Adventure Tales, Volume 6

by John Gregory Betancourt

  Mr. Lawrence was decidedly worried, and he did not sleep his usual snoring slumber that night. He dreaded the morning, dreaded facing this little woman with the sad eyes, dreaded breaking the news to her—for he could see no way out of it. At the same time, he wished for luck.

  When he went down to breakfast in the hotel dining room, he found her at a table and joined her. She greeted him cheerfully, and there was a dancing eagerness in her face that was explained when she handed a note across to him.

  “Good news—read that!” she exclaimed. “I won’t need to trouble you any further, Mr. Slivers. You’ve been most kind—well, everything’s right here.”

  Slivers eyed the note, which was scrawled in pencil:

  Dear Sis:

  Important business prevented me meeting you—please forgive me. Meet me at Golden’s ranch, three miles north of Ragged Ridge. A team from the livery will fetch you out. I’ll be watching and waiting. With love.

  Ed.

  Lawrence looked up, relief in his weather-seamed features.

  “Good news is right!” he said, with a smile. “Me, I couldn’t get no track of him.”

  “How can I get out there—a team, he said?” Her voice was eager. “Is it far from here?”

  “Yep, middlin’ far,” said Lawrence reflectively, giving no indication of his rapid thought. “Let’s see, now…”

  A dozen things occurred to him. Golden’s deserted and ruined ranch was located in a God-forsaken region; he knew that Miss Lawrence was a stranger to the country and its ways. He thought of the turbid ford, about the slatternly hangers-on at the livery, about who would have the job of driving her out, about the ever-present menace to Lefty Sage, about this woman herself—and he knew what he must do.

  “Listen here,” he said. “I got my buckboard here, and my road goes right out past Ragged Ridge. No sense in your hiring a team at the livery, if you’ll travel with me. I can hitch your trunk on alongside mine, if you say the word. Maybe you’d better leave your trunk here for a spell,” he added, “until you arrange things with your brother. Take a grip with you.”

  “Fine!” she exclaimed, her eyes alight. “Are you sure it won’t take you out of your way?”

  “Not a mite,” lied Mr. Lawrence. He did not say that from choice he would not have ventured into the Ragged Ridge district without a troop of cavalry and a few machine guns. “Not a mite! But I got a little trading to do first. If you’ll be ready in about half an hour, I reckon I’ll have the buckboard up in front all set to go.”

  His trading was a highly important item, since he had neglected bringing any rifle to town—and if he were heading for Ragged Ridge, he meant to take no chances. A number of gentlemen with swarthy skins and Spanish names were very much on the alert, to catch Slivers Lawrence off by himself; for Lefty Sage and his outlaw friends were not the only badmen up from the border with killing in mind.

  Thus it happened that, half an hour later, Mr. Lawrence was seen, amid the intense astonishment of all Bear Falls, to hitch a lady’s grip alongside his lashed trunk, load the lady herself into the seat beside him and drive off for parts unknown.

  III

  The tipsy trail struggled toward the hills whose tops glistened whitely against a perfect sky. It was not a good trail, once they left the highway, and this helped Miss Lawrence and Mr. Lawrence to get better acquainted.

  “How long?” she demanded.

  “Anywhere from two to four hours,” said he, missing a jagged boulder by inches. “Depends on Jack and Jill here—temperamental on the upgrade, like all females. We climb all the way.”

  “And all females are temperamental on the upgrade?” she asked, a laugh in her eyes.

  “All,” he affirmed gravely. “Only some don’t show it so much.”

  Mr. Lawrence was not in any talkative mood this morning, for the farther he got the more he regretted coming. Lefty Sage must realize his sister would not come alone—and a third party might get her into hot water. And how was the girl herself to receive the news that her brother was an outlaw? Evidently she regarded this brother as a little god, expected him to provide a nice home on a verdant hillside.

  “My gosh!” and Slivers groaned to himself at her air of happy expectancy. “We’ll have to postpone the agony if we can—it’s a rotten shame to think of it all!”

  With the bright idea of preparing her mind for the shock, he switched the talk from cliff-dwellings and petrified forests to the need for weapons, their use, and the badness of greasers, but Miss Lawrence was more interested in the White Mountains and the ranch there.

