The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  “Anyhow,” he sighed in relief, “it wasn’t her what shot Old Man Blanton back theah in the Cochise co’ht house. Them bandits we caught all ’grees that was Teresa. If any of ’em knows anythin’ ’bout Gypsy they won’t spill it. I got a notion that big tough hombre what told us all t’ go to hell is hep to somethin’. His eyes sorta squinted when I said her name, but theah’s ’bout as much chance of gettin’ anythin’ outa him as theah is of gettin’ a cowpoke inter Heaven.”

  One thing still worried the Ranger greatly. “Even if she wasn’t in on the co’ht house raid, it was jest about as bad if she hired Fuentes to do it.”

  Thinking along these lines, he asked Pedro a casual question.

  “For what did La Señorita, Carmencita, make the bargain with ‘un Gran General,’ Capitan?’ replied Pedro. “Why, it was like this—

  “La Señorita owned a chacra, a small ranch, in our Mexican state of Sonora. She suddenly desired money, most urgently, it would seem. She gathered together all her cattle into a trail herd and started driving them to market. The government, on some pretext, seized that trail herd. La Señorita was in despair. Her need for money was great. She endeavored to hire Tomaso Fuentes to take that herd from El Presidente’s men and run it into Arizona. It pleased Fuentes to do so, for he hates El Presidente Diaz, and he greatly desired La Señorita. The rest of the story, Capitan, you already know.”

  Rance solemnly shook hands with Pedro, much to the Mexican’s astonishment.

  “All clear as a hatful of mud now,” he told himself exultantly. “Easy to see what she wanted money for. Cavorca had jest so much time to appeal his conviction to the higher co’ht, and appeals cost money. Callate Fuentes didn’t even know that she wanted the money. Snakin’ Cavorca outa the co’ht house was Fuentes’ own notion, I bet a peso. He needs Cavorca.”

  There came a night of wailing wind and lashing rain. Rivers cascaded down the mountainsides. The desert soaked in the moisture and glimmered ghostily with a light of its own making. Everybody who could remained indoors.

  Pedro Hernandez was not one of these. He scuttled into Rance Hatfield’s room after midnight, dripping water and excitement.

  “Capitan,” he chattered, “La Señorita rides this night to the meet with Manuel Cavorca! Hasten, Capitan, hasten!”

  “Hold on,” exclaimed Rance. “Wheah’d you learn all this?”

  Pedro explained volubly. “My friend in the Mexican quarter, she have a brother. The brother he drank with the man who bore the message from Cavorca. The man boasted that he was Cavorca’s hombre, told of the message, after my friend had smiled upon him. She is a wise niña, my friend.”

  “Did she find out wheah they was gonna meet?”

  “Assuredly, Capitan. They meet in Shadow Canon. Do we ride now, Capitan? Viva!”

  CHAPTER 19

  Shadow Canyon is a box canyon. Several cattle trails run into it, for there is good grass and water in Shadow Canyon. Only one trail runs out of it, a trail that zig-zags dizzily upward along the western wall, barely wide enough for a single horse, winding around bulges and juts, with always the swirling black water of Shadow Creek gleaming hungrily beneath it. One looks into the mouth of Shadow Canyon from a tiny mesa half-a-mile distant. The mesa slopes rather sharply to the canyon floor.

  The rain had ceased and the sun was casting golden spears into Shadow Canyon when Rance and Pedro reached the lips of the mesa. The Ranger peered intently toward the mouth of the gorge.

  “Pete,” he exclaimed suddenly, “theah’s somebody ridin’ down theah—two somebodies!”

  “Three,” corrected the Mexican, “a third comes from the south.”

  A grim drama was in the making at the foot of the mesa, but as yet neither Rance nor his companion realized it. They did not remain ignorant for long.

  “That’s Gypsy theah in the canyon mouth,” Rance muttered. “She don’t see that jigger ridin’ ’round the grove toward her. Is it Cavorca? Don’t look like him from heah. Theah he goes outa sight behind the trees!”

  Pedro exclaimed sharply.

  “Capitan, the man from the south rides a golden horse.”

  “That’ll be Cavorca,” growled the Ranger, “but the other one—sufferin’ sidewinders! It’s Fuentes!”

  The second rider had swept into view again, scant yards from where the girl sat her pony. Rance saw her whirl her horse into the canyon.

