"Go ahead, if you like, but that current runs swift. But not for me."
I decided against it too, thinking of how cold it was. Moonlight glinted on the gold badge on Jordan's vest as he stuffed a briar with tobacco. He waited until I had rolled a cigarette and then held the match flame for me. We puffed in silence for a few minutes, seated cross-legged on either side of the fire. He reached nearby and tossed some dried mesquite branches on the flames. They flared for a moment and then settled to a slow steady burning.
"We can have some habla, now," Jordan said. "I want to know a few things before I take you in."
"I reckon so," I gulped, jerking back to a realization that a lot of trouble lay before me. "There's just one thing I want to know—how did you manage to work around behind me this afternoon?"
"Didn't," he said shortly. "Didn't dast try after hearing about you being such a fast hand with weapons." I gave a short jeering laugh. He said, looking surprised, "Not true?"
"Not true," I told him.
A scowl crossed his face. He continued, "Anyway, I wanted you alive. I don't take to killin', less'n it's real necessary. I kept shooting high all the time—high or to one side—just to keep you from closing in on me. Nope, I never did get near you for a shot. Way I figure it, one of my slugs ricocheted off that big rock behind you and came flying back at an angle toward your head, just missing a solid hit. If you'd had your hat on it might have been deflected some, but it just managed to strike enough to knock you out, without really hitting square which would sure as hell finished you. All you lost is a mite of hair and a thin slice of skin. It'll be healed in a week. I looked around and found a flattened fragment of lead, so mebbe that was the chunk after it bounced back from your barrier."
"That clears things up—" I commenced.
"I'd waited a spell and when you didn't answer none of my yells, I took a chance. You were sprawled flat when I found you, dead to the world. I brought you back here, washed the cut and stuck on some court plaster. The whole business was just damn' convenient for me. I just never could get used to some feller throwing lead my direction. I always tote a mite of court plaster with me. It's handy for such wounds."
"I reckon I had a close call."
"I reckon," Jordan said bluntly. His manner changed somewhat. "I want to know a few things. What in the devil set you off on an outlaw trail?"
I told him the whole story, about old Pablo and Miguel and Mama Josefa, how they'd brought me up and were just like real parents and about Banker Kirby trying to practically steal their outfit. "It was the only way I could think of to get the money," I explained earnestly. "I owed 'em any help I could give—"
"I know all that," he cut in, "but—"
"You do?" I was surprised.
"I paid a visit to the Star-Cross, talked to old Pablo and his wife. Miguel was away someplace at the time. I talked to folks in Tenango City. You got a lot of friends there. Old Pablo finally understood where you got the money. He sold some cows and took it to Banker Kirby to pay him back. Kirby took the money, but refused to withdraw charges against you, claiming robbery, extortion and bodily harm—"
"Damn it," I half shouted, "I never harmed a hair of his head. Didn't even touch him. I'll admit I threatened him, sure—"
"That was enough. He claims that the fright has affected his heart and he hasn't been well since."
"A heart the size of a mustard seed—" I said furiously. "I can't believe my actions affected his health."
"Neither do I." Jordan laughed shortly. "I talked to him, you'll remember. A nasty old bastard, I'd call him."
"He's all of that," I said hotly. "It wouldn't bother me much if I had—"
"Oh, yes, it would," Jordan interrupted. "Now you just cool down. Sure, I heard all about your hot temper. Keep a clam on it for a spell. So, we've settled that part. Now, how about all these other jobs you've been pulling—bank robbery,- stage hold-ups, cattle rustlin'—Lord only knows what else."
"Not a damn word of truth in it," I stated earnestly. "I don't know what's got into law officers these days. Seems like they've taken to blaming me for every job pulled in their territories. I swear the only bad step I've made is that job at Kirby's bank."
"You certain?" Jordan said sharply. "I don't want to hear any lies."
"I sure as hell am. I'm just being blamed for a lot of jobs somebody else pulls. You know, give a dog a bad name—"
"I know how that goes," he growled an interruption. "Such things have happened before. For the present I'll take your word for it. But that don't clear you of the Banker Kirby business."
