by Nelson Nye
Reno heard. The man must have been in the doorway back of him. Cordray’s eyes were exultant. “We will now get down to bare facts, General. Juanito! Take the gringo’s pistol.”
There was nothing Reno could do about it. He was caught on his feet with his hands flat against the top of the table. To make any move at all would be to invite the Texican’s bullets, with the girl standing just beyond across the width of the board.
The fat Mexican set down his tray and came cautiously nearer with his triple chins quivering. There was a tug and a rasp of steel against leather and Juanito stepped back with Reno’s gun in his hand. Reno cursed in silent fury.
Cordray chuckled. “Truly, with good will, one can always please somebody, and two who help each other are as good in this case as four. Get rope and tie his arms.”
The Mexican did a good job, he almost cut off circulation; and then Don Luis said with a world of satisfaction, “We will now hear this great actor make imitation of buzzard strangling. Lay hold of him, hombres.”
Reno knew when the blank-faced Juanito took hold of one elbow and shoulder while the Texican anchored himself to the other this was not going to do him any good.
The ranchman got up. “Move him back,” he said, grinning. “There — that will do.” Bending over he picked up Descardo’s quirt and stepped nearer, sliding a hand down its sleek length lovingly. “Perhaps you would like to tell me now where that gold is?”
Reno’s thoughts slid down a bleak and darkening spiral. All his life had been like this, everything he’d put his hand to, and in this moment of realization he was angered not so much about himself as for the untenable spot he had put Linda in. He had only himself to blame for this business. And for practically everything else, he guessed, scowling.
He pulled up his head, seeing the glitter of Cordray’s eyes. “It’ll keep until Sierra gets here.”
“That one! You think I am afraid of that ignorant peasant? That chingao will cut your throat when he learns — ”
“You better be thinking what he’ll do to you when he finds out about those rifles.”
“Son of a whore!” Cordray shouted, and struck him across the face with the quirt. Reno scrinched his eyes shut, praying the knotted thongs would not find them. Twice more Cordray struck, panting with the effort and with the tide of murderous fury which had turned his cheeks darkly purple. “Will you tell now, pig of a Yanqui?”
The blood was like salt and Reno spat at the voice and Cordray almost went berserk. He came slashing with his quirt and Reno kicked a leg from under him. And then Linda was beside them trying to wrest the quirt from Don Luis’ hand, and’ he smashed out at her, sending her reeling against the table.
The room became a red haze before Reno. He struggled madly to tear himself away from the men holding him. He broke clear of “the snarling Bennie but the Mexican’s hands were fastened onto him like a vise and, though he forced Juanito to swing with him, he could not break the man’s hold. Bennie’s fist sailed in and exploded at the pit of Reno’s unprotected stomach. The drenching shock of that doubled him over and a left hook almost tore the top of his head off. Only the Mexican’s bull strength kept him off the floor.
Yet out of this wooziness and those split seconds of inaction came a strong counterforce, the desperation of despair. Reno got his knees back under him and, as the candlethrown shadow of Bennie again loomed over him, he brought a heel down sharply on the fat man’s instep. Juanito howled. He staggered back. Reno kicked out at the gun fighter’s groin. The Texican, trying to duck out of it, tangled up in his spurs and went down with a crash as Reno lunged at Cordray. The ranchman, sidestepping, thrust out a boot.
Reno almost unhinged his jaw on the floor. With all the breath jarred out of him he was in no shape to offer further resistance when the big Mexican, on Cordray’s orders, dragged him up by the collar and flung him into a chair. “Rope him into it,” Cordray snarled with a curse.
“Now,” he said as Juanito stepped back and the glowering Texican came up kneading a wrist, “we will have no more of this orangoutang stuff.” He thrust the quirt into Bennie’s fist. “If he tries to get out of that chair belt him with it! And you,” he said, taking a folded paper out of the pocket of his shirt with a fiercening glance at Linda, “get that ink off the sideboard and sit down at this table.”
With lifted chin she stared back at him defiantly.