  She was too late. Fuentes reached her side before the pony got fully under way. He reached out a gorilla-like arm, swept her from the saddle and flung her across his own pommel. Into the canyon thundered his tall grey horse, swerved to the left and began climbing the narrow trail that wound over the north wall of the box.

  Down the lip of the mesa Rance urged El Rey, fully recovered from his wounds, Pedro crashing along behind him, but losing ground at every stride. Cavorca was forgotten. All Rance’s energies were centered on overhauling the straining grey horse that crawled fly-like up the slanting trail.

  “We gotta get him, feller! We gotta get him!” prayed the Ranger.

  Across the foot of the mesa flashed a golden shape, into the canyon and up the trail. Cavorca, too, had seen and was racing to the rescue.

  “I nev’ thought that hellion could ride in shootin’ distance of me and be safe,” Rance groaned, “but theah he goes! He ain’t safe from Fuentes, though!”

  ‘Un Gran General’ had turned in the saddle. From his hand darted a puff of smoke and a flicker of pale flame. Again and again he fired, knowing that his pursuers would not dare shoot in return for fear of hitting the girl he held helpless in front of him. Rance gritted his teeth as Cavorca swayed in the saddle, but the outlaw kept riding.

  “Wasn’t plugged after all! He—damnation!”

  The golden horse stumbled, went down. Its scream of pain and terror struck the Ranger’s ears, a thin ribbon of sound, as it crashed over the edge of the trail.

  Hurled from the saddle like a stone from a sling, Manuel Cavorca rushed down and down to the racing river seventy feet below. He struck the water with a sullen plunge and vanished.

  Rance Hatfield, thundering up the dizzy trail, jerked El Rey to a staggering, plunging halt. Gun ready, he leaned in the saddle, peering at the rushing white water. But Cavorca did not reappear.

  “Musta hit a rock,” muttered the Ranger. “Guess that settles Manuel. Anyhow, Pete’ll take care of him if he comes up. Get goin’ hoss, we got another sidewinder to hawgtie!”

  Fuentes was pushing his horse cruelly, raking its bleeding flanks with his spurs, pounding it over the head with his gun barrel, but the giant El Rey gained at every bound.

  “Yore doin’ it, feller, yore doin’ it!” praised Rance. “Now if we jest get a break!”

  Around a bulge careened the black horse. Less than fifty yards distant, Fuentes was aiming his gun.

  Rance saw the puff of smoke, heard the scream of the slug that knocked his hat from his head. Fuentes’ lips writhed back in a snarling curse, the barrel of the big gun dropped down again, steadied.

  “He won’t miss twice!” panted Rance. “Faster, feller, faster!”

  El Rey overhauled the grey as if he were standing still. Fuentes, his face a livid mask of evil, held his fire.

  “Waitin’ until he’s sure!” muttered Rance, crouching low on El Rey s neck.

  Fuentes’ eyes gleamed, narrowed. Rance could see the muscles of his gun arm tense.

  There was a sudden flash of a slim little hand. It struck Fuentes’ arm just as the gun blazed. The bullet kicked dust from the canyon crest.

  “Good girl!” whooped the Ranger, rising in his stirrups.

  The grey horse snorted in terror as El Rey’s snapping teeth reached for his flank. He shied against the cliff side and at that instant Rance Hatfield left the saddle in a streaking dive. His reaching arms wrapped about Fuentes’ huge shoulders and held. The cinches gave way under the strain and both men and the girl crashed to the rocky trail. Over them stormed El Rey, still trying to get his teeth
into the grey gelding.

  Crouched against the cliff, her head ringing from the fall, Gypsy Carvel stared with horror filled eyes at the deaths struggle raging on the lip of the dizzy gulf. She saw Fuentes, foam flecking his bestial lips, sink his teeth in the Ranger’s arm. She saw the spurt of blood as an iron-hard fist hammered his jaw and tore the yellow fangs from their hold. She saw the gorilla arms wrap around Rance’s waist, tightening until his ribs crackled with the strain.

  Over and over, rolled the battlers, kneeing, kicking, striking. Grimly silent they were, save for the sobbing of the breath from bursting chests. Breast to breast, glaring eye to glaring eye, fighting to the death for that which men have fought since the beginning of time—a woman!

