effort to follow the sounds of the pursuit.
Next came the distant rattle of loosened stones—evidently one horse was being urged toward the open high ground—then the peaceful quiet evening was split by the report of Law’s thirty-thirty. Another shot followed, and then a third. Both Alaire and her prisoner were on their feet, the woman shaking in every limb, the Mexican straining his eyes into the gloom and listening intently.
Soon there came a further echo of dry earth and gravel dislodged, but whether by Law’s horse or by that of Sanchez was uncertain. Perhaps both men had gained the mesa.
It had all happened so quickly and so unexpectedly that Alaire felt she must be dreaming, or that there had been some idiotic mistake. She wondered if the Ranger’s sudden charge had not simply frightened Panfilo into a panicky flight, and she tried to put her thoughts into words the Mexican would understand, but his answer was unintelligible. His black scowl, however, was eloquent of uncertainty and apprehension.
Alaire had begun to feel the strain of the situation and was trying to decide what next to do, when David Law came riding out of the twilight. He was astride the gray; behind him at the end of a lariat was Bessie Belle, and her saddle was empty.
Mrs. Austin uttered a sharp cry.
Law dismounted and strode to the prisoner. His face was black with fury; he seemed gigantic in his rage. Without a word he raised his right hand and cuffed the Mexican to his knees. Then he leaped upon him, as a dog might pounce upon a rabbit, rolled him to his face, and twisted the fellow’s arms into the small of his back. Anto cursed, he struggled, but he was like a child in the Ranger’s grasp. Law knelt upon him, and wit
h a jerk of his riata secured the fellow’s wrists; rising, he set the knot with another heave that dragged the prisoner to his knees. Next he booted Anto to his feet.
“By God! I’ve a notion to bend a gun over your head,” Law growled. “Clever little game, wasn’t it?”
“Where—? Did you—kill him?” the woman gasped.
Alaire had never beheld such a demoniac expression as Law turned upon her. The man’s face was contorted, his eyes were blazing insanely, his chest was heaving, and for an instant he seemed to include her in his anger. Ignoring her inquiry, he went to his mare and ran his shaking hands over her as if in search of an injury; his questing palms covered every inch of glistening hide from forelock to withers, from shoulder to hoof, and under cover of this task he regained in some degree his self-control.
“That hombre of yours—didn’t look right to me,” he said, finally. Laying his cheek against Bessie Belle’s neck, as a woman snuggles close to the man of her choice, he addressed the mare: “I reckon nobody is going to steal you, eh? Not if I know it. No, sir; that hombre wasn’t any good, was he?”
Alaire wet her lips. “Then you—shot him?”
Law laughed grimly, almost mockingly. “Say! He must be a favorite of yours?”
“N-no! I hardly knew the fellow. But—did you?”
“I didn’t say I shot him,” he told her, gruffly. “I warned him first, and he turned on me—blew smoke in my face. Then he took to the brush, afoot, and—I cut down on him once more to help him along.”
“He got away?”
“I reckon so.”
“Oh, oh!” Alaire’s tone left no doubt of her relief. “He was always a good man—”
“Good? Didn’t he steal my horse? Didn’t he aim to get me at the first chance and free his compadre? That’s why he wanted his Winchester. Say! I reckon he—needs killin’ about as much as anybody I know.”
“I can’t understand it.” Alaire sat down weakly. “One of my men, too.”