"Got to kill to live," he reiterated.
"Como 'sta, señor?" Old Flores had just stepped from behind the crumbling 'dobe wall of the stable.
"Well, it ain't your fault I ain't a-furnishin' a argument for the coyotes."
"The señor would insult Boca. He was drunk," said Flores.
"Hold on there! Don't you go cantelopin' off with any little ole idea like that sewed up in your hat. Which señor was drunk?"
Flores shrugged his shoulders. "Who may say?" he half-whined.
"Well, I can, for one," asserted Pete. "You was drunk and Malvey was drunk, and the two of you dam' near fixed me. But that don't count—now. Where's my hoss?"
"Quien sabe?"
"You make me sick," said Pete in English. Flores caught the word "sick" and thought Pete was complaining of his physical condition.
"The señor is welcome to rest and get well. What is done is done, and cannot be mended. But when the señor would ride, I can find a horse—a good horse and not a very great price."
"I'm willin' to pay," said Pete, who thought that he had already pretty well paid for anything he might need.
"And a good saddle," continued Flores.
"I'm usin' my own rig," stated Pete.
"It is the saddle, there, that I would sell to the señor." The old Mexican gestured toward Pete's own saddle.
Pete was about to retort hastily when he reconsidered. The only way to meet trickery was with trickery. "All right," he said indifferently. "You'll sure get all that is comin' to you."
CHAPTER XXII
"A DRESS—OR A RING, PERHAPS"
All that day Pete lay in the shade of the 'dobe feigning indifference to Boca as she brought him water and food, until even she was deceived by his listlessness, fearing that he had been seriously injured. Not until evening did he show any sign of interest in her presence. With the shadows it grew cooler. Old Flores sat in the doorway smoking. His wife sat beside him, gazing at the far rim of the evening cañon. Presently she rose and stepped round to where Pete and Boca were talking. "You will go," said Boca's mother abruptly. "Boca shall find a horse for you."
Pete, taken by surprise,—Boca's mother had spoken just when Pete had asked Boca where her father kept the horses,—stammered an acknowledgment of her presence; but the Mexican woman did not seem to hear him. "To-night," she continued, "Boca will find a horse. It is good that you go—but not that you go to Showdown."
"I sure want to thank you both. But, honest, I wouldn't know where else to go but to Showdown. Besides, I got a hunch Malvey was headed that way."
"That is as a man speaks," said the señora. "My man was like that once—but now—"
"I'm broke—no dineros," said Pete.
"It is my horse that he shall have—" Boca began.
But her mother interrupted quietly. "The young señor will return—and there are many ways to pay. We are poor. You will not forget us. You will come again, alone in the night. And it is not Malvey that will show you the way."
"Not if I see him first, señora."
"You jest—but even now you would kill Malvey if he were here."
"You sure are tellin' Malvey's fortune," laughed Pete. "Kin you tell mine?"
"Again you jest—but I will speak. You will not kill Malvey, yet you shall find your own horse. You will be hunted by men, but you will not always be as you are now. Some day you will have wealth, and then it is that you will remember this night. You will come again at night, and alone—but Boca will not be here. You will grow weary of life from much suffering, even as I. Then it is that you will think of these days and many days to come—and these days shall be as wine in your old age—" Boca's mother paused as though listening. "But like wine—" and again she paused.
"Headache?" queried Pete. "Well, I know how that feels, without the wine. That fortune sounds good to me—all except that about Boca. Now, mebby you could tell me which way Malvey was headed?"
"He has ridden to Showdown."
"So that red-headed hoss-thief fanned it right back to his boss, eh? He must 'a' thought I was fixed for good."
"It is his way. Men spake truly when they called him the bull. He is big—but he is as a child."
"Well, there's goin' to be one mighty sick child for somebody to nurse, right soon," stated Pete.
"I have said that it is bad that you ride to Showdown. But you will go there—and he whom men call The Spider—he shall be your friend—even with his life."
As quietly as she came the Mexican woman departed, leaving Boca and Pete gazing at each other in the dusk. "She makes me afraid sometimes," whispered Boca.
