The Red Sombrero

by Nelson Nye

  The man of guns, following the thought, reflectively nodded. There was an emotional rapport between these two so that in moments of stress a single word or a sign was often enough to release or control violence; this was built upon their relationship as patron and trigger finger and complicated by the intimate knowledge each had of the other. So that now, envisioning the possibilities, Bennie said briskly, “That’s a right slick notion. I’ll take it to them for you.”

  “One of the mozos will do well enough: a trusted one,” Don Luis answered. “By dark my vaqueros will be all around that shack and the only order I shall give them will be to kill any person who attempts to come away from it.” He sat back with a smile coldly wrapping itself around the Texican.

  Reno heard the door open but it had already been shut by the time he got squared around. He saw the bottle which someone had pushed into the room and he scowled at it, still thinking, and then began to pace the floor. He was not in that moment the drunken sot facetiously elevated by Sierra to a post of mock importance, but the man he could have been had fate not stepped in to load the dice against him.

  He’d known what chance he took returning. He had not forgotten Cordray’s conversation with Bennie while he’d hung onto the stallion’s nostrils in the dark of that cattle runway. He’d come back prepared to brazen things out, hoping to wring from the situation and the ranch owner’s greed enough concessions to make sure the girl got clear.

  He was convinced by now Cordray never had intended to deliver any rifles. Having no real acquaintance with the violence of Sierra, Cordray, Reno believed, had perpetrated a hoax designed to fleece an ignorant and impotent guerrilla. He had not foreseen that there might be repercussions, that Sierra was one who would demand an accounting. Having first seized their money he very probably had planned to turn the Liberator’s envoys over to the authorities as hostiles he’d caught invading sovereign soil. A slick scheme brought to naught unless he could deal with the man he must have felt had outfoxed him. Only Reno — and Cordray would know this — now could tell him where the gold was.

  This was Reno’s trump, the power he figured to bargain with.

  Whether Cordray truly believed Sierra’s agent to be Reno or Descardo he could not afford to harm him until he got his hands on the money. This was the picture as Reno saw it, and he was not yet convinced he could not strengthen his position by forcing the crooked ranchman to believe he had Red Hat to deal with. So long as he could keep his wits about him Reno reckoned he could prod up enough doubt to keep the man careful. And he relished the thought of getting back a few licks for his own blighted prospects.

  But it was mostly the girl with whom his mind was concerned. That girl — he could now admit this — had got under his hide and aroused in him needs he had imagined long since swapped for the anodyne bottled in bond. Or grown out of. It was something of a shock to learn how badly he’d misjudged himself, and even more of a jolt to find he still had some scruples.

  This was why he had turned away from her. She was clean and sweet and good and true, and in an access of anguish Reno swept up the bottle and broke off its neck on the back of the chair. What did he, a damned ne’er-do-well derelict drifter, have to offer such a girl? A man who in a fit of drunken anger had killed his own best friend, and the most of himself in the process!

  He swept the bottle to his lips, yet before it touched them stopped himself. “That’s it,” he growled at himself, “go on and drink it — swill it down! Get yourself blind drunk and forget it!”

  In self revulsion he almost hurled the damned thing through the window. It was what he wanted to do, but he didn’t. He put it on the chest of drawers between the basin half-filled with dirty water and the pitcher. To prove, he told himself, that he could take it or he could leave it. He may have made a mess of his own life but he could assume responsibility if he had to. He wasn’t going to let that Linda girl down — not for all the goddam gold in the States!

  He’d been two hours in the room and was over by the back wall bitterly glowering at the bottle when he heard the furtive knock. He wheeled like a man reprieved and growled, “Come in!” with a hand on his pistol.

  It was Bennie with his Texican’s face stiffly folded into what he probably imagined to be a reflection of good will. He paused listening a moment with his head in the hall; then shut the door gently and twisted around with a grimace. “Whew! I reckon we’re safe enough here if that big Mex don’t come snoopin’. Cordray’s gone to the stables to have a look at his horse.”

