The Collected Westerns of William MacLeod Raine: 21 Novels in One Volume

by Unknown

  "You know who shot at you. I saw it in your face. Tell me, and I will see that he is punished," she urged.

  Dick shook his head imperturbably.

  "No; I reckon that wouldn't do. I'm playing a lone hand. You're on the other side. How can I come and ask you to fight my battles for me? That wouldn't be playing the game. I'll attend to the young man that mistook me for a rabbit."

  "Very well. As you like. But you are quite mistaken if you think I asked on your account. He had disobeyed my orders, and he deserved to pay for it. I have no further interest in the matter."

  "Certainly. I understand that. What interest could Miss Valdés have in a spy and a cheat?" he drawled negligently.

  The young woman flushed, made as if to speak, then turned away abruptly.

  She touched her pony with the spur, and as it took the outside of the slanting, narrow trail, its hoof slipped on loose gravel and went over the edge. Dick's arm went out like a streak of lightning and caught the rein.

  For an instant the issue hung in doubt whether he could hold the bronco and save her a nasty fall. The taut muscles of his lean arm and body grew rigid with the strain before the animal found its feet and the path.

  "Thank you," the young woman said quietly, and at once disengaged the rein from his fingers by a turn of the pony's head.

  Yet a moment, and she had disappeared round a bend in the trail. Gordon had observed with satisfaction that there had been no sign of fear in her eyes at the danger she faced, no screaming or wild clutching at his arm for help. Her word of thanks to him had been as cool and low as the rest of her talk.

  "She's that game. Ain't she a thoroughbred, Steve?" demanded Dick, with deep delight in his fair foe.

  "You bet she is. It's a shame for you to be annoying her this way. Why don't you come to an agreement with her?"

  "She ain't ready for that yet. When the time comes I'll dictate the terms of the treaty. Don't you think it's about time for us to be heading back home?"

  "Then we'll meet your lady of the ranch quicker, won't we?" chuckled Davis. "Funny you didn't think about going back till after she had passed."

  But if Dick had hoped to see her again he was disappointed for that day, at least. They reached Corbett's with never another glimpse of her; nor was there any sign of her horse in front of the post office and general store.

  "Must have taken that lower trail that leads back to the ranch," hazarded Gordon.

  "I reckon," agreed his friend. "Seems funny, too; her knowing you was on the upper one."

  "Guy me all you like. I can stand it," returned Dick cheerfully.

  For he had scored once in spite of her. He had saved her from a fall, at a place where, to say the least, it would have been dangerous. She had announced herself indifferent to his existence; but the very fact that she had felt called upon to say so gave denial to the statement. She might hate him, and she probably did; at least, she had him on her mind a good deal. The young man was sure of that. He was shrewdly of opinion that his chances were better if she hated him than if she never thought of him at all.

  CHAPTER VIII

  TAMING AN OUTLAW

  "Something doing back of the corral, Mr. Gordon."

  Yeager, the horse-wrangler at Corbett's, stopped in front of the porch, and jerked his head, with a twisted grin, in the direction indicated.

  Everything about the little stableman was crooked. From the slope of his legs to the set of his bullet head on the narrow shoulders, he was awry. But he had an instinct about horses that was worth more than the beauty of any slim, tanned vaquero of the lot.

  Only one horse had he failed to subdue. That was Teddy, a rakish sorrel that had never yet been ridden. Many had tried it, but none had stuck to the saddle to the finish; and some had been carried from the corral to the hospital.

  Dick got up and strolled back, with his hands in his pockets.

  A dozen vaqueros and loungers sat and stood around the mouth of the corral, from which a slim young Mexican was leading the sorrel.

  "So, it's you, Master Pedro," thought the young American. "I didn't expect to see you here."

  The lad met his eyes quietly as he passed, giving him a sullen nod of greeting; evidently he hoped he had not been recognized as the previous day's ambusher.

  "Is Pedro going to ride the outcast?" Dick asked of Yeager, in surprise.

  Yeager grinned.

  "He's going to try. The boy's slap-up rider, but he ain't got it in him to break Teddy--no, nor any man in New Mexico ain't."

  Dick looked the horse over carefully, as it stood there while the boy tightened the girths--feet wide apart, small head low, and red eyes gleaming wickedly. Deep-chested, with mighty shoulders, barrel-bodied like an Indian pony, Teddy showed power in every line of him. It was easy to guess him for the unbroken outlaw he was.

  There was a swift scatter backward of the onlookers as Pedro swung to the saddle. Before his right foot was in the stirrup, the bronco bucked.

  The young Mexican, light and graceful, settled to the saddle with a delighted laugh, and drove the spurs home. The animal humped like a camel, head and tail down, went into the air and back to earth, with four feet set like pile-drivers. It was a shock to drive a man's spine together like a concertina; but Pedro took it limply, giving to the jar of the impact as the pony came down again and again.