"I reckon not," I conceded glumly.
"Get yourself a good lawyer when we get back. A smart man could, maybe, get your sentence reduced a heap." I didn't have any answer to that, only a queer sinking feeling. Bars of steel, stone walls. A shudder coursed along my spine. Jordan glanced narrowly at me, saying, "You cold?" He tossed another mesquite branch on the fire. I started to roll a cigarette while he refilled his smelly briar pipe.
"Y'know," he went on, "I've wondered about those reward bills. Couldn't figure out how you could hit so many places so fast, unless your hawss had wings to speed you up. Thought there might be something fishy about those bills. It was like somebody had a grudge against you and was out to put you away for good, or get you killed. What's back of it, Cardinal?"
"You got me. I just never could understand it."
"You got any enemies in high places, men with influence?"
"The only enemy I can think of is Skinflint Kirby."
"Pshaw! Kirby wouldn't pay out the cash required for all those wanted bills. He'd do anything else to put you behind bars, though."
"That's as I see it, but I can't put a finger on anything else."
We chewed the rag a while longer and eventually got to calling each other by first names. Even if he was taking me in for trial, I couldn't help liking him. I said finally, "Anyway, thanks a lot."
"For what?"—sharply.
"For not putting a slug through my carcass when you had the chance, as some law officers might have done."
He glared at me a moment. "Some law officers. Hell, they don't deserve the name—dirty, lazy, grafting—shucks! let's forget it."
"I could forget it easier than I could some other things," I answered glumly.
"Yeah, I reckon so," he agreed. "Well, if we're to get a good start back, in the morning, I reckon we'd better turn in. I note you didn't have a bedroll with you."
"Me, I'm forced to travel light," I said bitterly, "light and fast and always glancing back over my shoulder. My saddle blanket serves when it's chilly."
"Yeah, I know how it is," he said shortly. "I got jammed up once myself, when I was a button, but it all passed over. You can roll into one of my blankets."
He rose and stretched, yawned. I got to my feet and sauntered out to the edge of the big flat rock, with the rushing water, foaming and swirling, just below me. The moon was lower now, but it was still tossing diamonds about on the surface of the river.
Webb Jordan had followed me out to the edge of the rock. He drew a long satisfied breath and sniffed the clear cool air. "It sure is real pretty tonight, ain't it?" he commented.
I agreed that it sure was. Low as I was feeling at that moment I could still appreciate the beauty of the night. We hesitated a moment longer, drinking it in, and then as we started to turn back he said, almost apologetically, "Johnny, I hate to say this, but I'm going to have to put the bracelets on you while we get our shut-eye. Got to be legal and all that, should anything happen—"
And then something happened:
As we turned back he put one foot down on a weathered pebble, or something of the sort, that rolled under his boot-sole, causing him to lose his balance. He staggered back, arms waving wildly in the air. Impulsively, I put out one hand to catch him, but my movement came too late.
The next instant he plunged backward from the edge of the rock, striking the swirling depths below with a splash that sent wat
er cascading down my face and shirt front.
I gave a startled yell and could only stare dumbly for a moment at the spot where Jordan had disappeared. I hadn't heard a sound from him since he hit the water. Peering over the edge I saw his head come up once and then disappear again as his arms flailed helplessly against the tossing waters.
The first thought that occurred to me was that here was my chance for escape. Abruptly I started to hate myself for the thought, and then it was borne in on me that Jordan hadn't acted, in the brief moment I saw him, like a man accustomed to water. The sudden truth hit me like a ton of rock:
Webb Jordan couldn't swim a stroke!
Moving frantically, I whipped off my boots, then dived in. The current whirled me dizzily around for a moment before I came up, head above water. Now I was thankful for such light as the moon gave, throwing as well into some relief the shadows along the rocky banks. Whipping water out of my eyes, I tried to raise my head above water. There was no sight of Jordan and I wondered if he'd gone down for good.