  “Beaver and wild turkeys—in New Mexico!” she exclaimed, when Slivers mentioned the fact. “Who would believe that, now, if they read it in a story? Or are you joking?”

  “Well, you come up to my place and you’ll get a mighty nice beaver coat for a visiting present,” said Mr. Lawrence hopefully, and then pointed. “See that ridge? Looks right next door, but it ain’t—two miles south o’ that is Golden’s ranch. We’ll come into a branch trail right quick that’ll lead us there.”

  He pulled in the team suddenly, as they swung about a bend and came upon a horseman in the middle of the road—a dark-skinned, insolent young man astride a tired-looking cayuse, rolling a cigarette and gazing languidly at the buckboard.

  “If you got no serious objections,” said Mr. Lawrence, “and if you ain’t too tired to mosey over a bit, we’ll go ahead.”

  The Mexican lighted his cigarette nonchalantly. Lawrence saw by a dozen small indications of gear and clothes that the man was Mexican and not a native, but as the man had no rifle, he left his own gun at his feet, untouched.

  “No entiendo,” said the other languidly. “¿A donde vais, señor?”

  Mr. Lawrence smiled to himself and started to descend, unhurried. He need not cramp his vocabulary on account of the lady from the East—he could speak out his heart, freely and openly. The Mexican’s form of address had been a deliberate insult, of course.

  So, walking up to the rider, Lawrence smiled sweetly at him.

  “You think you’re addressing another son of several things like yourself, do you?” he said, while the other puffed smoke and grinned. It was the grin of an amused wolf, showing pointed yellow teeth. “When you say ‘vais’ to me, Señor Caballero, you’re not speaking to another peon, and if I hadn’t this señorita along, you’d learn it quick. Now, my personal opinion of you is thus and so, Señor,…” and he delivered his opinion without heat, but fluently.

  The Mexican laughed. “This road is closed, Señor,” he responded. “It has been closed by me, Pancho Valquez. You may go back unharmed.”

  Lawrence was staggered. He was also encouraged to be himself, because this was not one of the gentry with whom he was at feud. He had heard of Valquez, and since the man was here, others were apt to be well away.

  “Why, you several kinds of a mesquite worm, do you know which side of the Rio Grande you’re on?” he demanded. “Greasers like you ain’t quite so important as coyotes, sabe? When it comes to closing roads—”

  Señor Valquez made a sharp and unexpected move, and Mr. Lawrence found the violent end of a revolver looking into his face.

  “And to Pancho Valquez, gringoes are less important than greasers,” said the man from below, with a glint in his eye that meant business. “You speak our language well, señor, so perhaps you may be interested in learning my opinion of you and your señorita over there! She is quite able to amuse me, and I shall be glad to entertain, her. You may return home and tell your friends what has become of her. As for my opinion of you…”

  Señor Valquez delivered his opinion without heat, and Mr. Lawrence said nothing. He noted the peculiar hue and expression of Valquez, however, and wished he had not left his rifle on the floor of the buckboard. He knew a marihuana fiend when he met one, and the only good thing about it was that Valquez was not full of the drug now, or he would be out for blood of man or beast.

  “None of your big talk,” he rejoine
d sharply. “That señorita doesn’t stay here—”

  “No, she goes with me,” said Valquez. “And you’ll stay here if you object—”

  “¡Los manos arriba!” cut in a pleasant, but decided voice. “¡Pronto!”

  Valquez looked up, spat an oath, and dropped his revolver as he reached for the sky. Slivers Lawrence jerked around, and his jaw dropped.

  “My good gosh, ma’am!” he exclaimed, reddening. “I never supposed you talked Mex—my gosh!”

  Bessie Lawrence, keeping the new rifle leveled at Valquez, laughed a little. There was a lively color in her cheeks, but whether from excitement or from the choice below-the-border phrases which filled the air, it were hard to say.

  “If you don’t mind, Slivers, take his gun and send him on his way,” she said.

  Mr. Lawrence did not mind—in fact, it gave him exquisite pleasure to do as much. Valquez took the matter with a scowl, and eyed Slivers.

  “Perhaps I may have your name, Señor—if you are not afraid to give it to me?” he said silkily.