  Reno didn’t say anything. He stepped away from the wall and left his hand where it was. Bennie spotted the bottle. “By God, I could do with a quick one myself!” He started forward but stopped. “What’s the matter — you tongue-tied?”

  “Speak your piece and get out.”

  Temper tightened the muscles of the gunman’s dark face. Then he shrugged. “Guess I asked for it, but this ain’t what you think. I’m here on my own hook. You’re in a bad spot, General, but if you want to split the chips I kin git you out of this.”

  “Out of what?”

  “That kin wait. You willin’ to split that swag you got buried?”

  “You’re talking over my head.”

  Bennie grinned. “Come off it, chum. We got no time to waste. You fetched two bags of gold to pay fer them rifles. All I want’s a fair shake. You give me half an’ I’ll git you out. How about it?”

  The gun fighter stared like a man struck dumb when Reno lifted the pistol from his belt and tipped the muzzle. “Make tracks,” Reno said, “before I give you half of this.”

  Cheeks livid, Bennie reached for the door, yanked it open. In his shotgun chaps and black cotton shirt which apparently he wore rain or shine, summer and winter, he looked as he skewered his head around for all the world like an enraged little spider. Crouched with his yellow eyes blazing, he abruptly whirled and was gone.

  Reno grimaced, closing the door. He took the hand off his gun which he had slipped back in leather, irritably rasping it across the scratch of a cheek. The stench of the man still lingered like a foul miasma come out of some swamp. But he had sure hit the nail on the head about one thing. Time had about reached the bottom of the glass.

  Tomorrow Sierra would be here; Reno knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Whatever was to be done would certainly have to be done tonight.

  No matter what Cordray thought, he couldn’t know he wasn’t up against Red Hat. Nor did he know about Reno being aware of his suspicions. Forewarned was forearmed. There must be someway, Reno thought, to use these facts to the girl’s advantage. And he had one more thing on his side which was not to be discounted — he knew where Cordray’s outfit was holding those Broken Spur cattle!

  He shaped a cigarette and fired it, pacing the floor like a bronc in a horse trap. But the smoke only increased the cottony dryness of his throat and he ground it under a boot heel. If only he could get his damned mind to start working… .

  Instinct urged him toward flight and he knew that the girl would go with him. At the point of a gun he might get them both mounted, but what kind of life would that be for either one of them? Running, always running, scared of their own shadows! He couldn’t do that to Linda. Nor could he go and leave her here knowing what Cordray was up to.

  His orginal notion, though not good, was the best. Bargain with the grasper, fight fire with fire. Promise anything just so the ruse sufficed to get that fraudulent note torn up. But what could he bargain with — threats? Cordray would laugh at him. He would know he could block anything Reno threatened. Nothing but hard cash would ever move Cordray and he would never part with the note until the gold was in his hands — or then, like as not. He would be more apt to pay off with a bullet.

  Reno sent a bleak look at the bottle. There must be some way!

  If there was he couldn’t find it. What he needed was a drink to cut the rust from his mind. He kept seeing Linda, that unforgettably wistful expression with which she had watched him turn down what s
he offered. God, what a woman! Hiding away all that fire and sparkle, keeping it hidden lest people talk or think less of her; afraid to let herself go and yet ready to throw away even her birthright if the right man answered her need with a smile.

  Why couldn’t he accept the gifts she held out to him? She was a cup filled to brimming and she knew what he was — at least she knew him for a jackal who ran with the wolves, a bad lot. She wasn’t trying to buy his gun; she didn’t want to save her spread at the cost of spilling blood. All she wanted was love but she deserved full measure, not the shoddy burnt-out kind a drunken bum on the dodge could give her.

  Reno’s mouth grew bitter. It had crossed his mind he might be able to start over but he knew this was wishful thinking. Don Luis wasn’t about to let him start anywhere.

