“I gave you an order, Hernandez!”
“A man grows weak when he take orders from a woman, Dona Elena,” the old vaquero replied. “Tonight one must be strong. This nameless hombre and I have work to do.” He turned away, adding “Come, amigo.”
They rode through the darkness at a lope, in silence, and it was not until they neared the pass in the hills that Hernandez spoke.
“Don’t fret about the muchacha, amigo” he said. “I’ve had three wives in my time. Each of them wished to get rid of me at times. You were Juan’s friend?”
“Yes.”
“And he is dead?”
“He was killed by Jess Hagar, one of the Venturilla crowd.”
Hernandez swore under his breath. “But you made Jess Hagar pay for that. And we’ll make the rest of those ladrones pay for it. You have a name, hombre?”
* * * *
They avoided the American part of San Alejandro. They entered the Mexican part by way of a dark side street. The hour was late. Ramon de Baca’s house was but a few steps from the plaza, a larger one than most of the adobes. Entrance was gained through a gate in a patio wall. Reardon and Hernandez left their horses by the gateway, and crossed the patio to the house door. A trace of lamplight showed through curtained windows. A servant opened the door when Hernandez knocked. He was a hunchback and a deaf mute, and he shook his head and pointed to the gate when, reading Hernandez’s lips, he learned that the callers wished to see his master. They refused to be turned away.
Hernandez pushed the servant aside and entered. Reardon followed, closed the door, and saw the ugly look in the hunchback’s eyes. They’d entered a wide hallway. Hernandez crossed to a door to the left, flung it open, and Reardon followed him into a large room rather extravagantly furnished as an office or a study. A man sat at a desk writing a letter. He glanced up, said angrily, “What’s the meaning—”
He recognized the old vaquero. His annoyed look faded. “Ah. Hernandez! What can I do for you? Is there trouble at the Rancho?”
“My friend wants to talk with you, Senor.”
De Baca glanced at Reardon. He put down his pen, rose. He was a stout man of medium height, about forty, ordinary looking. He seemed a little nervous now. “I’m afraid, sir, we haven’t met before.”
“A lot of folks around town think I’m Juan Forbes.”
“You—!”
Reardon grinned mirthlessly. “You know better, eh, de Baca? You located Juan after a long search—for Don Luis. You saw Juan. Maybe you even talked to him, without letting him know that you were interested in him. You returned here, reported Juan’s whereabouts to Don Luis.” Reardon paused, and his face was rocky now. “And you also reported his whereabouts to somebody else.”
“No! I swear—”
“Was it to John Morrell, de Baca? Or to Arturo Monteros?”
“I give you my word....”
“If you’re no better lawyer than you are a liar,” Reardon said flatly, “I sure wouldn’t want you to handle my affairs. We didn’t come here to listen to a bunch of lies. You told somebody in the Venturilla crowd of Juan’s whereabouts, and that outfit sent Jess Hagar to murder Juan. Maybe you can’t see it, de Baca, but some of Juan Forbes’s blood is on your hands!”
The lawyer was having trouble with his breathing. He said, “It wasn’t a betrayal. I give you my word. Arturo Monteros and I are friends. And after all, he is a Monteros. He came to me and said that Don Luis was sending him to see Juan, and that he wanted to make sure of Juan’s whereabouts. I didn’t know that Arturo was lying. I told him how to find Juan in good faith. If Juan is dead, I am not to blame. I—”
“Why’d they want Juan dead?”
“I can only guess, Senor. From what has happened since, I’ve seen that there is a plot against Monteros Rancho. Don Luis is very old. Dona Elena is only a girl. Arturo Monteros and his friends do not fear them. But they did not want Juan Forbes coming here to interfere. A young man will always fight.”
“Maybe they figured Juan had something to fight with.”
“I don’t understand, Senor,” said de Baca, and he looked puzzled.
“It looks as though the Venturilla crowd is gambling on a forged quit-claim and the missing land grant paper,” Reardon stated. “I’m just guessing, but maybe Arturo Monteros—and his partner, Morrell—figured that Juan could prove the quit-claim a forgery and also produce the old title to Monteros Rancho.”
“I—I do not know.”
“I told you, de Baca, that Hernandez and I didn’t come here to listen to a bunch of lies,” Reardon said. He glanced at the old vaquero. “All right, amigo.”
