by Ralph Cotton
Sam said patiently, ‘‘A judge who has no personal interest in the case.’’
‘‘Oh,’’ said Mary Alice, looking a little embarrassed at her lack of understanding him. ‘‘I’m afraid I’m not thinking as straight as I should, Ranger. A lot has happened.’’
‘‘I understand,’’ said Sam. Leaning to one side, he looked around her and back at the travois behind her. ‘‘Who do you have back there?’’ As soon as he’d asked, he heard a low groan from the travois, followed by mindless babbling.
‘‘A bounty hunter, or so he says,’’ Mary Alice said. ‘‘He came snooping around trying to catch Tex unawares. But the dog near ate him alive. I tenderized him with a hearth poker. But I sewed him up best I could afterward,’’ she added quickly.
‘‘That was considerate of you.’’ Sam winced at the thought, but nudged his horse forward, having a good idea who he’d find lying on the travois.
‘‘His name is Tom Rojo,’’ Mary Alice said, seeing the ranger step his horse back for a closer look.
‘‘I would have guessed that, Mary Alice,’’ the ranger said. ‘‘I warn everybody not to turn their back on him. I expect I needn’t warn you.’’
‘‘No, I wouldn’t let him out of my sight,’’ Mary Alice remarked. ‘‘He’s half out of his head right now.’’
‘‘I would have guessed that too,’’ Sam said. He stopped alongside the travois and looked down at Rojo’s swollen, battered, stitched-up face, barely recognizing him. ‘‘How’s bounty hunting treating you, Tommy?’’ he asked dryly, seeing the battered man wrapped up like a mummy, save for his gruesome face.
‘‘Ranger, you’ve got to get her to turn me loose!’’ Rojo gasped. ‘‘She’s the devil! Look at me! Look what she’s done! I can’t go into town like this!’’
‘‘Careful what you ask for, Tommy,’’ said Sam, looking at the red puffiness along his stitches, the black bruises striping his face and head. ‘‘If she turned you loose out here, where would you go? What would you do?’’ He nodded at Plug, who sat watching intently. ‘‘Like as not this dog would make another run at you before you got five yards.’’
Rojo’s eyes went wildly to Plug. ‘‘Somebody needs to shoot that dog! He’s the devil! I swear he is!’’
The dog’s ears perked up, as if he knew Rojo was talking about him.
‘‘You’re talking crazy, Tommy.’’ Sam gave a faint smile. ‘‘These are not devils. She was just protecting herself, and this dog was just doing his job.’’ Circling his horse back to Mary Alice, he said, ‘‘I’m in a hurry to get back to Sibley as soon as the lineman finishes his repairs. Can you keep up?’’
‘‘If I can’t, you ride on without me,’’ Mary Alice replied. ‘‘I’d rather you get back and keep an eye on Tex. I’ll be right along.’’
‘‘Ranger, don’t leave me here!’’ Rojo begged.
Sam ignored him and asked Mary Alice, ‘‘Did you make this yourself?’’ He gestured toward the travois behind her horse.
‘‘No,’’ said Mary Alice. ‘‘I was hauling him on a wagon wheel. But yesterday an old Mexican happened along on foot and made this out of some oak saplings. Good thing too. Dragging that wheel was wearing this horse to death.’’ She patted her horse’s withers as she spoke.
‘‘That was no Mexican!’’ Rojo shouted, sounding half delirious again. ‘‘It was the devil!’’ he raved. ‘‘I saw his horns! He’s still following us! I saw him twice over there, watching us!’’ His hand raised shakily and pointed along the horizon to their left. ‘‘He’s not gone! I swear he’s not!’’
Mary Alice saw the questioning concern on Sam’s face and reassured him. ‘‘I’ll be all right, Ranger. Plug won’t let Rojo get out of hand.’’
‘‘I’m asking Lon Beck to stay behind and ride in with you,’’ Sam said.
‘‘All right,’’ said Mary Alice. ‘‘I know Lon. He’ll knock Rojo cold if he acts up.’’
‘‘Lon is the devil!’’ Rojo cried out behind them with an insane laugh. ‘‘All of yas—devils!’’
Sam shook his head. With no more to say on the matter, he turned his horse and rode back to the broken telegraph wire.
‘‘Who is that back there?’’ Beck asked, wiping his dirty hands on a cloth that hung from a leather tool belt around his waist.
‘‘That’s Mary Alice, one of the doves from the Bottoms Up in Sibley. I’m hoping you don’t mind riding back to town with her. She’s got a wounded bounty hunter named Tommy Rojo on a travois. Tex’s dog has worked him over pretty good.’’
