by T. T. Flynn
"No man ever died deader around San Angelo than Jim Tennant after they found them spurs," Buckshot agreed. "Suits me, son, if it suits you. If I hadn't come lookin' for you to maybe be alive, I wouldn't have knowed you myself, what with that Mex look about you and your face all changed."
"The fire scorched me up pretty bad," Jim explained soberly. "I got down the canon a couple of miles, near out of my head, and run into that 'breed herb man, Wild Horse Joe, who hung out around Ladrone Mountain. Joe had been out skulking around and saw the fire. He piled me on his horse, got me over on Ladrone Mountain, the other side of Clarkson's west pasture, and used Indian medicine on me. I never knew what it was but it worked pretty well. The skin drew up some around the scar, so I didn't look so good. But I had a face left and I was satisfied."
"You look nigh as good, only different. It ain't all around that scar, either," Buckshot said shrewdly. "It's inside, too. You ain't the same feller inside, Jim. And it shows outside."
Jim said nothing to that. He reined up and listened. They were on higher ground. Far off to the right a few little twinkling lights marked part of the town they'd left. The scrub brush around them was quiet and the back trail was quiet, too.
As they rode on along the rough, narrow trail, Jim said soberly: "Maybe you're right, Buckshot. I've changed. Bull Merriman did it when he made me out a killer and a thief and had me shot down and burned up and buried back there in San Angelo. I wasn't much more than a kid, trying to do the right thing. I was there at Antelope Canon trying to find who had cleaned out my little bunch of stock and was cleaning out the other ranchers. And Bull Merriman caught us in a trap. Him and Clarkson's gunmen. One of the men with us must have been working with them. Anyway, I changed after they killed Jim Tennant and buried him."
"Makes me feel like I'm ridin' with a corpse," Buckshot complained. "If you're dead, then who the devil are you now?"
"The Mejicanos across the border treated me white when I showed up among them, busted, sick, and still half crippled from a bullet through my ribs. The poorer the Mejicano, the better he and his family treated me. They were the kind of folks I was hungry for. The kind who wouldn't do you dirt when you tried to help them. I'd left Jim Tennant buried back in San Angelo. So I picked a name I heard one of the women calling me and made it Antonio Ponchito y Rio. It was as good as any. It fitted in the way I was living. It's done all right."
"You picked a mouthful," Buckshot commented. "Tony, huh ... an' your mother's family name was Ponchito and your father's name was the river."
"Si, senor. And now ... what about Lindy Lou?"
"Muy malo," Buckshot said, and grumbled: "You're gettin' me thinkin' Mex, too! Ain't you heard how things has gone around San Angelo?"
"Never heard much. Never wanted to after I walked across the border. It's been almost five years. Bull Merriman's still Bull Merriman, I suppose. And Lindy Lou's married like Bull wanted her to, and has a couple of kids, maybe?"
"Maybe you're married, too?" Buckshot countered.
"No."
"Then you know dog-gone well Lindy Lou ain't," snorted Buckshot. "Leastways you hoped not. When you heard Lindy Lou's name, you forgot that pretty face at the dance there with you ... an' everything else."
"I had to get you out before Chavez and his men cornered you."
"An' old brush tick like me never made no man leave a pretty gal," Buckshot stated shrewdly. "Bull Merriman's dead, Jim. Lindy Lou ain't married ... an' San Angelo has gone to hell. Complete an' glorybusted hell!"
"Merriman's dead?"
"Shot in the back on the Ojo Caliente trail last fall." Buckshot's voice took on a grim edge of humor. "Bull's buried in the San Angelo buryin' ground, right up the slope from you. When the dark of the moon comes an' the ghosts start walkin', you two prob'ly raise Ned with each other all over the graves."
Jim Tennant did not laugh. "Lindy Lou owns the ranch then?"
"What's left of it," answered Buckshot. "The Merriman Hook 'n' Ladder brand is picked cleaner than a coyote-killed sheep. Henry Clarkson's Ladrone Land and Cattle Company is all that's sittin' purty. And Henry Clarkson. Other folks is like Bull Merriman's outfit. Hard times. Decent folks afraid. Hardcases ridin' high. And no doubt about what's behind it. Henry Clarkson's behind it."