  Teddy tasted the quirt along his quarters, and the pain made him frantic. He went screaming straight into the air, hung there a long instant, and fell over backward. The lad was out of the saddle in time and no more, and back in his seat before the outlaw had scrambled to his feet.

  The spur starred him to renewed life. Like a flash of lightning, the brute's head swung round and snapped at the boy's leg. Pedro wrenched the head back in time to save himself; and Teddy went to sun-fishing, and presently to fence-rowing.

  The dust flew in clouds. It wrapped them in so that the boy saw nothing but the wicked ears in front of him. His throat became a lime-kiln, his eyes stared like those of a man weary from long wakefulness. The hot sun baked his bare neck and head, the while Teddy rocketed into the sky and pounded into the earth.

  Neither rider nor mount had mercy. The quirt went back and forth like a piston-rod, and the outlaw, in screaming fury, leaped and tossed like a small boat in a tremendous sea of cross-currents.

  "It's sure hell-for-leather. That hawss can tie himself in more knots than any that was ever foaled," commented a tobacco-chewing puncher in a scarlet kerchief.

  "Pedro is a straight-up rider, but he ain't got it in him to master Teddy--no; nor no man ain't," contributed Yeager again proudly. "Hawsses is like men. Some of 'em can't be broke; you can only kill them. Teddy's one of them kind."

  Dick differed, but did not say so.

  "Look at him now. There he goes weaving. That hawss is a devil, I tell you. He's got every hawss-trick there is, and all of 'em worked up to a combination of his own. Look out there, Ped."

  The warning came too late. Teddy had jammed into the corral fence, and ground his rider's knee till the torture of the pain had distracted his attention. Once more then swept round the ugly stub nose, and the yellow teeth fastened in the leather chaps with a vicious snap that did not entirely miss the flesh of the leg.

  The boy, with a cry of pain and terror, slipped to the ground, his nerve completely shaken. The sorrel lashed out with his hind feet, and missed his head by a hairbreadth. Pedro turned to run, stumbled, and went down.

  The outlaw was upon him like a streak, striking with sharp chiseled forefeet at the prostrate man. Along the line of spectators ran a groan, a kind of sobbing murmur of despair. A young Mexican who had just ridden up flung himself from his horse and ran forward, though he knew he was too late.

  "Pedro's done for," cried one.

  And so he would have been but for the watchfulness and alertness of one man.

  Dick had been ready the instant the outlaw had flung against the fence. He had been prepared to see the boy weaken, and had anticipa
ted it in his forward leap. The furious animal had risen to drive home his hoofs, when an arm shot out, caught the bridle, and dragged him sideways. This unexpected intervention dazed the animal; and while he still stood uncertain, Gordon swung to the saddle and dug his heels into the bleeding sides.

  As to a signal the bronco rose, and the battle was on again.

  But this time the victory was not in doubt to the onlookers after the first half-dozen jumps. For this man rode like a master. He held a close but easy seat, and a firm rein, along which ran the message of an iron will to the sensitive foaming mouth which held the bit tight-clamped.

  This brown, lithe man was all bone and sinew and muscle. He rode like a Centaur, as if he were a part of the horse, as easily and gracefully as a chip does the waves. The outlaw was furious with hate, blind with a madness that surged through it; but all its weaving and fence-rowing could not shake the perfect poise of the rider, nor tinge with fear the glad fighting edge that throbbed like a trumpet-call in the blood.

  Slowly the certainty of this sifted to the animal. The pitches grew less volcanic, died presently into fitful mechanical rises and falls that foretold the finish. Its spirit broken, with that terrible incubus of a human clothes-pin still clamped to the saddle, Teddy gave up, and for the first time hung his head in token of defeat.

  Dick tossed the bridle to Yeager and swung off.

  "There aren't any of them so bad, if a fellow will stay with them," he said.

  "Where did you learn your riding, partner?" asked the puncher with the scarlet kerchief knotted around his neck.

  "I used to ride for an outfit up in Wyoming," returned Dick.

  "Well, I'd like to ride for that outfit, if all the boys stick to the saddle like you," returned the kerchiefed one.

  Gordon did not explain that he had been returned winner in more than one bucking-bronco contest in the days when he rode the range.

  He was already sauntering toward the house.

  From a side porch Pedro, awaiting the arrival of a rig to take him back to the ranch, sat with his bruised leg on a chair and watched the approach of the stalwart figure that came as lightly as though it trod on eggs. He had hobbled here and watched the other do easily what had been beyond him.

  His heart was bitter with the sense of defeat, none the less because this man whom he had lately tried to kill had just saved his life.

  "Como?" asked Dick, stopping in front of him to brush dust from his trousers with a pocket-handkerchief.

  Pedro mumbled something. Under his olive skin the color burned. Tears of mortification were in his eyes.

  "You saved my life, señor. Take it. It is yours," the boy cried.

  "What shall I do with it?"

  "I care not. Make an end of it, as on Tuesday I tried to make an end of yours," cried the lad wildly.

  Gordon took off his hat and looked at the bullet holes casually.