‘‘Good for him,’’ said Beck. ‘‘I know Mary Alice. She lit out with Texas Bob. I’d be pleased to escort her on into town.’’ He loosened his tool belt and hung it over his shoulder. ‘‘I told you I’d have this fixed by the time you got back here,’’ he said.
‘‘Good work,’’ said Sam, looking up at the line, spliced and restrung from the pole.
‘‘I left a tag in case you want to send your message from here,’’ said Beck. ‘‘It’d save you some time.’’
‘‘You bet I would,’’ said Sam. He looked at a long wire hanging from the top of the pole, connected to the main line.
‘‘Then let’s get it done,’’ said Beck, taking a striker plate and telegraph key from his supplies. ‘‘I’ll have you ready in less than a minute. Just tell me what to say and I’ll tap it on out for you. It’ll be in Bisbee before you drop a rock.’’ He grinned. ‘‘Ain’t science remarkable?’’
‘‘It is,’’ Sam said seriously. Considering things, he said, ‘‘Once I get this sent, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell anyone in Sibley I sent it.’’
‘‘If the clerk is at the set, he’ll hear it,’’ said Beck. ‘‘But like as not he won’t write it down, since it’s not coming directed to anybody in Sibley.’’
‘‘Good,’’ said Sam. ‘‘I’m ready when you are.’’
The ranger had sent the message to Bisbee and headed back to Sibley by the time Mary Alice arrived at where Lon Beck sat waiting, leaned back against the pole where he’d made the repairs. The additional wire he’d attached at the pole for the ranger to tap into lay coiled at his feet. On the distant horizon all that remained of the ranger was a drift of trail dust.
‘‘Hello, Lon,’’ Mary Alice called out as she rode closer and stopped her horse a few feet away.
‘‘Good day to you, Mary Alice,’’ Beck said, tipping his sweat-stained hat. ‘‘The ranger said for me to escort you safely to Sibley, if that’s all right with you.’’
‘‘That’s all right with me, Lon,’’ said Mary Alice, ‘‘but I need to tell you right off, that me and Tex are together now.’’
‘‘Proper like?’’ Lon asked, standing, dusting the seat of his trousers. He looked her up and down while the dog circled wide, came in close and sniffed at him. Beck let the dog sniff the back of his hand, then patted the big animal on its rough head.
‘‘As proper as it gets without any words said or a preacher swearing us up,’’ said Mary Alice. She paused, then added, ‘‘I’m not in the business anymore, so if you sat there and thought yourself into a frenzy on anything happening between us on the way to town, I hate to tell you, but it ain’t going—’’
‘‘Ah, Mary Alice, you hush,’’ said Beck, cutting her off. ‘‘If you’re with Tex, that’s good enough for me.’’ He looked down at the dog, stopped scratching its head and watched it butt his hand, wanting more. ‘‘I admit I had considered it while you rode up.’’ He looked from the dog up to her. ‘‘But enough said. If you’re out of business, that’s the end of it.’’ He turned to his horse and took the mule’s lead rope in one hand. Plug stayed beside him, still butting at him.
‘‘Back, Plug,’’ Mary Alice said. But the dog continued to press for a pat on the head.
‘‘Pushy, ain’t he?’’ Beck said, rubbing the dog’s head one more time before climbing into the saddle. Plug stepped back, circled and stood beside Mary Alice.
; ‘‘He’s the devil!’’ Rojo cried out from his travois.
Beck looked back at Rojo. Once atop his horse, he led the mule around Mary Alice and looked down at the babbling, feverish bounty hunter, then winced and said, ‘‘You and this dog did all that to him?’’
‘‘Yes, we did,’’ said Mary Alice, almost apologetically. ‘‘But I sewed him up as quick as I could. I think he’ll be all right, once his fever breaks. Don’t you?’’
‘‘I expect that depends on what you call all right.’’ Beck chuckled darkly.
‘‘You are one pig-ugly sight, Mr. Rojo,’’ he said, backing his horse and mule a step, preparing to ride on to Sibley.
‘‘Ranger Burrack warns everybody not to turn their backs on him, Lon,’’ Mary Alice said as the lineman rode up bedside her.
Beck looked back over his shoulder at the securely wrapped Rojo and said, ‘‘Well, I’m always one to follow sound advice, but I think we’re safe for now.’’
Rojo raved and babbled out of his head.
