The Red Sombrero

by Nelson Nye

  His eyes were flat as a snake’s, as unwinking.

  Growing a little vexed, Linda said, “If you can’t talk, write it down for me. You’ll be paid what it’s worth when the men are caught up with.”

  He said abruptly, “What men?”

  “The men you were going to tell me about.”

  He put a heel to the door and slammed it shut. He ran the tip of his tongue across thin lips. Then he commenced to walk toward her.

  With her cheeks suddenly white Linda backed away. When the backs of her shoulders hit the wall he grinned. His left hand shot out and closed like a trap in the neck of her dress.

  Linda struck at him. Cloth ripped. She tried to get to the door but he was quicker. He caught her about the hips and dragged her kicking and scratching toward the bunks in the corner.

  He threw her into the bottom one but she whirled over and got out of it. “Full of ginger,” he grinned — “just the way Juarez likes ’em.”

  They were both panting now. She said hoarsely, “Are you crazy?”

  “I’m going to tear them goddam things right off you.”

  She made a dash for the window. He got a leg out and tripped her. The fall left her breathless. Twisting her head, gagging, she saw him bending to reach for her. She was on hands and knees, trying desperately to get clear of him, when she saw the door open and bloodshot eyes in a whiskered chin-strapped face peering in at them. She saw the cracked lips move and heard the croaked, “Turn around, you!”

  Juarez heard it, too. For one dragged-out instant he crouched in his tracks. Then he spun like a cat. Flame lanced from the door. He had a knife in his hand when the slug knocked him backward.

  From somewhere outside Bennie’s shocked voice gasped, “Red Hat!”

  FOUR

  RENO OPENED his eyes on a bright oblong of ceiling composed of chinked ocatillo wands interspersed with hand-squared joists of pine, the marks of the adz still upon them. He followed the gleam of the sun down a white gypsumed wall past a chest of closed drawers with a pitcher and basin to the face of the girl who sat beside the bed, watching him.

  Her hair was brown as a meadowlark’s wing. She wore it parted in the middle and pulled tight behind small ears that were good enough to show if she’d had enough experience to more properly make the most of it. Her face was plain, a kind of everyday job whose blue eyes, as they met his, pulled away to leave it flushed with acute embarrassment.

  “Expect I owe you something for fetching me here.” He said weakly a moment later, “What place is this? I mean which side of the Line?”

  The blue eyes came back to him, still self conscious but worried too now. “You’ll be all right, only you mustn’t talk. You’ve got to get some rest. Do you feel strong enough to eat again?”

  Reno managed a feeble grin. “My stomach feels like it’s wrapped around my backbone.”

  She blushed again and got up and went out and came back with a bowl and spooned broth into him. After that he fell asleep and it was dark the next time he opened his eyes and he was alone in the room. He slept again.

  It made a stronger man of him, strong enough to scrape his thoughts together and consider his situation. The sun was on the east side of the house; when he’d seen it before it had been late afternoon. He guessed this much by the appearance of the trees he could see through the window. He needed to know where he was, how close to the border and which side of it; it was imperative that he discover the answer quickly. The fact that the girl was American meant nothing. The man he had killed last night was a Mexican. This room was finished in the Mexican fashion and the girl wore her hair like a Mexican, too. He thought of the money, those bags of gold onzas. And he thought of Sierra and shivered.

  He threw back the blanket and found himself naked. What in Christ’s name had they done with his clothes!

  He came up on an elbow and sank back with a groan. He damned that wrenched shoulder that could still turn him dizzy with hot splinters of pain. He got the blanket up over him again and lay soaking in the sweat of weakness. He couldn’t do anything until he knew where he was, and not even then without some clothes and a gun. He felt puny as a pup relegated to the hind tit.

  He glared at the mud chinked ocatillos of the ceiling. Never had he felt so goddam helpless. That it should be now, of all times, was unbearable outrage. He ought to be on a horse. He ought to be riding like mad …

  The girl came into the room and smiled painfully. “Do you think you could eat something now? Do you feel strong enough?”