Then farther on in a shadow, I thought I saw him trying to hold to a projecting rock at one side. The place was in shadow, and I couldn't be certain, but I struck out in that direction anyway, the current carrying me along swifter than I could have managed to swim in those chilling depths. God, it was cold, like something that had just come from an Arctic iceberg, almost paralyzing to the arms and leg muscles.
I had almost reached the spot for which I was headed when I managed to make out his struggling figure, hands scrabbling at slippery rock. Then he lost the battle and went under again, carried farther away from me. So far I'd not heard one word from him. Undoubtedly he was already half unconscious.
I stroked as strongly as possible toward the spot where he had last disappeared, then veered more to the right. Not a sign of him, now, and I wondered if he was already drowned. Taking a deep breath, I plunged below the surface, unable to see anything now, but feeling wildly about on the chance that I might locate his body.
An undercurrent dragged me down and down, then just as I thought I must be close to the bottom, one hand touched something that felt like clothing. Already I was being whipped to the surface again, and I made a frantic grab for Jordan, if it was Jordan I had felt. My hand touched human hair, and I tightened my grip, hauling him to the surface, fighting to swim with one hand, while the other towed Jordan, by the head, at my side.
Then a bit of luck overtook us. A swirl of the current carried us near the bank and an instant later I felt the rocky and sandy bottom under foot. A few moments later I had dropped, exhausted, on a small stretch of sand, Jordan prone beside me.
For a moment I couldn't move, or speak, then I got my breath back and rolled over to look at him. He lay on his side as I had dropped him, legs slightly curled. In the light from the moon I could see blood flowing from a nasty cut on his forehead, where he had probably struck a rock someplace. A sort of choked gurgling came from his throat, though his eyes were closed. His features were ashy, except where blood mingled with the water dripping from his head.
I didn't like his looks one bit, and that snapped me into action. Though I'd learned to swim when I was a youngster, no one had ever taught me what to do in a case of this sort. A few things I'd heard of life-saving filtered into my mind. Hell! I had to try something.
I straightened his legs, turned him face down, seized him by the middle and lifted, with a sort of joggling movement. I heard water dripping but couldn't tell if I was doing any good. Then I straightened him out again, rested his head sidewise on one bent arm. Knelt with a knee on either side of his body and pressed down on his back in the lung region, with easy rhythmic movements. Finally I heard a sort of gasp, a quick sudden intake of breath, and then another. I kept working on him, I don't know how long, until he seemed to be breathing better, though still unconscious. I still didn't like the feel of his skin; it was too cold to suit me. I'd have to get him back to the camp.
I still don't know how I made it, half-carrying and half-dragging Jordan back, with big rocks impeding the way, while the canyon walls towered high overhead. At the camp, I threw some loose blankets on the fire, then got Jordan's blankets. I stripped every bit of clothing from his body, rubbed him down with my saddle blanket, and then got him rolled into his own blankets. The next thing was to build up the fire. I scuttled around finding loose bits of wood that had washed down the canyon, and soon had a roaring blaze going. Right then, despite the heat at which I'd been working, I commenced to feel chilly. After washing the cut on his forehead, I rummaged through his dunnage until I'd found his court plaster and did what I could about bandaging the wound. It was nasty, but not too deep, and once dry the blood had started to congeal.
Now I stripped off my own clothing and did what I could to get dry. After that, I propped up some dried sticks near the fire and placed our clothing across them to dry. After a time they began to steam. The moon dropped as the night passed. From time to time I'd take a look at Jordan to see if he was all right. So far as I could tell, he was. He was plenty warm and breathing easily now, though I couldn't be certain whether he was still unconscious, or just sleeping a sleep of exhaustion.
Toward dawn I got back into my clothing, which was still pretty damp, and I was thankful for my dry boots. I inspected Jordan again. His forehead was cool, so I knew there was no temperature rising. He seemed to be sleeping easily and this time I was sure it was sleep. I considered a moment and then moved saddle and blanket, rifle and holstered cartridge belt around the corner of the rock where my horse was tethered. I saddled up and got ready to leave.