Before the party of humans, horses, and the dog had traveled a mile, Beck slowed his horse and mule and said quietly to Mary Alice, ‘‘Don’t look, but somebody is tagging along with us just over the rise.’’
Staring straight ahead, Mary Alice said, ‘‘Not a band of wild Apache, I hope.’’
‘‘Naw, it’s no band of ’Pache. If it was I would never have seen them,’’ said Beck. ‘‘This is only one person, I’m thinking.’’
‘‘What are we going to do?’’ Mary Alice asked, appropriately concerned.
Beck leaned forward. ‘‘See where we go through those chimney rocks ahead?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ said Mary Alice, staying calm.
‘‘When we get in there, you take this mule and horse and I’m going to slip up on foot and find out who it is, and why they’re following us. Most likely some greedy bounty hunter like Rojo back there.’’
‘‘It’s the devil,’’ Rojo bellowed, catching only a portion of the conversation.
Beck and Mary Alice rode on for the next twenty minutes, not looking over at the rise of land parallel to them. Once the trail meandered upward through the tall chimney rocks, the lineman handed Mary Alice his reins and lead and slipped down from his saddle. ‘‘Move ahead a half mile, then circle back for me,’’ he whispered, walking alongside the mule and taking down a short-handled shovel from his tools.
‘‘What about a shotgun?’’ Mary Alice asked.
‘‘No,’’ said Beck. ‘‘I’ve got this bowie knife if I need it.’’ He patted the big knife in its fringed leather sheath on his hip. ‘‘I don’t want to make any noise, in case anybody else is out there.’’
Shovel in hand, Beck hurried up out of sight onto the thinner trail running along above them. He chose a thick chimney rock twenty feet high and took cover behind it, just off the trail. Within moments he heard footsteps crunching along the narrow rocky trail. Giving himself a tight smile for being right, he waited until the steps drew closer, then drew the shovel back for a good solid swing. ‘‘I don’t know who you are,’’ he muttered to himself, ‘‘but if you’d announced yourself when you had the chance . . .’’
The man on foot heard the whooshing sound of the shovel swinging through the air, followed by a loud vibrating metallic twang as it slapped him flat in the face.
‘‘There now. Let’s take a look at you,’’ said Beck, stepping out over the man and seeing a wide straw sombrero land a few feet away. Stooping, he pulled aside a brightly striped serape that had flung up over the man’s face as he flew backward and fell—knocked cold—to the ground.
Knowing it would be a while before the man came to and explained why he was following them, Beck looked back along the trail, then sat down against the rock and rolled himself a smoke. By the time he’d finished the cigarette, Mary Alice rode into sight, saw him and called out to him, keeping her voice low and even, ‘‘Is everything all right, Lon?’’
‘‘For me it is,’’ Beck said, satisfied that the man had been traveling alone. ‘‘His nose looks broke. He’s gonna have a dandy headache.’’
Riding closer, Mary Alice looked down at the man on the ground while the dog hurried forward and sniffed at the bloody gash across the bridge of his nose. ‘‘Oh, no!’’ she cried, recognizing the serape and straw sombrero instantly. ‘‘It’s the old Mexican who built the travois for me!’’
‘‘Really?’’ Beck didn’t look too concerned. ‘‘Why do you suppose he was following us?’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ said Mary Alice, stepping down from her saddle and taking a closer look at the old man’s bloody face. ‘‘Wait a minute! I know this man! Rojo was right. This is no Mexican! This is the miner, Andrej Goran. The Croatian.’’
‘‘The who?’’ Beck asked, taking a closer look for himself, the shovel lying on the ground near his feet.
‘‘He was at the Sky High Saloon the night it burned down. Tex dragged him out, saved his life.’’
On the ground, Andrej groaned and moved his head back and forth groggily. ‘‘I—I have been, hit upon . . . most badly,’’ he managed to say.
‘‘He’s speaking English!’’ Mary Alice said.
‘‘Yeah,’’ said Beck, sounding unimpressed, ‘‘if you want to call it that.’’
‘‘No, you don’t understand!’’ said Mary Alice. ‘‘He couldn’t be a witness to the shooting because he didn’t speak English. But he does speak it!’’
‘‘Oh?’’ Beck looked skeptical. ‘‘Then why didn’t he say so when this all happened?’’
Andrej shook his head slowly, trying to regain his senses. ‘‘It is not always wise for one to speak English when one is a foreigner,’’ he said haltingly. ‘‘But I speak it now because the man who saved my life is in trouble.’’