  “Ma’am,” Reno said, “I could eat a bronc — hoofs, hide and tail.”

  Her smile flashed again and then was lost in a blush that ran into her hair. She had on a blue print whose bows and ruffles did nothing for her. She was scrubbed so clean you could even smell it as she stood there undecided, awkwardly worrying a ruffle with uncontrollable fingers. “I — I think perhaps some milk toast — ”

  “I’ll never get out of this bed on that crap. I got to build up some strength,” he growled irritably. “I ain’t ate in so long I’ve forgot what it tastes like. Bring me a steak and some spuds and black java.”

  After she had gone some of his memories caught up with him, how he’d crawled back into town down that trough dug by storm water, hiding out among the rubble of one of the wrecked houses while Perron’s hunters beat the woods for him and ran into a nest of dug-in Federalistas. How he’d lain there in concealment until the next night had given him a chance to slip away, and how he’d walked and walked and walked and walked until he’d lost all track of time and direction. The only habitations he had happened on were abandoned ones their owners had deserted in the fright of Sierra’s proximity. Such horses as he had seen had kept well away from him; he’d been unable even to get near enough to crease one. He’d subsisted on the fruits of cactus and mesquite beans eaten raw. He’d traveled only during darkness, holing up through the long hours of sunlight, sooner ready to starve than risk detection by using Descardo’s pistol on such rabbits as he had managed to get near enough to hit.

  He figured he’d been gone from Boca Grande perhaps three nights when he’d seen the light of the shack and found the girl struggling with that loco Mex. That left him still the better part of another week before Sierra, with the reported knowledge of Descardo’s finish, would feel any real alarm concerning what had happened to that rifle money. Depending of course upon the vicissitudes of war, he believed that he might count upon a further couple days before Sierra’s increasing anxiety would prod him into definite action. When that happened he would go to Cordray.

  Let him! Reno personally had no intention of going within miles of Cordray, but he did feel kind of sorry for the bastard. Tano Sierra was a pretty violent man. He would probably seize the rifles whether he had the price or not. But that was Cordray’s lookout. To hell with him, Reno thought.

  The girl came back with a plate of eggs and bacon garnished with toast and a pot of coffee. She set these down on a chair, blushing when Reno said, “Just push it over where I can get hold of it — ”

  “But you can’t feed yourself — ”

  “Do I look stove up that bad? All that’s the matter with me is I’ve been going too long on nerve. Nothing a little food won’t fix up in short order.” He was too cagey to mention that shoulder. “You go along. I’ll make out to eat this stuff. And, say — when you come back fetch my clothes along, will you?”

  She looked dubious. “I don’t think you had better get up just yet. Juan says — ”

  “I don’t know who this Juan jasper is but — ”

  “It was Juan who put you to bed. He says you’re suffering from exhaustion and exposure, that it will be several days before — ”

  “Ma’am, I never argue with a lady but I’ll be on my way in another couple hours. You just fetch in my clothes and I’ll see if I can talk your dad out of a horse. Lordy, I’ve got to get out of this bed; there ain’t no two ways about it.”

  He thought she looked funny when he menti
oned her dad but she didn’t say anything. After a moment, moving the chair over handy to the bed, she went out.

  Careful this time of his shoulder, Reno maneuvered himself into a sitting position and went to work on the food.

  He felt better after he’d eaten and put that pot of black coffee inside him. Even the shoulder felt better so long as he was watchful not to twist or move it quickly. Damn lucky it was his left.

  He eased himself down again, pulling the blanket over him, and lay there turning over plans having to do with those bags he had taken off Descardo’s saddle, mighty glad he had got rid of them before showing up at that shack. With that kind of dough a man could really go places!

  If he could get to where he could spend it.

  He heard steps approaching that were certainly not the girl’s and composed his face for company, bitterly conscious of his need of a razor and a soak in a tub. He could not see the door from where he lay but heard it open and the steps coming around to him.

  “What’s this I hear about you champing to get up? Linda tells me you’re demanding your clothes and a horse muy pronto.”