“At once!” Anger roughened his tone and he slapped the words at her. “I waste no more patience! You will sign your name to this conveyance muy pronto or what happens to this fool will be your own responsibility.” He glared. “You hear me?”
Her lips curled. “Why should I care what happens to him?”
The ranchman looked at her unreadably. He got his cigar off the table and rekindled it. “You will care,” he stated flatly.
A door skreaked somewhere. Outside a man’s voice commenced to climb and as abruptly choked off as though a knife had been run through it. Cordray’s head came around, and there was annoyance in his stare. “I told those hairy ones to remain on watch at that lineshack. Go out there, Juanito, and — never mind! Fetch Paco Pedrazos in here.”
The fat man, starting to move, looked over at Reno and hesitated. Bennie tipped up his pistol and Juanito, chins jiggling, went off down the hall. Bennie twirled his gun by the trigger guard, grinning.
Cordray turned back to the girl. “Get the ink.”
She ignored him.
He said nothing more. Limping across to where Reno was tied into the chair he took the cigar from his mouth and bent over him. Reno, guessing what was coming, tried to upset the chair, but the grinning Texican put his foot on a rung and a bracing hand against one of its arms. He was practically drooling.
A film of sweat came out on Reno’s cheeks. Cordray, using the front of the borrowed shirt, smoothed the fire of his cigar to a bright gleaming point. The stench of scorched cloth was nauseating. Cordray’s hand came up, moving closer to Reno’s face. “First the bridge of the nose, then the eyes,” he said pleasantly, and pushed the red end of it against Reno’s skin.
Someone screamed. Through the pain of burnt flesh Reno saw Linda struggling to drag the man away from him. “I’ll sign it! I’ll sign it — ” Cordray shook her off, straightening, watching her run to the sideboard for ink.
Reno snarled, “Don’t do it, Linda!” But the girl was beside herself. She dipped the pen with a trembling hand. It squeaked as she drove it over the paper. Cordray watched, face expressionless, until he had the paper back in his pocket.
“Now,” he said, swinging to eye Reno, “perhaps you are ready to say where that gold is.”
Rage came into Reno’s throat like bile and he lunged against the ropes. Cordray passed the cigar to Bennie. “See what you can do with the girl — ”
“Damn you!” Reno yelled. He locked the chair with his struggles but the ropes only tightened. Cordray waited expectantly. When the gunfighter started for Linda, Reno quit. “All right. You win,” he said bitterly. “I chucked the stuff under the steps.”
“Well!” Cordray chuckled. “We’ll go over there and — ”
“You will stay where you are,” said a bleak voice behind him and the grin fell off Cordray’s face, his jaw dropping. Hope swelled through Reno as spurred boots came into the room from the hallway. He had never imagined he’d be choked with joy to see that burly shape coming toward him with those bandoleered others crowding in behind him. “Viva Sierra — ” His voice shook and cracked. The relief was too great. He blanked out.
FOURTEEN
LINDA, backed against the table where this influx of unwashed men had trapped her, was so concerned over Reno that her own plight and problems dropped completely out of her thinking. In the general confusion with its strong undertow of conflicting aims and pressures she had a better chance than most to consider the varying expressions.
Don Luis, she thought, and the Texican, Bennie, were unstrung chagrined and plainly bordering on fright. The burl
y man — Sierra? — whose sudden entrance had caused this disruption of Cordray’s plans, gave an impression of amusement which she could not, when she studied it, find in his face.
His features, though coarse, possessed a kind of animal magnetism which she felt without being able either to explain or understand. Cheeks and chin were clean shaved. A heavy mustache bristled beneath the gross nose and the eyes looked like golden veined pieces of agate, yet she read sympathy in them as he looked down at Reno and the gruffness of his voice, she thought, concealed an unsuspected compassion. “Get some water and throw over him,” he told one of the soldiers.
As the man went off Linda looked at his companions. They were like wild men, these dorados, black haired and atavistic with bold eyes dark and cruel in high-cheekboned faces that seemed more Indian than Mexican. Each carried a knife with a long heavy blade in addition to the rifle and crossed bandoleers studded with cartridges, and some of them had pistols thrust into the ropes which held up their ragged pants. On their heads were the big Chihuahua hats. The two or three whose grimy feet were not bare wore rope soled sandals. Only Sierra wore boots and a serviceable jacket. The others wore blankets with a hole for the head.