"Sounds like she could jest plumb see what she was talkin' about. Kind of second-sight, I reckon. Wonder why she didn't put me wise to Malvey when I lit in here with him? It would 'a' saved a heap of trouble."
"It is the dream," said Boca. "These things she has seen in a dream."
"I ain't got nothin' against your ole—your mother, Boca, but by the way I'm feelin', she's sure due to have a bad one, right soon."
"You do not believe?" queried Boca quite seriously.
"Kind of—half. I don't aim to know everything."
"She said you would come back," and Boca smiled.
"That dream'll sure come true. I ain't forgettin'. But I ain't goin' to wait till you're gone."
Boca touched Pete's hand. "And you will bring me a present. A dress—or a ring, perhaps?"
"You kin jest bank on that! I don't aim to travel where they make 'em reg'lar, but you sure get that present—after I settle with Malvey."
"That is the way with men," pouted Boca. "They think only of the quarrel."
"You got me wrong, señorita. I don't want to kill nobody. The big idee is to keep from gittin' bumped off myself. Now you'd think a whole lot of me if I was to ride off and forgit all about what Malvey done?"
"I would go with you," said Boca softly.
"Honest? Well, you'd sure make a good pardner." Pete eyed the girl with a new interest. Then he shook his head. "I—you'd sure make a good pardner—but it would be mighty tough for you. I'd do most anything—but that. You see, Chicita, I'm in bad. I'm like to get mine most any time. And I ain't no ladies' man—nohow."
"But you will come back?" queried Boca anxiously.
"As sure as you're livin'! Only you want to kind o' eddicate your ole man to handle bottles more easy-like. He ought to know what they're made for."
"Your head—it is cool," said Boca, reaching up and touching Pete's forehead.
"Oh, I'm feelin' fine, considerin'."
"Then I am happy," said Boca.
Pete never knew just how he happened to find Boca's hand in his own. But he knew that she had a very pretty mouth, and fine eyes; eyes that glowed softly in the dusk. Before he realized what had happened, Boca was in his arms, and he was telling her again and again that "he sure would come back."
She murmured her happiness as he kissed her awkwardly, and quickly, as though bidding her a hasty farewell. But she would not let him go with that. "Mi amor! Mi corazone!" she whispered, as she clasped her hands behind his head and gently drew his mouth to hers.
Pete felt embarrassed, but his embarrassment melted in the soft warmth of her affection and he returned her kisses with all the ardor of youth. Suddenly she pushed him away and rose. Her mother had called her.
"About twelve," whispered Pete. "Tell your ole man I'll bush out here. It's a heap cooler."
She nodded and left him. Pete heard Flores speak to her gruffly.
"Somebody ought to put that ole side-of bacon in the well," soliloquized Pete. "I could stand for the ole lady, all right, and Boca sure is a lily … but I was forgettin' I got to ride to Showdown to-night."
CHAPTER XXIII
THE DEVIL-WIND
As Pete lay planning his departure—he wondered if Boca would think to find him a canteen and food for his long ride—the stars, hitherto clear-edged and brilliant, became blurred as though an almost invisible mist had drifted between them a
nd the earth. He rubbed his eyes. Yes, there was no mistake about it. He was wide awake, and the sky was changing. That which had seemed a mist now appeared more like a fine dust, that swept across the heavens and dimmed the desert sky. It occurred to him that he was at the bottom of a fairly deep cañon and that that impalpable dust meant wind, A little later he heard it,—at first a faint, far-away sound like the whisper of many voices; then a soft, steady hiss as when wind-driven sand runs over sand. A hot wind sprang up suddenly and swept with a rush down the night-walled cañon. It was the devil-wind of the desert, the wind that curls the leaf and shrivels the vine, even in the hours when there is no sun. When the devil-wind drives, men lie naked beneath the sky in sleepless misery. Horses and cattle stand with heads lowered and flanks drawn in, suffering an invisible torture from which there is no escape. The dawn brings no relief—no freshening of the air. The heat drives on—three days—say those who know the southern desert—and no man rides the trails, but seeks what shade may be, and lies torpid and silent—or if he speaks, it is to curse the land.
Pete knew that this devil-wind would make old Flores restless. He stepped round to the doorway and asked for water. From the darkness within the adobe came Flores's voice and the sound of a match against wood. The Mexican appeared with a candle.