  The man who had spoken, who now stood by the bed looking down at him, had the high beaked nose of a Spaniard. His eyes — gray or green — were twinkling, and this air of good will appeared to envelop the whole man. The major-domo, Reno was thinking, taking in the immaculate attire and the pseudo brusque tone of him.

  “You hear right,” Reno told him. “Business does not wait on the whims of the flesh and I am three days late already. You’re Juan, I suppose, and you have my thanks — ”

  Beak Nose held a hand up. “A quite natural assumption but somewhat wide of the mark. I am Don Luis, the owner of this place, and the thanks should go from me to you that you were able to step into that affair of the impulsive Linda in what Americanos so aptly call ‘the nick of time.’” He smiled. “My house is yours.”

  It was quite a speech, Reno thought, and then forgot it. “How far are you from the border?”

  “About eight kilometers,” Don Luis answered, “but do not speak of leaving today. You have much weakness, señor, and in any event it is otherwise impossible. The insurrecto, Tano Sierra, yesterday defeated a large detachment of Federal infantry and the roads are filled with fleeing troops and swarms of bandits. Make yourself comfortable,” he smiled with quiet charm. “I will send Juan in with soap and a razor and when you are feeling better you may provide yourself from my wardrobe with garments more suitable to a man of your station.” The humorous twinkle crept into his stare again. He clapped his hands. “Eladio,” he called, “you may inform Juanito the gentleman is ready for his services.”

  With a courtly bow he stepped around Reno’s bed and the door was shut softly behind him.

  • • •

  Juan, who was large with three jellylike chins and a stomach that bulged comfortably over his belt, was a gem of the finest luster. In Chicago or San Francisco you would have called him a gentleman’s gentleman but here on the border he was simply Juanito, a man who knew his work and performed it with pleasure.

  After a relaxing bath in a foot tub and a haircut and shave that made him feel almost human, Reno, once more in bed, as Juan was gathering up his towels and reaching for the basin, remarked casually, “A brash fellow, that Sierra. Is it true his men are pushing north of the border?”

  “Who can say where the wind goes?” Juanito shrugged philosophically. “There was a terrible battle. For many hours you could hear the pounding of the guns. The cowboys say all the hills are filled with people.” He waved his hands, shaking his head. “Such excitement! None but a fool would brave the border roads today.”

  “None but a fool would leave a bed without clothes. When does the patron tell you I am fit to be dressed again?”

  “Ai.” Juanito thrust the towels under an arm to count on his fingers. “Today is Wednesday,” he declared, looking up with surprise. “On the Friday, if you are strong enough.” He showed his teeth in a grin. “El Rancho Tadpole,” he said in English, “has few guests these days. Don Luis means to make the most of you.”

  Reno, growling disgustedly, suddenly tightened. Tadpole! He came half onto a shaking elbow. “We’re in Mexico, aren’t we?”

  “No, señor. Estados Unidos.”

  With cold horror looking out of his eyes Reno whispered, “What place is this, hombre?”

  “It is the ranch of Don Luis Cordray.”

  FIVE

  A STORY which had gained much repute described how on a certain day when the tide of battle had been going against him, a courier on a foam flecked horse had come hellity larrup into Sierra’s headquarters. Before his tale of fresh gains by the Federalistas had been half told the man had been ordered back into the saddle. “Show them the general’s hat!” Tano roared, and that device, according to popular credence, had saved the day.

  “A pretty fable,” Lewis Cordray had remarked. But now, with the very hat reposing on his desk between himself and the ubiquitous Bennie, he was not so inclined to believe the account had been greatly stretched. Some aura of the dread inspired by Descardo’s reputation would seem to have attached itself to the hat if one were to judge by the talk in the bunkhouse or the peculiar expression around the gun fighter’s eyes. Plainly Descardo’s headgear was famous in places which had never even seen the general’s face.

  Cordray, just returned from conversing with Reno and considering his hired man somewhat solemnly, said bluntly, “Of what are you thinking?”