  With a curse Reno reached for the bottle. Every tortured nerve in his body cried out for it. One drink wouldn’t hurt him — and it didn’t. He felt stronger, better able to cope with things now. He took another to ease the tension and it gave him a clearer look at his problems. The girl was out of this, outside any course he could take. The gold was out of it too, though he could see no harm in using the thought of it to help her.

  This was more like it; he was getting someplace now. He held up the bottle, put his thumb on the halfway mark and tossed his head back. Medicine — that’s what it was, best thing in the world for a man that was caught between a rock and a hard place.

  Why, he could down this whole bottle and cross the floor on a crack without missing a step. He wasn’t no drip-nosed kid — he could hold it.

  Things began to brighten wonderfully. He could see every move on the board right now. He hadn’t anything to worry about — why, he had that damned pirate in the palm of his hand! Until he knew where that dough was Cordray couldn’t do anything; and there was the matter of those cattle — don’t forget about them. He’d get back Farrel’s note. Bet your life he’d get it back!

  Reno laughed and sat down on the bed with the bottle.

  Bluff it out. That was the angle. Sit tight and play Descardo and watch these bastards squirm!

  THIRTEEN

  THE EVENING MEAL at Tadpole was by tradition a thing of much ceremony. First, when old Josefa fetched the food piping hot from the stove, everything was placed in covered pewter dishes and by mozo transported to the dining-room sideboard. It was then Juanito’s duty to inspect the table and service. When he was satisfied that all was there in order it was the invariable custom for him to step into the hallway and with a tiny cloth-shrouded mallet to strike one blow upon each of four golden clapperless bells, of about the size of an apple, which the late Cordray had fetched with him from Spain. On the stroke of eight, give or take a couple of seconds, the fat man would appear and his mallet would send the mellifluous notes through the dusk or the dark, according to the season. The patron in solitary splendor, or with guests when he was entertaining, would then appear at the candle lit board and be seated by servants in white cotton livery.

  Reno, when the bells caught his notice, had just finished shaving and was getting into his tight shirt. He had quite a struggle with the buttons but at last got them anchored. He debated the propriety of wearing a gun but, deciding his life was more important than etiquette, buckled the heavy shell belt around him, put on the red hat and picked up the Butcher’s quirt.

  Linda was already there, dressed in something of silk, her eyes darkly anxious, cheeks paler than usual though they brightened with color when he grinned and with a flourish bent over her hand. Don Luis came in eyeing Reno’s new pants and, though his glance darkened, greeted them both with politeness. When all were seated and the blessing had been said, Juanito at the sideboard uncovered the dishes and the women servants came forward to present laden plates. Linda and Don Luis were handed glasses of wine and a full bottle of tequila backed by lemon and salt found their way to Reno’s place.

  Reno tilted the bottle but ignored the accompanying niceties. He felt the equal of anything. He smacked his lips after the manner of the man he personified and tackled his food with much gusto. Cordray spoke of small matters, carrying the burden of talk until Juanito sent the servants away and came himself to the table with the tray of delectable sweets. After each had chosen and the fat man had stepped back, Linda asked Don Luis what he had done about her beef.

  “We will speak of this later — ”

  “I would speak of it now,” Linda insisted. “I’m quite anxious to learn what chance I have of getting that note paid. Are the cattle in good shape? Do you think you will be able to round up enough — ”

  “Alas, no.” Cordray frowned. “Rustlers have taken deeper bites than I’d imagined. My head vaquero informs me they’ve been gnawing off the fringes without letup since that unfortunate night when your father was killed. Cutting out little bunches, you understand, while my riders were busied elsewhere. My men are very diligent. They’ve been doing everything possible, yet many fences have been cut — ”

  “Do you mean,” Linda asked, “that when that note comes due I can’t meet it?”

  Don Luis toyed with his glass. “You can’t meet it by selling beef. However,” he said, looking across at her and smiling, “you need have no concern about losing the ranch. You know I would never let it come to that. I’ll take over the note and — ”

  “Why don’t you tell her,” Reno said, “that you’ve already taken it over? That all she’s got to do to save the place is marry you.”