Hernandez smiled wickedly. He drew and cocked his gun.
De Baca cried out hoarsely, reeled back and, upset his chair.
Reardon almost laughed. De Baca was not only a stupid lawyer, but also a coward. “Hernandez will kill for Monteros Rancho,” he said. “You’d better talk, friend. Juan could have proved the quit-claim was a forgery, couldn’t he?”
De Baca nodded jerkily.
“And the land grant paper isn’t lost?”
“No.... No, Senor.”
“Where is it?” Reardon demanded “Dammit; you know!”
“I think maybe you are right, Edouardo,” Hernandez said. “This one has been Don Luis’s lawyer for many years, as his father was before him. Juan couldn’t have had the paper, but de Baca and his father may have come by it.” He gestured at de Baca with his sixgun. “I grow impatient, hombre.”
De Baca leaned heavily against his desk. “I will tell you,” he muttered. “As I said, Arturo and I are friends. One night we were drinking. Arturo talks too much when he drinks too much. He told me of John Morrell’s plan to seize Monteros Rancho. The next day, Arturo realized that he’s said more than he should. He sent Matt Hagar to threaten me. I—I was in fear of my life from then on, even though I swore to Hagar that I wouldn’t repeat what Arturo told me.”
“The land grant paper!” Reardon snapped.
“It is in my possession,” de Baca said miserably. “I let Arturo know that I had it, and that only so long as I remained unharmed would it stay ‘lost.’ I told him that it was being held by someone who could return it to Don Luis if anything happened to me.”
“You’re smarter than I thought, de Baca.”
“It was my insurance,” the lawyer said. “Without it, I would have been murdered. I don’t blame my friend, Arturo, but John Morrell. He wouldn’t have let me live. I felt it. I saw it in Matt Hagar’s eyes. They would have killed me the first chance they—”
Reardon broke in, “We want that paper, de Baca.”
“No! It’s my life!”
“Now you’re not being smart,” Reardon told him. “Hernandez only has to kill you, and the person who has the paper will return it to Don Luis.”
De Baca looked near collapse. “All right. I will get it for you,” he said thickly. “My friend doesn’t live far from here.”
V
It was a small house on another street. An attractive woman answered de Baca’s knock. She opened the door guardedly. The lawyer said, “It’s Ramon, Terese. I have some friends with me from Monteros Rancho.”
They were admitted, and the room, when the lamp was lighted, was surprisingly well furnished. Evidently this was de Baca’s other home, and doubtlessly a well-kept secret. The lawyer said, “I gave you a paper some months ago, Terese. You will get it, please.”
The woman sensed de Baca’s uneasiness, but she went obediently to another room. She returned with a large envelope, which she handed to the lawyer. De Baca ripped it open with shaky hands, looked inside, then handed it to Reardon. After glancing at the contents—an ancient parchment— Reardon passed it over to Hernandez.
“What do you think, amigo?”
“It’s the land grant,” the old vaquero said, after examining the parchment. “We’ll take it to Monteros Rancho now?”
“You get started with it,” Reardon said. “I’ll visit a little
while with our friends here, just so Senor de Baca doesn’t take a notion to run and tell Arturo Monteros what’s happened.”
Hernandez frowned. “This town’s not safe for you, amigo.”
Reardon said, “It’s an order. Get going.”
Hernandez shrugged and went out De Baca looked sick with worry. Reardon took out makings. He never got his cigarette made. A sudden commotion racketed outside. There were angry shouts and a pounding of running feet. Hernandez’s voice lifted in lusty Mexican oaths. Reardon leapt for the door. He got it open and saw a swarm of Mexicans rushing Hernandez who was mounted. The mob was led by de Baca’s deaf mute servant, and he had a knife in his hand. Reardon drew his gun, jumped for his horse. He got mounted and rode straight into the howling mob. He shouted to Hernandez to ride out, then began clubbing down at the bobbing heads about him. The mute lunged at him, aiming the knife at his stomach. Reardon struck out, and his gun barrel crashed against the hunchback’s head. The mute collapsed to the ground, but then a club landed a savage blow on Reardon’s back. The blow almost knocked him from the saddle.