"My head feels queer," stated Pete, as an excuse for disturbing Flores. "I can't find the olla—and I'm dead for a drink."
"Then we shall drink this," said Flores, fetching a jug of wine from beneath the bench.
"Not for mine! I'm dizzy enough, without that."
"It is the devil-wind. One may get drunk and forget. One may then sleep. And if one sleeps, it is not so bad."
Pete shook his head, but tasted the wine that Flores poured for him. If the old man would only get drunk enough to go to sleep… The Mexican's oily, pock-marked face glistened in the flickering candle-light. He drank and smacked his lips. "If one is to die of the heat—one might as well die drunk," he laughed. "Drink, señor!"
Pete sipped the wine and watched the other as he filled and emptied his glass again. "It is the good wine," said Flores. The candle-light cast a huge, distorted shadow of the Mexican's head and shoulders on the farther wall. The faint drone of the hot wind came to them from the plains above. The candle-flame fluttered. Flores reached down for the jug and set it on the table. "All night we shall drink of the good wine, for no man may sleep.",
"I'm with you," said Pete. "Only I ain't so swift."
"No man may sleep," reiterated Flores, again emptying his tumbler.
"How about the women-folks?" queried Pete.
Flores waved his hand in a gesture indicative of supreme indifference to what the "women-folks" did. He noticed that Pete was not drinking and insisted that he drink and refill his glass. Pete downed the raw red wine and presently complained of feeling sleepy. Flores grinned. "I do not sleep," he asserted—"not until this is gone"—and he struck the jug with his knuckles. Pete felt that he was in for a long session, and inwardly cursed his luck. Flores's eyes brightened and he grew talkative. He spoke of his youth in Old Mexico; of the cattle and the women of that land. Pete feigned a heaviness that he did not feel. Presently Flores's talk grew disconnected; his eye became dull and his swarthy face was mottled with yellow. The sweat, which had rolled down his cheeks and dripped from his nose, now seemed to coagulate in tiny, oily globules. He put down a half-empty tumbler and stared at Pete. "No man sleeps," he mumbled, as his lids drooped. Slowly his chin sank to his chest and he slumped forward against the table. Pete started to get up. Flores raised his head. "Drink—señor!" he murmured, and slumped forward, knocking the tumbler over. A dark red line streaked the table and dripped to the floor.
Something moved in the kitchen doorway. Pete glanced up to see Boca staring at him. He gestured toward her father. She nodded indifferently and beckoned Pete to follow her.
"I knew that you would think me a lie if I did not come," she told him, as they stood near the old corral—Pete's impatience to be gone evident, as he shouldered his saddle. "But you will not ride tonight. You would die."
"It's some hot—but I aim to go through."
"But no—not to-night! For three days will it be like this! It is terrible! And you have been ill."
She pressed close to him and touched his arm. "Have I not been your friend?"
"You sure have! But honest, Boca, I got a hunch that it's time to fan it. 'T ain't that I'm sore at your old man now—or want to leave you—but I got a hunch somethin' is goin' to happen."
"You think only of that Malvey. You do not think of me," complained Boca.
"I'm sure thinkin' of you every minute. It ain't Malvey that's botherin' me now."
"Then why do you not rest—and wait?"
"Because restin' and waitin' is worse than takin" a chanct. I got to go."
"You must go?"
Pete nodded.
"But what if I will not find a horse for you?"
"Then I reckon you been foolin' me right along."
"That is not so!" Boca's hand dropped to her side and she turned from him.
"'Course it ain't! And say, Boca, I'll make it through all right. All I want is a good hoss—and a canteen and some grub."
"I have made ready the food and have a canteen for you—in my room."
"Then let's go hunt up that cayuse."
"It is that you will die—" she began; but Pete, irritated by argument and the burning wind that droned through the cañon, put an end to it all by dropping the saddle and taking her swiftly in his arms. He kissed her—rather perfunctorily. "My little pardner!" he whispered.