Don Luis started to speak but Sierra waved him silent. The man who had left came back with a brimming bucket and, on the Liberator’s orders, emptied it over Reno who began to groan and splutter. Linda sprang forward in protest. “He’s been hurt!” she cried indignantly. Sierra looked and grinned.
“Well, General,” he said when Reno seemed able to take in his words, “do you have anything to say to me?”
Don Luis, Linda thought, appeared a little astonished at Sierra’s address though he was quick to conceal any disquiet he may have felt, and the former uneasiness she had marked was gone entirely.
Reno’s face, disfigured by ugly welts, torn skin and the angry red of the burn, gingerly shaped a wry grimace. “I guess not,” he said quietly, “except I’ve still got the gold — ”
“And which you were about to give away to quell the alarms of this gringa.”
Reno shrugged. “Who should know better than our illustrious commander the value of good relations? Is it not said from Zapatacas to Las Palomas that Tano Sierra is a martyr to Venus? Considering the stakes involved were a rich and influential lady’s health and personal beauty, it was obvious you would not have me do otherwise.”
Delighted grins appeared upon those dark and dusty faces. Reno had made of his default a virtue, a beautiful gesture which these ruffians of Tano’s, knowing the man, could both approve and appreciate; and Linda could see that Sierra understood this. He disclosed a dry smile and, stepping back, said, “Present me.”
If Reno regretted his coup he managed to conceal it. Though prevented by the ropes from getting out of his chair he was careful to control the nuances of his voice. “His Excellency Tano Sierra de Caribello y Guadalupe, Protector of the Poor and Liberator of the Downtrodden.” He bowed. “The Señorita Linda Farrel, late and rightful owner of the rancho Broken Spur.”
Sierra considered him briefly, the coppery glints in his eyes taking on an added luster. Then Linda smiled with stiff lips and the Mexican swept off his hat with an extravagant flourish, striding boldly forward to bend over her hand. His black curls came up to display his white teeth. Contempt made a twist of the ranchman’s mouth and Sierra said, still showing the smile but with his eyes coming around like a cat’s to watch Cordray, “Perhaps, señorita, you will pardon an old soldier’s bluntness and explain what you are doing here.”
Linda’s voice wavered a little but she told him that owing to her father’s death she happened at the moment to be Don Luis’ guest.
“And the scream?” Sierra asked.
Linda’s eyes went to Reno. “Look what they’ve done to him — look at his face!” The Liberator appeared to find her own more engrossing. She said, flushing, “Aren’t you going to untie him?”
“He interests you?”
She got hold of herself. She said with eyes flashing, “I shall always be interested in seeing justice done.”
“This is something Sierra can share with you.” He smiled, at last releasing her hand. “You believe he has been treated unjustly?”
“I can tell you about that — ” Don Luis began, but his voice fell away before Sierra’s cold glare.
“When I get around to it, friend, there are quite a few things you will find yourself telling me. You had better be shaping them up in your mind.” He glanced around. “Tuerto! Cut the General’s ropes and bring in that fat one to find something for his face.” His eyes sharpened. “Well?”
“I think,” Reno suggested, “we had better put out some pickets. Cordray has a crew of tough hombres — ”
“Relax. I’ve had enough of your advice for the moment. No one will get in or get out. My troops occupy Columbus and Las Palomas. All the roads are watched.” He swung back to face Linda. “And why does he call you the late and rightful owner of this great Farrel ranch?”
Before Linda could speak Cordray’s voice cut in suavely, “A little matter of business, excelencia. I have recently acquired, in the way of a dowry — ”
Sierra’s face came around white with anger. “Keep your mouth shut until you are spoken to! Pancho! Take this windbag outside and show him the dead men. Felipe! Help the General and that fat one over to the bunkhouse — ”
“You’d better,” Cordray snarled, “keep that renegade under guard. Except for my intervention he would already have taken those bags and run off with them!”