  “Hardly,” and Lawrence looked into the murky eyes. “A few of your friends have had reason to know me pretty well, Señor—Slivers Lawrence, at your service.”

  “Oh!” said Valquez, and grinned. “I know you now! Hasta luego Señores!”

  With this parting shot—“until soon”—he wheeled his cayuse and went his way with a dig of his big spurs.

  “Gosh, Miss Bessie!” said Mr. Lawrence, solemnly removing his hat and bowing. “I got to take it off to you—and beg your pardon. I never dreamed you savvied Mex. What’s the matter?”

  For she had turned pale, and her mouth was quivering.

  “Nothing—it’s all right,” she said, and her eyes were brave. “I just had to act without thinking about the consequences.…”

  “I hate to think what you’d do when you stopped to think of ’em, then!” said Lawrence admiringly. “Well, ma’am,” he added, climbing up beside her and putting the captured revolver into her lap, “this sure belongs to you. Good thing that greaser wasn’t full of marihuana—he’s a fiend, or I’m mistaken!”

  “Marihuana?” she questioned.

  “A form of hemp-weed,” said Lawrence, glad to divert her. “They eat it or smoke it, and it makes ’em want blood and want it quick. I’ve known a greaser get in a corral o’ cattle and go to slashing—but where did you learn Mex?”

  “I taught Spanish in school,” she returned, laughing a little. “Enough for him to understand, eh?”

  “You bet,” agreed Lawrence fervently.

  “I hope there aren’t many around here like that man Valquez?”

  Lawrence blinked at the horizon, and his heart flopped. The road closed—and Valquez an outlaw whose name was known! This could mean but one thing. The Mexicans from down below were hot on the trail of Lefty Sage—he might even now be cornered at Golden’s ranch!

  His apprehension was contagious, or his sunburned features must have betrayed his thoughts, for the woman beside him touched his arm.

  “Is anything wrong, Slivers?”

  “Well,” he returned slowly, picking his words, “I just been thinking—the sheriff said a bunch of greasers had cut loose and were running wild. They might be after your brother.”

  “After him? Why?”

  Mr. Lawrence cursed himself for the slip. “Oh, because he’s white and they ain’t,” he said. “Likely he’s got the water hole and they’ve tried to drive him off—that’s why he couldn’t meet you at Bear Falls. Y’ see, water’s plenty scarce around here. Golden’s has the only water—”

  “Then get along,” she said, to his surprise, “and we’ll give him a hand if he needs it!”

  “Better go back to town and get the sheriff,” said Lawrence gloomily.

  “Nonsense!” Her eyes were glowing now. “Don’t waste time—why, we’re nearly there now! Get there and take him away with us—talk to those horses of yours, Slivers!”

  Mr. Lawrence gulped hard, and obeyed.

  IV.

  In the mind of Slivers Lawrence, the little woman’s illusion was a sacred thing. He had not lied when he spoke of the danger to her brother, but the reasons behind it—well, he could not bring himself to make the inevitable revelation until all known varieties of lies had failed. He must hope for luck, that was all.

  The more he thought of it, the more certain he was that Lefty Sage had been run down by his enemies. With a vendetta on their minds, and marihuana to keep it in good running order, the greasers would make short work of the job once Lefty was in the trap—and he might be in it this minute. Golden’s was deserted, had been unused for years.

  So, giving all his attention to outrunning Valquez, Mr. Lawrence talked to his horses and talked hard. He would not have worried a particle about the situation had he alone been concerned, for he did not love Mexicans and might even have relished a little action—and he lelt a certain sympathy for Lefty Sage. But the presence of Bessie Lawrence complicated the affair, and he dreaded the moment when she must be disillusioned about her brother.

  The branch trail, which cut off a mile or more to Golden’s, was rough and to spare, but there was no sign of anyone in the vicinity. Presently they sighted the place—a shack that stood on a rise of ground in a valley, partly hidden by the piñons that clumped about the shack. In the background, the hills rose sharply, with play of sunlight on silver aspens, to the background of Ragged Ridge.

  “Is that it?” exclaimed Miss Lawrence suddenly. “Oh! There he is now.”