  Under Fuentes’ chin Rance cupped his locked hands, jerking his knees up at the same time. He put forth all his strength, broke the other’s hold and rolled free. Cat-like, both men were on their feet, circling warily.

  Fuentes leaped, his huge right fist whizzing in, irresistible as a cannon ball. Rance weaved aside, stooped and seized the Mexican about the thighs. Groaning with the strain, he hurled Fuentes over his head.

  There was a wild scream of terror as Fuentes cleared the lip of the trail and shot down, his arms and legs whirling in the air. Up from the rocks fanging the black water drifted a crunching thud!

  As he peered at the motionless, broken body a hundred feet below, a mighty exultation thrilled Rance Hatfield. His work was done—better than well done!

  As he stepped back from the edge, he felt a touch on his arm. He turned to face Gypsy Carvel.

  “You—you are hurt!” quavered the girl.

  Rance grinned at her through puffing lips. “Nothin’ to make a fuss over. You all right?”

  “Yes, but you are bleeding.”

  “Jest scratches. Be forgot in a day or two. Guess it’s all over, señorita.”

  The girl drew a quivering breath. “My—Manuel?”

  “Looks like the river got him,” Rance told her soberly. “I never saw him come up.”

  Tears welled in the dark eyes. Her red lips trembled. But there was a note of relief, almost of gladness in her voice when she spoke.

  “He went clean!”

  ‘Yes, ma’am, he died like a man.”

  For a long moment they looked into each others eyes. Then the Ranger spoke, hesitantly.

  “Miss Carvel—Gypsy—can’t we—”

  For an instant a light leaped in the girl’s dark eyes; then it was drowned by a shadow, a shadow of memory. Her voice was an ache of pain—

  “You forget. There—there—is—is blood between us!”

  She began to cry softly.

  “I—I must be going now,” she said. “Thank you for all you have done. Perhaps some day—”

  For the briefest moment she clung to him, his bronzed hand caressing her dark hair. It was not strange that Pedro Hernandez, urging his foaming horse around the bulge, should misunderstand and grin hugely.

  “Ai,” murmured Pedro to himself, “but when the hand of a friend plucks the rose—that is different!”

  Rance barked a question at him. Pedro shrugged expressive shoulders:

  “Cavorca? He sweem down the river, strong. Me, I shoot once—and miss. Then a bend in the river. I ride fast to the assistance of El Capitan. I do right, si?”

  “Yeah, you did right, I guess,” sighed Rance. “Hangin’ onto that sorrel-topped jigger is like holdin’ a greased eel in a barrel of lard! Well, it won’t be long ’fore we heah from him again. You can jest bet yore last peso on that!”

  CHAPTER 20

  Dawn was breaking across The Enchanted Mesa country. Pale blues and velvety grays were rolling back the hard blacks and purples that had marched under the bonfire stars of Arizona since the scarlet sunset. The mountain crests were ringed about with saffron flame that thrust shining spears into the royal robe of shadows still striving to cling to their mighty shoulders. La Mesa Encantada trembled under a crown of beauty. The flanks of a great dark peak trembled to a deep, vibrating hum that swelled steadily until it became a pounding roar.

  The roar focused along the shimmering twin ribbons that were the tracks of the C.&P. railroad. It raced ahead of the huge locomotive that labored mightily up the winding right-of-way, her stubby stack thundering, her tall drivers spinning blurrily in the ever strengthening light.

  Old Tom Mulholland, the 678’s engineer, reached up and tugged at the whistle cord. The wailing notes tossed crazily to and fro among the cliffs. Old Tom leaned out the window and glanced back along the glinting yellow coaches of his long passenger train. The Palo Pinto Limited rocked and lurched as she crashed her mile-a-minute way toward Black Hell pass. High above the train, the overhung cliffs glowered threateningly.

  Old Tom’s gaze came back to those cliffs, to the crooked track ahead.

  “Hell of a country for a railroad!” he grumbled to his fireman. “Someday it’ll—good God!”

  Like dust from a squeezed puff-ball, the cliff a scant two hundred yards ahead flew in all directions. As he frantically shoved the throttle shut and slammed on the air, Old Tom dimly heard the roar of exploding dynamite.

  “Leave her, kid!” he yelled to the fireman.