  Bennie grinned sourly. “Reckon I’m thinkin’ about the same thing you are; it was a piece of tough luck he had to barge in right then. He sure walked off with your thunder.”

  Cordray frowned. Brushing the words aside with an impatient hand he said, eyeing the red hat’s chin strap, “I mean about him happening along so damn pat.”

  “Nothing strange about that — we been expecting him, ain’t we? Sierra wrote you ten days ago he’d be sendin’ someone after them guns.”

  “One man?”

  “Been a lot of fightin’ off down yonder. Descardo’s bunch might of run into somethin’. He was probably the only one able to get through.”

  “But would Sierra send Descardo, send a general after rifles?”

  “If he needed ’em bad enough he might of sent his whole damn outfit,” Bennie snorted. Eyeing Don Luis slyly, he said, “The little filly seems to be pretty much taken up with him, don’t she?”

  “If this fellow’s Tano’s agent where’s the money?”

  Bennie munched awhile, ruminating, recrossed his legs and said brightly, “It don’t stand to reason a guy like Descardo would be fool enough to come here by himself with that dough on him. He could of lost it, too — look at the shape he was in. Dead on his feet — ”

  “Not too dead to fire that pistol!”

  “Bored Juarez plumb center,” Bennie grinned, and then a sudden remembrance dragged him out of the chair and set him to tramping the room, blackly scowling. “I don’t want no trouble with that feller.”

  Cordray said in a voice that was cold as a mackerel, “You don’t want any trouble with me, either, do you?”

  Bennie, glaring, flung himself back into the abandoned chair. Then he hunched himself forward. “By Christ, I’m fed up with this trained seal act!”

  “And are you also fed up with your share of the profits?”

  “Share!” Bennie said. “You call them crumbs you throw me a ‘share’? You promised — ”

  “At least they’re better than a cell in state’s prison,” Cordray smiled. “And when we’ve bagged Sierra I will keep that promise. Now clear out of here, Bennie, and let me think.”

  After the still grumbling gun fighter had taken his departure, Lewis Cordray picked up the red hat, frowning at it, studying that greasy strap more closely. He stared quite a while before he turned the felt over to read the Words stamped into the sweat cracked band. Then he tossed the hat aside and went back to his chair to think again of Linda Farrel.


  Whenever he gave time to this pleasant occupation he always saw, projected against the screen of his mind, the possessions her father had left her. Those broad acres of land with their hip-deep grasstops waving in the wind. The fat blocky cattle and those year-round creeks which flowed from the artesians Farrel had gotten during his pipe dream of hitting oil. These were the things he saw when he looked at her. These were the things he wanted to marry. It was time, he guessed, he had a little conversation with Burlingate, the banker.

  Bending out from his chair he pushed open the door and called Juan. When the fat Mexican waddled into the office Cordray said, “Have Carablanco saddled. Oh yes, and tomorrow, Juanito, you will permit our guest to make a selection from my wardrobe, and,” he said, gesturing, “you will give him his hat. Under no circumstances, however, is he to get hold of a firearm. He is to remain in the house, and that applies to the señorita, also. Make sure of it.”

  Bowing, Juanito took himself off and Don Luis, pulling out a desk drawer, picked up a big pistol whose grips held the shine of much handling. This was not a fancy iron but very practical. He scowled at the letters stamped into its butt and stared again at the chin strap of Descardo’s red hat.

  He put the pistol back in the drawer and pushed it shut and locked it, thrusting the key in his pocket as he got up. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” he muttered sententiously and, catching up his own hat, headed for the stables.

  • • •

  Though Reno was a man not generally given to introspection, the discovery that he had unwittingly blundered into Cordray’s headquarters was of a sufficiently chilling nature that it crowded all extraneous thoughts completely from his mind. Usually he could grin at his troubles, for such was his way of turning aside an unpleasantness; but here was a thing he could not handle so casually. It was monstrous he should have come to the very place he had sought to avoid.

  When he had taken those bags from Descardo’s-saddle he had never intended to complete the general’s mission. He had regarded that money as manna from a beneficent providence. Why, he’d risked his life for it!