  A figure had come out of the shack, walking to the edge of the trees. He stood there gazing at them, lifted his hand, waved to them. And Mr. Lawrence, his eyes bulging, was speechless. For this was not the bearded ruffian in the picture shown him by the sheriff—not a bit of it! This was the reckless young god in the girl’s photograph, with perhaps a healthier and more alert expression. A razor had wrought the transformation, but had not been able to color chin and cheeks, as the New Mexico sun had colored forehead and nostrils.

  The evil moment had come, and Slivers Lawrence knew that he had to do some fast work. He stopped the team, and his passenger leaped out and was clasped in her brother’s arms, talking rapidly. Lefty Sage held her tight, and looked over her head at the rapidly acting Lawrence, who used his hands with all the grace of an Indian hard at work.

  Peace sign repeated—then finger to lips, then a solemn wink—this was enough. Lefty Sage grinned amiably and returned the wink.

  “This is Mr. Lawrence—Slivers Lawrence,” exclaimed the girl, turning. “He’s been kindness personified, Ed—I don’t know what I’d have done if he hadn’t helped me.”

  “Heard of you, Slivers,” and Lefty Sage held out a hand which Mr. Lawrence gripped heartily. “Glad to meet you, and thanks a heap for helping Sis out. Sis, you can wash up at the house, if you want—Slivers and I can chin for a bit. I want to ask about a few things.”

  She nodded, and with a bright smile was gone among the trees. Lefty Sage produced the makings, rolled a cigarette, and flung Lawrence a quick look, as he handed over the tobacco.

  “Well, partner? You can wigwag all right.”

  “She’s not on to you, savvy? Sheriff’s got a picture of you, but it shows a beard. She thinks the greasers are after you on general principles.”

  “Huh?” Lefty started. “Greasers? You ain’t seen any?”

  “Yep—Pancho Valquez.” Lawrence described the meeting in the road, and was not slow to catch the alarm in the eyes of Lefty Sage. “Looks to me,” he concluded, “like we’re going to be in hot water if we don’t get out of here on the jump. I reckon they want you bad.”

  “They’re not the only ones,” said Lefty Sage, with a direct look.

  “Shucks,” said Mr. Lawrence guilelessly, “I don’t know what you mean, feller. In fact, I don’t know nothing—I’m the most ignorant cuss you ever seen! Sheriff showed me a picture of Lefty Sage, like I said, but I don’t know nothing about that neither. I’m plumb ignorant.” />
  “I get you,” the outlaw grinned. “And thanks, Slivers. I’ve heard of you as the squarest man north of the Line. I reckon we’d better light out.”

  “Yep, we sure had. You alone?”

  “Got my hoss, but plumb tuckered out. Rode to town and back last night, and lamed the poor critter. Valquez—he’s plumb bad, Slivers. We’d better light a shuck and talk later.”

  “Hop in the buckboard, then—get your stuff, if you got any,” said Lawrence. “I reckon it’s the best we can do.”

  The outlaw hesitated, his eyes clouded. “You hop in with her and beat it,” he said slowly. “I’ll fix up a lie to cover it, Slivers. They ain’t after you—I’ll set here in plain sight.”

  “You go to hell,” said Mr. Lawrence flatly. “Anyhow, they sure won’t come in on us until dark, and we ain’t going to linger that long. We’ll get a bite to eat—I got a basket of lunch here—and you can figure up some sort o’ lie that includes you in the party. Your hoss done up?”

  “Might last for a mile or two,” said Lefty Sage, as they turned together and headed for the shack among the trees. “Strained a tendon, I reckon—might as well leave him here. Then the program’s to load in and go?”

  “You and her in back, covered with sacks,” said Lawrence. “Fix you up a good lie.”

  Lefty Sage did just this, and did it very well, over the basket of food. Lawrence saw with half an eye that he was not the only one who hated to spoil the girl’s illusions—he realized that Lefty Sage was shrinking from the inevitable moment, also.

  The story ran plausibly enough in regard to outlaws and horse thieves, and Lefty went on to say that he had sent the note to town yesterday and had also sent to the sheriff, but had not yet heard from the latter. The Mexicans had cut him off on his way to town and he had taken shelter here—his own ranch, he explained, was miles back in the hills.