‘‘You’re headed to Sibley, to help Texas Bob?’’ Mary Alice asked, her voice cracking a bit with emotion and gratitude.
‘‘Yes. I saw everything that happened,’’ said Andrej. ‘‘I disguised myself as a Mexican so I could travel safely.’’
‘‘A Croatian disguised as a Mexican, so he can be safe?’’ said Beck. ‘‘That’s not something you hear of every day.’’
‘‘I wanted to tell you who I was when I helped you build the frame to carry this man on,’’ said Andrej, pointing at Rojo on the travois. ‘‘But I was afraid.’’ He touched his fingers to his flattened nose. ‘‘As it turned out, I could have done no worse.’’
‘‘Wait,’’ said Mary Alice. ‘‘Let me get you some water! Stay awake. Please!’’ She hurried over and grabbed a canteen of tepid water from her saddle horn.
Chapter 19
After giving the Croatian a long drink of water, Mary Alice sat beside him and pressed a wet bandanna to his bruised forehead. She let him rest until the impact of the shovel blow stopped ringing and echoing inside his aching head. On the travois, Rojo settled down after a while, stopped babbling and closed his eyes. ‘‘Why does he call me the devil?’’ Andrej asked, sounding more conscious now, not trying to speak above the ring of the shovel.
‘‘Pay no attention to him,’’ Mary Alice said. ‘‘He calls everybody the devil.’’
Andrej’s eyes went to Lon Beck and the shovel lying near his feet. ‘‘Why did this one hit me?’’
Before Mary Alice could answer, Beck said bluntly, ‘‘I hit you because I thought you were following us.’’
‘‘I was following you,’’ said Andrej.
‘‘See? There you are.’’ Beck shrugged to Mary Alice. To Andrej he said, ‘‘Out here, it’s not a good idea to follow folks—as you can see.’’ He gestured toward Andrej’s flattened nose and swollen forehead.
Andrej shook his head slowly in bewilderment. ‘‘I do not understand Americans. I follow you because I want to go where you go.’’
Beck shrugged again. ‘‘You should have asked.’’
‘‘But that doesn’t matter now,’’ said Mary Alice in a soothing voice. She held Andrej’
s miner’s hand between hers. ‘‘You just relax, clear your mind and tell me what you saw that night in the Sky High Saloon.’’
Andrej took only a second to summon up the memory, then began. ‘‘Well, I was passed out drunk. . . .’’
The old miner told his version of what had happened, his account identical to what Lady Lucky had said after the fire. When he finished, Mary Alice and Beck looked at one another. Beck looked doubtful. ‘‘If he says he was passed out drunk, nobody is going to listen to him.’’
‘‘Maybe . . .’’ Mary Alice hesitated for a moment, then said to Andrej, ‘‘Maybe you shouldn’t mention that you were drunk.’’
‘‘But, why should I not?’’ the old Croatian asked in his stiff English. ‘‘I was drunk. I go to Sibley to tell the truth about what happened. How can I not tell them that I was drunk if it is the truth?’’
Lon Beck let out a breath and looked away impatiently, out across the rugged terrain.
‘‘Sometimes the truth has to be cleaned up a little before it’s told,’’ Mary Alice said. ‘‘But don’t you worry, we’ll have you telling the truth the way it sounds best by the time we get you to Sibley.’’
‘‘The way it sounds best?’’ Beck said, giving her a dubious look.
‘‘Yes, that’s how it has to be,’’ said Mary Alice, undaunted. Then to Andrej she said, ‘‘Come on, let’s get you onto your feet and walk you around some.’’ Struggling with him, she helped him stand and walked him in a circle with his arm draped over her shoulders. Beck sighed, picked up his shovel and walked to the mule. ‘‘Once you get the truth sounding the way it should, you can try it out on me. If it’s not good, you can work on it some more,’’ he called out over his shoulder, sticking the shovel into the tied-down supplies.
In the Bottoms Up Saloon, Trigger Leonard and Mitchell Smith had been busy all afternoon, buying rounds, offering comments, praising Sheriff Mike Thorn and cursing Texas Bob as a cold-blooded murderer. ‘‘It’s not our town,’’ said Trigger Leonard. ‘‘Me and Mr. Smith are only passing through. Maybe it’s none of our business, but I can’t understand why men will stand around and do nothing when a fine lawman like Thorn has been shot down like a dog.’’ As he spoke his voice grew louder and his eyes scanned around the crowded saloon. He made sure everybody heard him.