  "You did not miss it very far, Pedro."

  "You knew then, señor, that I was the man?" the Mexican asked in surprise.

  "Oh, yes; I knew that."

  "And you did nothing?"

  "Yes; I ducked behind a rock," laughed Gordon.

  "But you make no move to arrest me?"

  "No."

  "But, if I should shoot again?"

  "I expect to carry a rifle next time I go riding, Pedro."

  The Mexican considered this.

  "You are a brave man, señor."

  The Anglo-Saxon snorted scornfully.

  "Because I ain't bluffed out by a kid that needs a horse-whip laid on good and hard? Don't you make any mistake, boy. I'm going to give you the licking of your young life. You were due for it to-day, but it will have to be postponed, I reckon, till you're on your feet again."

  Pedro's eyes glittered dangerously.

  "Señor Gordon has saved my life. It is his. But no living man lays hands on Pedro Menendez," the boy said, drawing himself haughtily to his full slender height.

  "You'll learn better, Pedro, before the week's out. You've got to stand the gaff, just the same as a white boy would. You're in for a good whaling, and there ain't any use getting heroic about it."

  "I think not, Señor Gordon." There was a suggestion of repressed emotion in the voice.

  Dick turned sharply at the words. A lean, clean-built young fellow stood beside the porch. He stepped up lightly, so that he was behind the chair in which Pedro had been sitting. Seen side by side thus, there could be no mistaking the kinship between the two Mexicans. Both were good looking, both lean and muscular, both had a sort of banked volcanic passion in their black eyes. Dangerous men, these slim swarthy youths, judged Gordon with a sure instinct.

  "You think not, Pedro Number 2," retorted the American lightly.

  "My name is Pablo, Señor--Pablo Menendez," corrected the young man with dignity.

  "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Menendez. I was just telling your brother--if Pedro is your brother--that I intend to wear out a buggy whip on him as soon as his leg is well," explained Dick pleasantly.

  "No. You have saved his life. It is yours. Take it." The black eyes of the Mexican met steadily the blue-gray ones of the American.

  "Much obliged, but I can't use it. As soon as I've tanned his hide I'm through with Master Pedro," returned the miner carelessly.

  He was turning away when Pablo stopped him. The musical voice was low and clear. "Señor Gordon understands then. Pedro will pay. He will endure shot for shot if the Señor wishes it. But no man living shall lay a whip upon him."

  Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "We shall see, my friend. The first time I meet him after his leg is all right Master Pedro gets the licking he needs."

  "You are warned, señor."

  Dick nodded and walked away, humming a song lightly.

  The black eyes of the Mexicans followed him as long as he was in sight. A passionate hatred burned in those of the elder brother. Those of Pedro were full of a wistful misery. With all his heart he admired this man whom he had yesterday tried to kill, who had to-day saved his life, and in the next breath promised him a thrashing.

  He gave him a grudging hero-worship, even while he hated him; for the man trod the world with the splendor of a young god, and yet was an enemy of the young mistress to whom he owed his full devotion. Pedro's mind was made up.

  If this Gordon laid a whip on him, he would drive a knife into his heart.

  CHAPTER IX

  OF DON MANUEL AND MOONLIGHT

  Don Manuel sat curled up in one of the deep window-seats of the living room at the Valdés home, and lifted his clear tenor softly in an old Spanish love-song to the accompaniment of the strumming of a guitar.

  It is possible that the young Spaniard sang the serenade impersonally, as much to the elderly duenna who slumbered placidly on the other side of the fireplace as to his lovely young hostess. But his eyes told another story. They strayed continuously toward that slim, gracious figure sitting in the fireglow with a piece of embroidery in the long fingers.

  He could look at her the more ardently because she was not looking at him. The fringes of her lids were downcast to the dusky cheeks, the better to examine the work upon which she was engaged.

  Don Manuel felt the hour propitious. It was impossible for him not to feel that in the past weeks somehow he had lost touch with her. Something had come between them; some new interest that threatened his influence.

  But to-night he had again woven the spell of romance around her. As she sat there, a sweet shadowy form touched to indistinctness by the soft dusk, he knew her gallant heart had gone with him in the Castilian battle song he had sung, had remained with him in the transition to the more tender note of love.

  He rose, thumbed a chord or two, then set his guitar down softly. For a time he looked out into the valley swimming in a silvery light, and under its spell the longing in him came to words.

  "It is a night of nights, my cousin. Is it not that a house is a prison in such an hour? Let us forth."

  So forth the
y fared to the porch, and from the porch to the sentinel rock which rose like a needle from the summit of a neighboring hill. Across the sea of silver they looked to the violet mountains, soft and featureless in the lowered lights of evening, and both of them felt it earth's hour of supreme beauty.

  "It is good to live--and to know this," she said at last softly.

  "It is good to live and, best of all, to know you," he made answer slowly.

  She did not turn from the hills, made no slightest sign that she had heard; but to herself she was saving: "It has come."