Sierra strode forward and struck him flat handed. Cordray’s eyes filled with hate. Sierra struck him again. “Filth of a whore! Do you think I am blind?” He swung away, breathing heavily. “Tacho! Disarm this Texican and take four men with him to fetch that gold from the lineshack.” He glared at Don Luis. “Andale! Pronto!”
Cordray, eyes bright with outrage, limped off toward the door, one of the dorados with a rifle tagging after him. Linda watched Reno come unsteadily to his feet and, without looking at her, go off with Juanito and a second armed dorado. She saw another take the pistol away from Bennie and prod him doorward, the remainder of these wild men falling blank-faced in behind them. She looked at Sierra and tried to still her pounding heart.
• • •
Reno’s heart was pounding, too.
The big Mexican’s ministrations had reduced much of the swelling from his face but there were other aches and anguish Juanito’s unguents could not touch.
Nor did it comfort the American that Sierra had called him ‘General.’ Too well he recalled Tano’s penchant for indulging whims, that streak of Puckish humor which sometimes gave even men like Descardo the creeping jitters. The length of time he had left Reno tied was the key to this cat-and-mouse game he was playing. Reno’s holster was still empty and he did not imagine the silent Felipe was lounging outside the door to keep the wind from blowing the lamp out.
He wondered if Sierra had been speaking the truth when he had bragged that his men were occupying Columbus. It would be just like him to pull a crazy stunt like that! International bounderies meant nothing to Sierra. They bothered him no more than finding grubs in his sirloin.
He looked at Juanito and scowled at the reflections limned on the black glass of the window. The Mexican lay stretched in the bunk across the aisle as though completely indifferent to the possibilities of change inherent in Sierra’s presence. What did he think about? What was it like, Reno wondered, to be a Mexican? A queer people, he thought, marveling. In so many ways completely childlike. Faith personified. Magnificent. Appalling. Living each additional day as it came without regrets for the past or apparent care for the morrow.
He saw beyond the reflections in the window the bobbing blob of a lantern and guessed that would be the man Pancho with Don Luis. He tried to emulate Juanito but his mind was across the dark yard with the girl left behind in Cordray’s house with Sierra. His thoughts leaped about like the legs of frogs in a skillet. To squirm out
of the corner he had been backed into he had made her important by connecting her with Spur, the ranch of many waters, never suspecting in her plainness she could engage the bandit’s interest.
He clenched his fists in impotent fury. It was intolerable he should have placed her in such danger. A fever rose in his brain and he swung both booted feet to the floor with his narrowing stare intently considering the head and shoulders of the cigarette-smoking Felipe who lounged outside within a jump of the door.
A dozen wild schemes presented themselves to be reluctantly abandoned in the inescapable knowledge that to be of any help to her he had to stay alive.
He got up and prowled the shack without finding any weapons or anything from which he could fashion an advantage. Juanito said through a yawn, “I could put out the light.”
The words soaked through Reno’s mind like tiny drops of cold water. There’d be a chance all right if he could trust the man, but why should this Mexican offer to help him? To in turn help Don Luis? Where was the good in that?
He prowled some more; then he got into the bunk again and pulled off his boots, dropping them noisily. “Go ahead,” he said quietly.
Juanito bent forward and blew at the lamp. It went out in a stench of warm oil. Nothing happened. Reno could see Felipe’s silhouette fairly plain through the window and the man had not even looked around. “Knock on the glass and get his attention,” Reno breathed, reaching down and taking hold of a boot.
“I desire to go too,” Juanito whispered. “Throw one through the glass and let us see if God listens.”
The noise was monstrous banging back against the corners of the room. The guard turned his head but did not move from his place. Juanito, threshing up a racket, threw in groans and grunts and curses. “Chingao! Peeg of a gringo!” he snarled; then softer: “God labors. Throw the other one.”
Reno hurled it from the foot of his bunk. It tore through at an angle, splattering glass. The pale blob of the guard’s face came up to the window. “Silence!” he roared.