"Never thought I'd hear that," Jim muttered. "Clarkson was thick with Lindy Lou's father. He was courtin' Lindy Lou, with Bull egging it on and Lindy Lou pretty cold to me after her brother was killed."
"Bull and Lindy Lou both knowed different before Bull died," Buckshot told him. "So did a heap of others who'd hung out a welcome sign when Henry Clarkson showed up with cash money and talked old man Riggins an' Tom Dirk into puttin' their land an' Clarkson's money into the Ladrone Cattle Company." On the dark trail behind Jim Tennant, Buckshot stopped speaking to snort his disgust before he continued. "It sounded good. Henry Clarkson talked loud how he had cash money that was hungry to be workin'. Riggins and Dirk had plenty of land that wasn't doin' them much good what with border jumpers hazing off most of their stock. Clarkson said his money'd put cattle back on the land an' hire gunmen to keep 'em safe. Maybe you remember all that, Jim? How Clarkson swore in public nary a cow er steer'd be rustled off Ladrone land if he had to hire a gunman fer every cow."
I remember," was the grim reply. "Clarkson kept his word. He brought in cattle, and gunmen to watch them. And after that rustlers seemed to be leaving the new Ladrone range alone and going after little outfits like the one I had after I quit riding for Bull Merriman."
"Uhn-huh," Buckshot agreed. "And the cattle an' the gunmen stayed on Clarkson's land. Gunmen that'd make ary good sheriff bristle when he got downwind from one. Strangers comin' an' goin' from that Ladrone outfit ... an' all the time rustlers cleanin' out other parts of the range. Clarkson fooled them all, Jim! Bull Merriman, too. They see it now. Maybe Clarkson never had that cash money. Nobody seen much of it. Clarkson talked hisself into part title on that Riggins an' Dirk land. He said he paid for the cattle that was trailed north across the border to stock the place. Chances are, if he paid, he took it from one pocket an' put it in the other.
"An' then Clarkson set tight with his cattle an' gunmen while the rest of the range bled to death. And for every dollar someone else lost, another dollar got in Henry Clarkson's pocket. You couldn't prove it. You couldn't notice it at first. Clarkson said he'd bring in gunmen an' he did. Said he'd keep his Ladrone outfit fat and safe ... an' he did. Folks at first didn't look for the Ladrone gunmen to have any connection with other troubles ... Clarkson had brought the gunmen in to keep trouble away. You see how easy it was, Jim?"
"Makes a pretty plain trail," admitted Tennant.
"Folks couldn't see it at first," Buckshot said harshly. "Henry Clarkson got hisself a ranch fer talk an' nothing else ... an' then kept open house fer gunmen an' trouble right under everybody's nose. An' they liked him for it an' cheered him on at first. No wonder he kept a greasy smile on that meaty face o' his. He was laughin' at them and they didn't know it. An' when they did know, it was too late to do much. Things had a way of happening to folks that talked out and tried to git somethin' done about it."
"Like Bull Merriman getting shot?"
"Like that ... and like Bull's boy, Rolf, that you got blamed for killing," Buckshot said. "Folks that cross Henry Clarkson get in trouble. You crossed him plenty on account of Lindy Lou. So Lindy Lou's brother got kilt. It looked like you done it. They couldn't prove it in court. But Bull Merriman hated your guts after that, an' things wasn't the same between you and Lindy Lou. I remember. I've thought a heap about it. They couldn't prove you kilt Rolf Merriman ... but there wasn't no way fer you to prove you didn't kill him. An' it helped Henry Clarkson plenty in his courtin'."
"Did it?" Jim asked slowly.
"It kept you away from the Hook 'n' Ladder," Buckshot pointed out. "It turned Bull Merriman against you. Wasn't long before your little spread was cleaned an' you was trapped in Antelope Canon an' shot an' buried. Which gave Henry Clarks
on open range with Lindy Lou." The old man shook his head. "It wasn't all clear, then, boy. You can look back now an' see it. An' then, when Bull Merriman's turn came, he got put outta the way, too."
"Because Lindy Lou wouldn't marry Clarkson?"