  Cordray’s face flushed with anger but he kept hold of his temper. “A mad dog will bite even his master,” he quoted and, with a thin smile curling back the edges of his lips, brought a folded newspaper from his lap and tossed it so it fell spread open across Reno’s plate.

  A five days old copy of the El Paso Times. In screaming type across the front it said: DESCARDO DIES AT BOCA GRANDE.

  • • •

  Reno had a curious feeling of aloneness. As though his horse had run away and left him marooned on the brink of some dizzying height where a strong wind was blowing. The cold reached clean down into the marrow of his bones and he knew by the look of her across the table that Linda understood the ground had been cut out from under him. That look showed nothing of the contempt and disgust his drinking merited. She was afraid — afraid for him! It shamed him as nothing else could have.

  “In case you cannot read the Anglo words,” came Cordray’s voice, “I will tell you that it says Descardo died at Boca Grande.” The jeering eyes were bright with malice. “And what have you to say to that, eh?”

  There was no time to think and nothing left in his head to think with except the pervading fumes from the bottle. Reno’s hand reached out and again felt its smoothness and he tossed off another and laughed. He heard sounds in the night and laughed louder, bitter with the knowledge it was probably Cordray’s riders at last coming in from the stolen cattle.

  “Do I look like a dead man, Cordray? These papers!” he sneered. “I defecate on them.” He longed to hurl the bottle into Cordray’s face and all the frustration, the balked anger of these last days moved into brittle focus that was like the taste of brass in his mouth, but Linda’s need put a bit on the impulse. “What’ll you take for that note?” he said gruffly.

  Cordray hesitated, his eyes becoming less certain as they dug at Reno’s cheeks, derisive still but no longer sure in the face of the man’s reaction. Plainly he had expected to see Reno’s bluff collapse. His eyes narrowed. “I haven’t got the note — ”

  “But if you had,” Reno insisted, “how much would you want to tear the thing up?”

  “You think I would sell — ”

  “Wouldn’t three thousand buy it? Stacked up on this table in Mexican gold?”

  He watched a dry tongue lick at Cordray’s lips. And he laughed, suddenly confident. “How about that? Since you haven’t any rifles wouldn’t you trade for the rifle money?”

  The ranchman’s stare pulled away and swung around to the girl and the color of his eyes was not t
he same when they came back. “What is she to you, this Linda?”

  “Or maybe you’d rather take beef for that note,” Reno said, not daring to look at her — “the stolen Spur beef which would have paid off Farrel’s obligation in full.”

  This was more like it.

  Cordray’s neck got red. He came half out of his chair in a rush of caught breath. “So! You are the one who has been stealing — ”

  “Not me. But I can tell you where to find them …”

  He would have snatched the words back had he been able. Too late he saw by the look of Cordray’s face that he had pushed his luck too far. You could tell by the way the neck and shoulders of him stiffened, by the glint of his eyes, what the ranchman was thinking. Reno heard the skreak of leather, the muted jingle of rowels, and cursed the rotgut that had loosened his tongue. In a flash of comprehension he saw what a fool he had been. He’d had this thing all tied up and been too blind to see it. All he’d had to do was sit tight and he could have hoisted the ranchman on his own petard. He’d had nothing to fear from Sierra — not while he still had the gold to give back to him! Tano would have staked this cheap crook to an anthill when he found out about those rifles. Now, with “Cordray’s vaqueros coming up —

  Reno, made increasingly desperate by the knowledge of his folly, tried to regain lost ground by running an even wilder bluff.

  Juanito, eyes widening to the outside babble of indistinguishable voices, was again approaching with his tray of sweets from the sideboard. He was coming up behind Cordray who, of course, couldn’t see him when Reno sprang to his feet, crying: “Don’t hit him, Bennie — just hold your gun …”

  It was no good. Cordray was grinning with a wicked amusement. He hadn’t blinked or budged an eyelash. “Histrionics! Let him hear you cock the gun, Bennie.”