"I'd be safe enough, if I kept close to you," Mike persisted.
"With what I've got in mind," I said, and I could feel my face reddening, "maybe I don't want you close to me."
Jeff swore and Mike looked hurt. That made me feel bad too. No one spoke for a minute. Finally I forced a laugh, rose and saying, "Adiós, mi companeros," I left and headed out to the corral, where I saddled up my buckskin, climbed on deck and headed toward the canyon through Buzzard Buttes. I didn't feel too good about leaving things as I had, but what else could I do? I rode slowly through the canyon, pondering that question.
The sky overhead was fleckless blue. There was a faint breeze blowing. I was wishing now I'd brought another basket of lunch, wishing I'd brought an extra pony for Topaz, though I'd felt certain we couldn't pull the same stunt two days in a row. That sort of thing was too risky for Topaz, and if Webster ever learned about that—well, I didn't like to think what he'd do. I pushed on. By now the canyon was widening out. A moment more and I'd be in open country again.
About the time I was emerging from the canyon to grassy terrain I spied two riders approaching from Onyxton. I checked the buckskin fast and drew him back behind a gigantic boulder until I could identify the riders. Within five minutes they were close enough for me to recognize them and my heart took a sudden slump.
Topaz and Shel Webster, riding side by side, laughing and talking, out for one of their morning canters. I drooped in the saddle, and backed my pony farther behind the big rock. Right then, I was sure sunk. How in God's name could she… ? After the things she'd said? I watched as they drew past the canyon and continued on up toward the foothills. I could feel the hot blood of anger mounting to my head and a savage anger coursed through my veins. I muttered hopelessly, "Oh, hell," and was about to turn back toward the Box-CT, then I changed my mind. Sure, looking back on it now, I could realize it was a childish stunt, but I just couldn't leave now. I had to see where they were going, what they intended.
I waited five minutes after their ponies had passed the first rise of ground and dropped out of sight, then I jabbed spurs against the buckskin's ribs and fell in behind them, swearing tonelessly as I rode. When I mounted the next rise, I drew to a halt and dismounted, then crept on hands and knees to peer over the top of the rise. There they were, half a mile distant, horses close together, loping easily along. Pangs of jealousy stabbed through me as I watched until they had dismounted behind the next hill. It appeared they were headed for the same spot Topaz and I had picnicked yesterday.
I swung to one side when I had remounted, heading for a thick clump of mesquite, with two great cottonwoods growing nearby, figuring to do some more spying, and hating myself every minute for such procedure. But somehow I couldn't help myself. Once out of sight, I spurred my pony to a faster gait, circled wide and finally drew to a halt beneath the trees. Here I could watch, I figured, without being seen. I dismounted, dropping reins over the buckskin's head, and squatted in the thick shade. I waited.
I hadn't long to wait. Within a few moments their horses drifted over a hilly crest and continued at right angle to my range of vision. Some mesquites grew not much farther on, then I saw them draw their horses to a halt. Webster stepped down, then walked around, one arm raised, to assist Topaz dismount. I saw her lift one leg in her riding skirt, over and past the saddle. As she alighted, Webster caught her closely in his arms. I saw their heads draw together a moment, before she placed both hands on his chest and pressed him back. The whole business was damn agonizing, but I couldn't resist looking, despite what it was all doing to me.
All kinds of thoughts coursed through my mind: the deceit of women, double-crosser, teaser, careless flirt—God knows what my thoughts were. Oh, I knew when I was licked all right. I saw them drop to a sitting position on the earth, the grass moving slightly in the breeze around them. Webster's back was to me. Topaz was facing me and I could see the bright sun picking highlights in her red-gold hair when she removed her sombrero and tossed it on the earth at her side.
Oh, yes, she's enjoying herself, I told myself bitterly. She'd made a fool of me—or maybe I'd always been a fool—probably told Shel Webster all about me and the bluff I'd been running. Well, my game was up at last. Webster would know for certain now that I wasn't as black as the reward bills had pictured me. Anger mounted in me until I was wishing I'd brought my Winchester and concluded things once and for all. Or I might even ride in on their cozy little chit-chat and put him to the test, see if he was faster'n me. And I knew in my heart that he was. He wasn't packing that under-arm gun for nothing. But it wasn't fear that stopped me. It was a sort of disgust with the whole business. Fear? Hell, right then I didn't give a damn if I lived or not.