His horse was running now, spooked, and headed back the way it had been led from de Baca’s house. The frenzied mob came howling after Reardon. When he reached the corner he looked back. Hernandez was in the clear now, riding off in the opposite direction. Reardon turned into de Baca’s street, and lifted the gray to a hard lope. He was well ahead of the mob by the time he reached the plaza. He crossed to a dark side street, raced on, and behind him a worse bedlam broke out as the whole Mexican quarter was aroused.
There was still a hubbub over in the Mexican quarter when Reardon rode warily up to the American part of San Alejandro. He left his horse in the shadows of a barn, went on afoot, entered a dark alleyway between two plank buildings. He halted short of the street, for excited voices shouted there. One yelled, “What’s up, anyway?” And another answered, “All hell’s broke loose! They’re hunting the hombre who killed Jess Hagar last night! He’s over in the Mex quarter!”
Footsteps pounded. Men running toward the Mexican quarter.
Reardon took a furtive look at the street. The office building of the Venturilla Land & Cattle Company was dark. Reardon knew that he should have expected that Morrell wouldn’t be at his office in the middle of the night. He had no idea where the man lived. He thought of Marshal Pat Newlin. The old lawman might tell him where he could find John Morrell. Reardon retraced his way through the alley, and searched for the rear of the marshal’s office. He located it by coming upon a squat adobe building with barred windows, the lock-up, and entered the office by the back door.
There was a short hallway, with a door to the right that opened into Newlin’s living quarters. That room and the office, beyond the hall, were deserted. A lamp burned low in the office, and the street door stood open. It looked as though the marshal had just stepped out, no doubt to investigate the trouble in the Mexican quarter, so Reardon waited in the dimness of the hall. He was rolling a smoke when Newlin came in. The old-timer was instantly alert, peering into the hall.
“It’s Reardon, Marshal.”
“Yeah?” said Newlin, coming back. “What’s up, anyway? There’s a riot over in the plaza, with everybody gunning for you.”
“I had some business with de Baca, the lawyer.”
“And de Baca’s servant got his head busted open.”
Reardon grinned briefly. Then said, “Where can I find John Morrell?”
Newlin’s interest sharpened. “Out at the DIX,” he said. “A rider came tearing in from there early tonight with word of trouble with the Monteros crowd. Morrell left for DIX Ranch right away with a big bunch of tough hands.”
Reardon swore softly, disappointed.
“What about Arturo Monteros? Did he go with Morrell?”
“No. I saw Monteros over in the plaza just a few minutes ago,” Newlin replied. “Look, Reardon; this town’s unhealthy for you. Matt Hagar spread word that he’d pay five hundred dollars to the man who killed you. Everybody knows about that bounty offer, and plenty of hombres would like to collect. You hang around San Alejandro and you’re apt to take a bullet in the back or a knife in the ribs.”
Reardon only half listened to that. He was wondering if Morrell meant to move onto Monteros range and force a showdown fight. He supposed that he should head for Monteros Rancho and prepare the vaqueros for trouble—real trouble. But Reardon, having recovered the land grant paper and learned that Arturo Monteros’s quitclaim was a forgery, felt that there was an easier way to stop Morrell and his Venturilla crowd than with a bloody fight. A confession might do it, he thought.
If not Morrell’s confession, then Monteros’s.
He said, “Marshal, find Monteros for me. Will you?”
Newlin must have been impressed by Reardon’s earnest manner. For he said, “All right. I don’t know what you’re up to but I’ll bring Monteros here for you.”
* * * *
Pat Newlin wasn’t long. He brought Arturo Monteros with him, and he must not have told the man who wanted to see him for Monteros started violently at sight of Reardon. He would have fled had not Newlin blocked his way, and said, “Take it easy, friend. Nobody’s going to harm you.” The marshal maneuvered him back into the hall.
“Juan—” Monteros began, pleadingly.
Reardon cut him short. “Let’s get it straight,” he said curtly. “Juan Forbes is dead. He was murdered by Jess Hagar—by the Venturilla crowd. I was Juan’s friend, and I’m siding Monteros Rancho in their fight against Venturilla.”
Monteros’s mouth fell agape.
Newlin grunted with surprise.