  With a sickening crash, the 678 hit the mass of splintered stone heaped across the track. Over went the giant engine onto her side. Down the steep embankment she slid and plowed and rolled. Old Tom died with one hand on the throttle and the other on his automatic brake handle.

  The fireman, bruised and bleeding and groggy, saw the mail, baggage and express cars leave the track and bound wildly over the ties. They did not turn over. The mighty heap of shattered stone brought their crazy progress to a thudding halt. The fireman also saw yelling, shooting figures come leaping from behind boulders and ridges.

  Up the embankment they stormed, straight for the careened express car. Their leader hurled something at the locked door—something that left a wispy trail of smoke behind it and exploded deafeningly. The door flew to pieces.

  “Holy Pete!” gasped the fireman, “it’s a robbery; they’re after the money in the express car!”

  Terrified passengers were boiling from the crumpled Pullmans. Shoving them aside came a stocky bronzed man in overalls, high-heeled boots and a wide hat. A long black gun glinted in his right hand. He sprinted toward the train wreckers, the gun spouting smoke and flame.

  A bandit went down. Another shrieked and clutched a smashed shoulder. A third kicked and clawed his way to the bottom of the embankment and lay there in a silent heap.

  The leader of the wreckers ran forward a few paces in front of his men. The first rays of sunlight glinted on his golden hair. His amazingly handsome face was twisted with awful rage. His blue eyes glittered back of the sights of the stubby rifle he held.

  The rifle blazed. The stocky man in the wide hat crumpled up like a suit of old clothes, blood oozing from a ragged furrow just above his left temple.

  “That’s Wes Farley, an Arizona Ranger, they just killed!” whispered one of the huddled passengers.

  The golden-haired bandit leader barked an order to his dark-faced followers.

  “Take him!” gesturing to the wounded Ranger.

  Two bandits, glowering evilly at the passengers, glided forward, lifted the unconscious man and carried him beyond the engine and around a curve. Two others covered the passengers with their guns.

  There was a shot inside the express car, and a scream. A little later the sharp bark of an explosion. Then another.

  “The safes they are open,” called a voice in Spanish.

  The bandits worked swiftly, carrying sacks and bundles around the curve.

  “They won’t bother us,” a passenger comforted his nervous fellows. “They’re after big game—lots of money in that express car.”

  Last of all the golden-haired leader vanished around the curve. The passengers caught a final flash of his blue eyes as he turned.

  “It’s Cavorca, the Mexican outlaw and revolution
ary, sho’ as hell!” said the passenger.

  “Don’t look like no greaser,” commented another.

  “Ain’t,” said the first speaker succinctly. “American born—old Spanish family. Rangers thought they had him a coupla times, but he allus slips loose. Got a big follerin’ below the line. Theah they go!”

  Hoofs were thudding beyond the curve, dying swiftly to silence.

  “Heah comes somebody else,” exclaimed the fireman, pointing to a crest across the low-walled canyon through which the right-of-way wound.

  A single horseman was riding along the crest. Riding with reckless abandon. As he came opposite the wrecked train, a gasp of startled amazement went up from the passengers.

  “Good gosh! He’s gonna try and ride down the cliff!”

  It wasn’t really a cliff, but steep enough and rugged enough to pass for one. The stranger, sitting his magnificent black horse with careless ease, sent the animal plunging and teetering down the hair-raising slope.

  In a cloud of dust and rolling stone he reached the bottom and charged across the gorge. Panting and snorting the black horse toiled up the embankment.

  “It’s Rance Hatfield, the big he-wolf of the Rangers,” exclaimed the passenger who seemed to know everything. “They say he’s slated to be captain when Morton resigns.”

  The sweating horse topped the embankment. The Ranger swung to the ground and high-heeled toward the group.

  “Tell me what all happened?” he asked.

  They told him, volubly. He strode to the looted express car and stared at the quiet forms of the express messenger and his assistant. He gave the two dead bandits a casual glance.

  “You sho’ it was Cavorca’s outfit?” he questioned.

  “Nobody else,” insisted the talkative passenger. “I seed him when he was on trial over in Cochise—day ’fore he busted jail. Nobody’d ever forget that face of his.”

  The Ranger nodded. “That’s right. You say they took Farley with them?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But he waren’t daid,” supplied another passenger hopefully.

  Rance Hatfield’s green eyes narrowed, his mouth tightened.