No, it wasn't fear. It was just that I wanted to get away from the vicinity as soon as possible and forget all that had happened and what a silly fool I was. I mounted my horse, not giving a damn whether I was seen or not. They were too far off for hoofbeats on grass-padded earth to be heard, but if either had gazed in my direction, they'd seen me leaving. Fast!
I didn't give a damn about that either. I was even hoping Webster would see me leaving and come after me. But I reckon he didn't. I pushed my pony hard, back toward Buzzard Buttes and through the canyon. When I arrived at the house, Mateo and Jeff and Mike were seated on the broad front gallery fronting the building. As I rode on down toward the corral, without speaking, I noted they had a bottle and glasses. They all called greetings, but I didn't reply. I unsaddled, turned the buckskin into the corral and walked slowly back toward the house-On the gallery they all greeted me with relieved smiles. For a moment I felt like a heel for worrying them the way I had. Jeff gestured toward the bottle on the floor. "Wash the dust from your gullet, Johnny."
I shook my head and, without answering, dropped into a chair.
The three looked curiously at me a moment. Mateo said, "What is new in Onyxton, Johnny? You did not remain long."
"Didn't go to Onyxton," I replied gruffly.
"You change the mind, eh?" from Mateo.
"I've changed my mind about a lot of things," I growled shortly.
Silence fell. The three stirred uncomfortably. Mateo rose finally and said something about an order he wanted to give one of the hands. I sat glowering at nothing in particular, not talking. I didn't feel ready to make any explanations. A few minutes later, Jeff announced that he'd forgotten something or other, and he, too, left the gallery for the interior of the house.
Mike eyed me, puzzledly, for a few minutes. "Something has gone very malo—bad—, Johnny?"
"Mucho malo, Mike," I grunted, disheartened.
Mike nodded. "Miss Topaz—?" he queried tentatively.
"Is it any of your business?" I snarled.
He rose, crossed to my chair, placed one hand on my shoulder.
"Sí, what is bad for you makes it my affair, Johnny," he said gently.
I felt lower'n a rundown boot-heel. "I'm sorry, Mike, I— well—I just don't feel like talking now."
"Of course not," he said understandingly. "For a man there are just three consolations—a woman, talk, or whisky. You do not feel like the conversation, about woman or otherwise. Remains only the whisky." He nudged the bottle standing on the gallery floor with his booted toe. I glanced up at him, caught the sympathetic flash of very white teeth in his dark face. Again, he patted my shoulder. "Get drunk in peace, Johnny. It will help you forget—her." He turned without further talk and disappeared in the direction of the bunkhouse.
Mike knew me like the brother he was. He'd sensed my trouble had to do with Topaz. Maybe he made sense. I reached down and seized the bottle. It was about half full of bourbon. It burned my throat as it went down but I kept swallowing. Only a fit of choking forced me to replace the bottle on the gallery floor. I sat waiting for the liquor to take hold and benumb what was left of my senses. After five minutes nothing had happened. I waited another five. Hell, I must have gone dead inside. I've felt more on a couple of bottles of beer. I s
at glaring off across the range. The sun was dropping now, making purple shadows in the hollows, drawing dark lines on the spikes of ocotillo, subduing the earlier lights on prickly pear pads.
I thought, Oh, hell, what's the difference if the sun sets or not, or ever rises again? That's just how low I was. I reached for the bottle again, deciding to finish it off, then stopped. The first drink hadn't helped any, so why shoe a dead horse? I decided whisky wasn't the answer—not right then, anyway. So I just sat and watched the shadows deepen a little more. I could hear voices at the back of the house and near the bunkhouse as the vaqueros came riding in, one or two at a time, but nothing that was said was intelligible to me.
I was roused from a sort of numb stupor by the sound of hoofbeats. Glancing up, I saw a rider on a big gray horse just turning in to the ranch yard. He pulled to a walk, then dismounted a few yards from the gallery. He nodded curtly and said "Howdy," and I gave him a short "Howdy," in return.