"Turn up your own cards on that, son. But the San Angelo range is in Henry Clarkson's pocket now. Sheriff an' all. Lindy Lou is hangin' onto the Hook 'n' Ladder with nothin' much to hang to. And fast as ary man gits his head up where he might make trouble for Clarkson, his head gits took off. It was watchin' Lindy Lou facin' it alone set me thinkin' hard about you, Jim. So I took me a pasear down this way to see if you might maybe be alive after all ... an' still remembered Lindy Lou."
"What happened to Tom Dirk and old man Riggins?"
"Tom Dirk didn't like the way things was goin' under Clarkson's orders and said so," Buckshot answered dryly. "One day his horse throwed him an' busted his head open on a rock. Leastways the Clarkson men who found him said that's what happened. Dirk's head was busted anyway. And Clarkson had notes showin' that Dirk owed him most of his share in the ranch. Wasn't no relatives to argue about it."
"Old man Riggins have an accident, too?"
"Nope," said Buckshot. "When Dirk got kilt, Riggins moved quick to El Paso. I hear he don't get much outta his share of the ranch now. But at least he don't fall off horses an' he ain't been shot in the back yet. Riggins stays drunk most of the time, cussin' himself for a fool in puttin' a snake like Clarkson inside his shirt when he was cold sober. Ed Lawlor talked to the old man in El Paso two, three months...."
Buckshot broke off as his horse nickered loudly. Off to the right, in the direction of those last seen feeble lights of town, a shout challenged the night.
"~Quien es?"
"More of them coming to block this trail!" Jim whipped back over his shoulder. "It'll be a run now! Stay with me!"
The challenge came again as they spurred into a reckless gallop on the rough trail. A shout and a burst of warning shots announced their discovery, then it was another race through blackness and unfamiliar country where a stranger like Buckshot would have been confused, baffled on the haphazard trails that had no direction or meaning in the night.
Jim seemed to know where he was going. His hard-running horse plunged through low hills that grew more broken and rough, with the way twisting, turning, now up, now down, until one steep down trail took them toward the lower valley lands well north of town. And when Tennant pulled up his blowing horse, a distant shout and its answer were far behind.
"Looked like we were riding for the mountains over there to the west," Jim said calmly. "That'll hold 'em for a little if Chavez hasn't got the valley cut off already. Let's go."
It was a ride. Buckshot was tough, but his eyes were red with weariness and the horses were dead beat when another trail brought them over mountains far to the northeast and the way dropped down for miles through the cool, bright dawn.
Pursuit had long vanished behind them but Jim's face wore a grim expression.
"They'll keep coming after they figure out our trail. Chavez don't keep men around who give up. Friend of mine down at the foot of the mountain has a few horses. I did him a favor once. He'll give us fresh mounts. We've got to keep ahead all day if you can burr on."
"I can stay with ary man!" retorted Buckshot.
But when the long hot day brought them at dusk to small adobe ranch buildings far out in the dry country toward the border, Buckshot staggered with weariness when he climbed off the drooping horse.
"I got to rest here tonight if it means fightin' forty of them Chavez men fer it," he groaned.
Jim, too, was haggard and dusty. Cheekbones looked sharper and a gaunt, fierce look seemed to have settled like a mask on his face. But the twisted smile came with his nod.
"Sleep and eat hearty, and then head for San Angelo. I'll be gone when you get up."
Startled, Buckshot threw him a challenging look. "Ain't you comin' acrost the border? Ain't you comin' to San Angelo?"
"Maybe," Jim said enigmatically. "But if we meet, amigo, I'll do first talking. You never saw me. I'm still dead. Savvy?"
"Si," Buckshot said mechanically. Then he groaned. "Hell, no, I don't savvy. But I'm too beat out to argy. Gimme a corner to fall in an' sleep."
The border was a day's ride south of San Angelo. Mountains loomed southwest and on the northern horizon. The range was rolling, studded with hills, rough in many places, with canons and narrow valleys south along the border.
San Angelo had not changed much. The graveyard still looked the same with mounds and crosses behind the unpainted picket fence on higher ground along the El Paso road. The trail-dusty rider in Mexican dress who rode along singing under his breath in the afternoon sun broke off to salute the graveyard and smile faintly as he passed. He was humming to himself as he jogged on into town.
The tall cottonwoods still grew by the shallows of Angel Creek. The low adobe houses on the edge of town were still the same. Children shrilled, dogs barked, Mexican men and women stared admiringly as the caballero passed.