The sky was graying in the east when I got back from a final inspection of my patient. All seemed to be well. I rummaged in his things and found a short length of pencil and some paper. My short note would explain, I hoped. Just: "Sorry to do it this way, but others might not he as understanding as you. Thanks. Regret I can't stay for breakfast. John Cardinal." I placed a rock on the paper near where he lay. I placed some more wood on the fire. Then I went to my horse and got into the saddle. I walked him easily until well away from the camp.
Sure, my conscience was hurting a little, leaving in such fashion. Webb Jordan had treated me decently. However, I figured we stood Even-Steven: he hadn't blown my head off when he'd had the chance; and as I saw it I'd saved his life, though with a lot of luck, probably. Still, I'd hated like the devil to leave that way, and I wouldn't have, except that I'd felt certain he'd be as healthy as ever when he woke up. So once again I was headed north, out of the Big Bend country and its tall mountains.
VI
Two months passed while I continued my aimless wanderings, and I tell you I was getting damn' sick of always having to be looking back over my shoulder, or getting that sort of tightened up, tense feeling every time some hombre happened to give me a second glance when we passed. It was getting so I was a bundle of nerves, never feeling safe unless I was riding in open country with not a soul in sight. If I'd had my way I'd have steered clear of towns all the time, but somehow I just couldn't get away from a craving for companionship now and then, even feeling as I did. And there was the matter of picking up food in stores that was plumb necessary. I was commencing to think that I might feel safer if I left Texas altogether, and practised my merry-go-round existence on some other range. So I headed west again.
Deosso Springs was my next stop. It was there that Lady Luck smiled and then turned against me. Something about the place reminded me of my home town—just in appearance, that's all. I grabbed a bite of food in a Chinese restaurant, then headed for a bar to get a beer before pushing on. I got my beer. Two or three cowhands at the bar seemed friendly and introduced themselves. We shook hands and I gave them the name I was using at the time: Joe Willits. We had another round of drinks. Somebody suggested poker, and a couple more men were drawn into a game. A few questions were asked, at least hinted at. I told 'em I was from near Oklahoma City, riding through on the way to do some visiting with El Paso friends. The game started
, and Lady Luck sure smiled for a time. We were playing for just small stakes, but the first few hands I couldn't seem to lose. As I was running low on funds that sort of situation was welcome. When I was some forty-odd dollars ahead, I began to worry. I didn't want to be remembered as the stranger who had such a run of luck.
Not that there was any resentment, only congrats on the way the cards were falling for me. Just the same I was glad when the game broke up, and three of the men had to leave to get back to their outfit. The other fellow, Cal Somebody, suggested we have another beer. I was getting hungry and said so. It was already getting dark outside, and past my supper time. Cal spoke to the barkeep, who produced some beef sandwiches to go with our beer. We retired to a corner table and chewed the fat for a spell.
The bartender had lighted the lamps above the bar by this time, and more customers filtered into the saloon, among them were some rather tough-looking men. I noticed Cal frown at their entrance, and asked who they were.
He shrugged, frown deepening. "I ain't certain. One of 'em is called Hondo by his pals. I don't know the other names. They don't punch for nobody around here. Dropped off the T.N. & A.S. a few days ago, but don't seem to do anything but hang around town, inspectin' the bars. I don't like their looks nohow, but I got to admit they ain't made no trouble."
Neither did I like their looks, but it was none of my business. The man, Hondo, was a big brutish type, with a scarred holster and a weather-beaten sombrero, who looked as though he hadn't shaved in a month. For that matter, I reflected, I hadn't had a razor to my face in a week, and the whiskers were beginning to itch, though sometimes I let 'em go longer as a sort of disguise.
I didn't know it right then, but Lady Luck was getting ready to turn her smile into a frown. I knew I should be shoving on, but I was comfortable, the beer was good and Cal was satisfactory company. He said: "My turn to buy," grabbed our empty bottles and went to the bar. In a moment he returned, bearing two fresh bottles, and a saucer of pinon nuts, which went well with the brew.
Shoot Him On Sight Page 4