I sized him up as he approached. A big man with a thin, highly-arched nose, tight lips and penetrating gray eyes. Probably in the vicinity of forty years, I judged. He wore a flimsy vest and flannel shirt, brown corduroys tucked into knee-length boots, a big-buckled belt about a slim middle. The dark hair above his ears had touches of gray beneath the somewhat battered low-crowned black sombrero. I noted the holster, with its big Colt's six-shooter, was bound to his thigh with buckskin thongs, often the sign of a gun-fighter. He looked hard as nails and I figured him right then as a hard customer to deal with. I had a hunch right then that he was looking for me.
Warily, I got to my feet, my own right hand straying down toward my .44 Colt. I noted the corners of his lips twitch a little. He hadn't missed my movement. My heart began to beat a little faster. I didn't think I was going to like this.
He wasn't waiting for an invitation to "Sit and rest your saddle a mite," either, but came steadily on, full of confidence, his gray eyes boring into mine. Steady as hell they were too, and my heart began to pump a little. He said quietly enough, "I'm Trent Taggert."
I answered rather coldly, sounding inhospitable as the devil, "So?"
"So," he replied, "I'm looking for John Cardinal." That threw a jolt into me, particularly when I caught the gleam of a gold badge on his vest. Now I knew where I'd heard the name. Trent Taggert. Probably the greatest man-hunter in the country of that day. U.S. Marshal Trent Taggert.
Oh, I knew what was coming, I figured. After running and running, the minute I found a place to stay, I'd been caught. Well, feeling as I did right then, it didn't matter.
I was sunk, anyway. No use putting up a fight now. I didn't feel like fighting any more.
I held my voice steady as possible. I said, "I'm John Cardinal. So it looks as if the law had caught up with me at last."
XIX
U.S. Marshal Trent Taggert eyed me steadily a minute. "The law has caught up with you for the second time," he replied.
"How do you mean?"
"Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan had you once, but you ducked out on him."
I said a bit hotly, "Would you expect me to stay?"
"Now, cool down, Cardinal. I'm not holding that against you. It was natural under the circumstances. Neither does Webb Jordan hold it against you—"
"How do you know? Webb Jordan's dead."
He shook his head. "Just say he had a narrow escape, though it was mighty close. He's still in the hospital."
"That's the best news I've had today," I burst out. Then stopped. "Here's something that may be news to you, Marshal Taggert. I finished off the scut who shot Jordan in the back."
"So?" he said. "I heard that, too. It's something—a great deal in your favor, I'd say."
I shrugged. It hadn't occurred to me to ask where Taggert had heard I'd killed Hondo Crowell. I was just so damn glad to hear Webb Jordan still lived, that I felt a sudden lift. Some of my fight was returning.
"You're needed back across the border, Cardinal," he said next.
"And that's not news." I forced a laugh.
"I reckon not, but—"
"I suppose, Marshal, you realize this is Mexico."
He looked steadily at me a moment, his penetrating eyes boring deep. "Cripes A'mighty!" he smiled thinly. "Border lines never made any difference to me."
"So you've got extradition papers, I suppose."
Again that steady look from gray eyes. Now, he almost smiled. "I don't reckon extradition papers will be necessary, Cardinal."
"I suppose not," I conceded. Hell, why fight any further? I said, "Look, I'll go with you. There won't be any trouble. But let's do it quietly, eh? I've got friends in the house. I don't want to get them upset."
"That's all right with me," he nodded, then, "Say, don't you ever ask a man to sit in this country?"
I hadn't thought. We were both still on our feet. I apologized and shoved a chair in his direction. "There's what's left of a bottle, too," I told him. "I'll get a glass if you'll let me out of your sight, and tell the folks we have a guest for supper. Okay?"
"Okay," he responded. He was lifting the bottle to his lips as I turned toward the door. Then I caught his voice, "Oh, Cardinal, don't get any ideas about slipping out the back door. It wouldn't be very smart on your part."
"Hadn't even thought of it," I answered, wondering at the same moment if that was entirely true. A sort of mocking laugh followed me.