Few men like this rode north of the border. Tall young men in tight charro breeches, snug silverbraided jackets, silver spurs and silver-mounted bridles, costly saddles and gun holsters. He would furnish material for conversation in the little adobe houses tonight and in the saloons and the stores around the dusty plaza. Jim Tennant smiled a little at the thought, but the blue eyes in his dark face were sharp and thoughtful as he rode into the plaza.
Not much difference here at first sight, either. Wag ons and saddle horses were at the hitch racks. Men loitered before the buildings-cowmen, Mexicans, a booted man or two in from the nearby mountains where the small mines and prospectors were always busy. Plenty of life, even at this time of day.
The same-and yet there was a difference when Jim recalled memories of the plaza four years back. Most of the loiterers looked harder, rougher. Strange faces, strange men who eyed a newcomer with cold wariness seldom seen back when Jim Tennant was buried beside the El Paso road.
A jeer came from one group as the black horse drew abreast.
"Bug your eyes, boys," a stocky man with a red beard stubble jeered. "Ain't he a dude? Bet the drinks I can put lead through his hat an' touch nary a hair."
The shot crashed as the words ended. Jim's peaked Mexican sombrero jerked as a bullet tore through the crown.
Jim reined up and removed the sombrero without looking around. The crown was holed at the top. Scant inches lower, the bullet would have killed the wearer.
A hush had fallen over the plaza as those in the open turned to watch, and others hurried out of doorways.
Jim reined the black horse back to the four idlers before the saloon. The short, stocky man who had jeered and fired the shot was standing there with the gun cocked and a hard grin behind the reddish stubble on his face.
"How's my shootin', Alex?"
An exploring finger showed white through the holes in the hat, and a chuckle followed as the fin ger came out. " 'Sta bueno, amigo. W'at you say ... good?"
"You're damned right it's good! Put 'er on again an' I'll open them holes some more."
White teeth showed in another chuckle. "Es treek, no? You savvy?" Thumb and forefinger fished a silver peso out of the charro jacket and flipped the coin in the air. The same hand made a fast gun draw that looked almost casual and a bullet drove the falling peso far out into the plaza.
"There's a trick for you, Red!" a bearded man beside the stocky gunman chortled. "How'll you bet the drinks on tryin' that?"
Smiling, Jim fished out another peso to flip. But Red grinned sheepishly and holstered his gun.
"I know when I'm licked. Ride on, stranger. You're good in any man's town."
"Gracias, senor. Senor Clarkson ... w'ere I fin'T'
"Henry Clarkson?"
" Si. "
"Try the bank. He's mostly there afternoons."
"zBanco?"
"Over there. That brick building," Red said, pointing.
"Gracias."
Jim turned the black horse across the plaza, humming under his breath. Behind him remarks were audible:
"Wonder who'n hell he is?"
"Some of Clarkson's business, I reckon."
"He shore showed you up, Red."
Only the gold lettering on the front door of the small brick bank building had changed, Jim discovered. It now read: Henry Clarkson, President.
Ike Blodgett, behind the iron grille work, seemed to be wearing the same black sleeve guards, old eyeshade, and pen behind his ear as his bony fingers stacked silver dollars.
"Buenos dias, senor."
The cashier looked bleakly through the grille work. "Howdy, mister. What'll it be?"
"Senor Clarkson?"
"He's busy. What is it?"
"No spik Engleesh."
"You're outta luck then," Ike said shortly. "You savvy Clarkson busy? Woman ... mujer ... Clarkson, busy. Mucho busy."
The stranger grinned and nodded. "Si, si, Senor Clarkson's mujer, she's busy?"
"Not that. You'll have to wait. Savvy wait?" Ike's sharp face was frowning as he stared through the grille work. "Seems like I've seen you somewhere," he said dubiously.
The stranger smiled politely-a twisted, queer smile-and started to roll a cigarette. And just then the door of the bank president's office at the back opened and let out a man's voice hearty with assurance.
"Any time you need money it's here. We're glad to let you have it."
A woman's voice answered. "I know how my credit stands here. Put the money in my account and I'll pay what I can on the other notes as...
Jim Tennant stiffened at the sound of her voice. Then she was in the doorway, head high, angry color in her cheeks. She saw him shaping the cigarette and the catch of her breath stopped her words.