Reardon went on, “I’ve had a talk with Ramon de Baca. He claims to be in fear of his life, but maybe he’s just shrewd enough to be trying to cut in on Venturilla’s scheme. That doesn’t matter, now. De Baca admits that your quit-claim is a forgery, Monteros. And he also turned over the ‘lost’ land grant paper to me. Hernandez is on his way back to the ranch with it. Venturilla is whipped, Monteros.”
Monteros’s face glistened with sweat. “De Baca lies,” he said thinly. “I received the quitclaim from Dixon Forbes many years ago. As for the land grant paper... I am not concerned about it.”
“You’re concerned, all right. You and Morrell planned to take over the whole of Monteros Rancho.”
“No! It’s not true!”
“You had Juan murdered because you were afraid that he would say that the quit-claim is a forgery. Juan would have remembered that his father sold you only the DIX, not the entire south range.”
“I am innocent!”
“You’re guilty as hell,” said Reardon, and drew his gun. “You’re going to admit it. You’re going to confess, with Newlin a witness, or you’ll get a bullet in your guts!”
Monteros shrank back, collided with Newlin.
The marshal’s presence steadied him somewhat. He was stupid and a coward. He said defiantly, “It would be murder. You’d hang. Senor Newlin would be a witness against you.
Reardon swore under his breath, because of the failure of his bluff, then he remembered how terrified of Hernandez Ramon de Baca had been. He said, “You’re right, I can’t risk killing you. But there’s somebody who’ll do it. I’m taking you to Hernandez.”
Monteros shuddered. “No! Hernandez is part Apache! You can’t—”
Newlin broke in, “I’d talk if I were you, Monteros. This hombre means what he says. And Hernandez.... Well, I Wouldn’t want him working out on me.” He knew that Reardon was bluffing, and he gave him a wink. “Save yourself, Monteros. Why protect Morrell? He’s the man Reardon’s after. He sent Hagar to kill Juan Forbes, didn’t he?”
Monteros nodded jerkily.
“And it was his scheme to steal Monteros Rancho?” Newlin prompted.
Monteros said dully, “Yes. I would not have thought of such a thing. I needed money, and Morrell offered to buy into the DIX as my partner. He took the original quit-claim I received from Dixon Forbes and forged D
ixon’s signature to another. He sent Jess Hagar to kill Juan. What could I do? I was in fear of my life.” He shuddered again. “Now Morrell will have me killed for talking like this!”
“Reardon will protect you,” Newlin said. “You go to Monteros Rancho with him. You’ll be safe there.”
“Hernandez...?” Monteros said.
“He’ll not harm you now that you’ve come clean,” Newlin told him. He looked at Reardon. “I’ve got no business mixing in this. But it’s rotten clear through, and I’m going to side with you. I’ve a hunch that Morrell is out at DIX and getting ready for a showdown. We’d better head for Monteros Rancho. I’ll get a horse for myself and one for Monteros. Where’s your mount, Reardon?”
Reardon hadn’t expected so much of Newlin. He told Newlin that his horse was over at the barn outside town, and that he and Monteros would wait there.
Fifteen minutes later the three of them rode away from San Alejandro. Pat Newlin seemed eager for some action. Arturo Monteros was sullen, his spirit crushed. Ed Reardon rode through the night with mixed feelings. He’d outsmarted John Morrell, but he was still somewhat worried. Morrell didn’t know he’d been outsmarted, and there was no telling what sort of coup the man was planning. Reardon was also thinking of the girl, of Elena Forbes. He wanted her. She was the price he would demand if he succeeded in saving Monteros Rancho. But suddenly he wasn’t sure if he wanted his reward, if it were unwillingly paid.
VI
It was after three o’clock when they reached the ranch headquarters. Lighted windows in the casa and at the village told Reardon that something was wrong. As he and his companions swung up to the corrals, Mateo appeared through the darkness carrying an ancient rifle. The boy was excited.
“El Capitan told me to watch for you, Don Juan,” Mateo burst out. “There’s trouble on the south range. Hernandez rode out with all the vaqueros!”
Reardon dismounted and began off-saddling the gray, and told Pat Newlin, “We’d better have fresh mounts.” He told Mateo, “I have a man’s job for you. You take Senor Monteros to the casa and stand guard over him until Marshal Newlin and I get back.”
The Western Megapack - 25 Classic Western Stories Page 27