Halfway across the big room I encountered Jeff. "Somebody out front?" he asked.
I nodded and told him what had happened. "Where's Mike?"
"Down at the corral with Mateo. Look here, that marshal hombre can't take you back. This is Mexico, not the States. We'll get Mike and Mateo and the rest—" His face was darkening as he talked.
I cut him short. "I've said I'd go without trouble, Jeff. I didn't want to upset Mama Benita. We'll let him pose as an extra hand at supper."
We argued about that for a time, but Jeff finally gave in. "All right, I'll find Mateo and Mike, and explain things, but I still don't like it."
"Neither do I, but I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Maybe it's best." Jeff left the room. I hurried to get a clean glass, and returned to the gallery. By this time the bottle was empty. I offered to get another quart, but Taggert just laughed. "I see you used sense."
"Maybe I got smart for once. Come on in and shake hands with my friends."
Well, we got through supper somehow. Nobody talked much. Taggert complimented Mama Benita on her food. Always liking company, Mama had done herself proud and couldn't understand why no one, except Taggert, had asked for second helpings. Taggert could really stow away food. Once he'd learned that his pony was being taken care of, he really sailed into the fodder. I judged he was the sort of individual who took his eating seriously, and didn't want to have any talk intruding on his nourishment.
Supper finished and Mama Benita departed for her kitchen, I said, "How soon you want to start back, Taggert?"
He replied lazily, "I'm in no particular rush. If there happened to be any bourbon around here, I'd like to talk a mite and get things squared around."
That gave me another idea. Apparently, the man liked to stow away his red-eye. Perhaps, if he took too much, I'd be able on the way back to the border to, once more, show a clean pair of heels to the pursuit. I could see that Mateo and Mike and Jeff also caught something of the same idea, as Mateo instantly produced two bottles when we pushed back chairs from the dining table and got seated before the big fireplace taking the chill from the evening air.
There wasn't much talk at first. Lord, how that man Taggert could put away liquor. He had a bottle to himself and drank three to our one. My heart dropped a little when I realized the whisky wasn't having any adverse effect on him. So there any ideas I'd had of making an escape went glimmering.
I finally grew impatient. "Look here," I said, "Marshal Taggert says I'm needed back in the States. So long as I'm under arrest, we might as well get started back."
No one said anything for a mome
nt. Smoke from cigarettes and Mateo's pipe swirled lazily in the room. Mesquite roots cracked and blazed in the fireplace. My heart dropped a little lower; I was going to miss all this.
Trent Taggert chuckled. "Who said anything about arrest, Cardinal? Looks like you jumped to conclusions."
"You said I was needed back in the States—" I began.
"Right. In Tenango City. We need some sworn statements from you and you'll need to sign some papers. If it will relieve your mind any, Banker Clarence Kirby has been more than glad to drop charges against you for that extortion caper you pulled on him—"
I sat straighter, as did Mateo and Jeff and Mike, their jaws dropping. I guess my eyes were wide and round like silver dollars. I exclaimed, "What the devil you talking about?"
"Also," Taggert put in, "there's a sizable chunk of money waiting in the bank for you—your father's money left to you. You'll have to sign for that, of course, and witness certain statements. You see, Kirby never did reveal your father's will—had some sort of idea of keeping the wealth for himself—"
"Great Jehovah on the mountain!" I exclaimed. "What is all this?"
Taggert poured himself a half-tumbler of whisky and eyed me with sober eyes in which there was a certain twinkle of amusement. He said, "Figured this might come as a surprise. Maybe I'd better clear things up a mite. Things really broke wide open when Senator Cyrus Whitlock was placed under arrest. His confession involved Banker Kirby and several other scuts of equal skulduggery tendencies along the border states. You see, Washington has had an eye on Whitlock for some time."
"Senator Cyrus Whitlock—the great philanthropist!" I yelled.
"The same," Taggert said grimly. "Whitlock, the great scoundrel, with his mealy-mouthed line about helping the poor of Mexico. What a liar. Shipping over guns and munitions, labeled sewing machines and ploughs. Oh, Washington got him dead to rights, and he caved complete once he saw they had the deadwood on him—"
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