Boca, although sixteen and mature in a sense, was in reality little more than a child. When Pete chose to assert himself, he had much the stronger will. She felt that all pleading would be useless. "You have the reata?" she queried, and turning led him past the corral and along the fence until they came to the stream. A few hundred yards down the stream she turned, and cautioning him to follow closely, entered a sort of lateral cañon—a veritable box at whose farther end was Flores's cache of horses, kept in this hidden pasture for any immediate need. Pete heard the quick trampling of hoofs and the snort of startled horses.
"We will drive them on into the corral," said Boca.
Pete could see but dimly, but he sensed the situation at once. The cañon was a box, narrowing to a natural enclosure with the open end fenced. He had seen such places—called "traps" by men who made a business of catching wild horses.
Several dim shapes bunched in the small enclosure, plunging and circling as Pete found and closed the bars.
"The yellow horse is of the desert—and very strong," said Boca.
"They all look alike to me," laughed Pete. "It's mighty dark, right now." He slipped through the bars and shook out his rope. The horses crowded away from him as he followed. A shape reared and backed. Pete flipped the noose and set his heels as the rope snapped taut. He held barely enough slack to make the snubbing-post, but finally took a turn round it and fought the horse up. "Blamed if he ain't the buckskin," panted Pete.
The sweat dripped from his face as he bridled and saddled the half-wild animal. It was doubly hard work in the dark. Then he came to the corral bars where Boca stood. "I'm all hooked up, Boca."
"Then I shall go back for the cantina and the food."
"I'll go right along with you. I'll wait at the other corral."
Pete followed her and sat a nervous horse until she reappeared, with the canteen and package of food. The hot wind purred and whispered round them. Above, the stars struggled dimly through the haze. Pete reached down and took her hand. She had barely touched his fingers when the horse shied and reared.
"If Malvey he kill you—I shall kill him!" she whispered fiercely.
"I'm comin' back," said Pete.
A shadow flung across the night; and Boca. was standing gazing into the black wall through which the shadow had plunged. Far up the trail she could hear quick hoofbeats, and presently above the dron
e of the wind came a faint musical "Adios! Adios!"
She dared not call back to him for fear of waking her father, in spite of the fact that she knew he was drugged beyond all feeling and sound. And she had her own good reason for caution. When Flores discovered his best horse gone, there would be no evidence that would entangle her or her mother in wordy argument with him for having helped the young vaquero to leave—and against the direct commands of The Spider, who had sent word to Flores through Malvey that Pete was to remain at the rancho till sent for.
At the top of the cañon trail Pete reined in and tried to get his bearings. But the horse, fighting the bit, seemed to have a clear idea of going somewhere and in the general direction of Showdown. "You ought to know the trail to Showdown," said Pete. "And you ain't tryin' to git back home, so go to it! I'll be right with you."
The heavy, hot wind seethed round him and he bent his head, tying his bandanna across his nose and mouth. The buckskin bored into the night, his unshod hoofs pattering softly on the desert trail. His first "fine frenzy" done, he settled to a swinging trot that ate into the miles ceaselessly. Twice during the ride Pete raised the canteen and moistened his burning throat. Slowly he grew numb to the heat and the bite of the whipping sand, and rode as one in a horrible dream. He had been a fool to ride from comparative safety into this blind furnace of burning wind. Why had he done so? And again and again he asked himself this question, wondering if he were going mad. It had been years and years since he had left the Flores rancho. There was a girl there—Boca Dulzura—or had he dreamed of such a girl? Pete felt the back of his head. "No, it wa'n't a dream," he told himself.
A ghastly dawn burned into Showdown, baring the town's ugliness as it crept from 'dobe to 'dobe as though in search of some living thing to torture with slow fire. The street was a wind-swept emptiness, smooth with fine sand. Pete rode to the hitching-rail. The Spider's place was dumb to his knocking. He staggered round to the western side of the saloon and squatted on his heels. "Water that pony after a while," he muttered. Strange flashes of light danced before his eyes. His head pained dully and he ached all over for lack of sleep. A sudden trampling brought him to his feet. He turned the corner of the saloon just in time to see the buckskin lunge back. The reins snapped like a thread. The pony shook its head and trotted away, circling. Pete followed, hoping that the tangle of dragging rein might stop him.
The Ridin Kid from Powder River Page 17