by H. H. Knibbs
“I killed Bodie. Bancroft paid me for it—Bancroft and his crowd. Put it down what I say. Doc.”
“Can you write?”
“I kin try.”
“It will be stronger evidence in your own handwriting. Make it brief. Slattery may be back any minute.”
The Red Doctor supported Wolf while he wrote. Wolf was seized with a fit of coughing. “God, Doc!” he gasped as he lay back. “I guess that finished me.”
When Slattery came in, the doctor was dipping a towel in a basin of water. “You’ll have to drink that whiskey yourself,” he told Slattery. “He died just after you left the room.”
CHAPTER 10
For a week Young Pete lay out in the brush, sleeping in the shack on the mountain-side above Manuel Escobar’s cabin. Manuel told him that Buck Yardlaw had returned to Tecolote. That meant Yardlaw was some forty miles north across the Basin.
Pete wanted to get track of his friend Dave Hamill. He had no idea where Dave was, but the Bend was the nearest town. Unknown there, the Tonto Kid felt safe so long as he didn’t happen to meet some chance acquaintance.
His horse reshod by Manuel, he rode down to the Bend. He found the town in a political turmoil. Two Bancroft cowboys had been found dead just south of the drift fence separating the Bodie and Bancroft ranges. A war between the Bodie and Bancroft factions was imminent. Pete was broke. Both factions were hiring gunmen. Pete cared nothing about the relative merits of the factions in the feud. He decided that here was a chance to get a job. Accident had it that Bancroft’s foreman, Hazard, should be the first one he ran across. The foreman had just had supper and was in the bar of Marvin’s hotel. Young Pete told Hazard he was looking for work.
“I could use another hand or two,” said Hazard. “But you look kind of light for the job. Just how old are you, button?”
“Plenty—if you can’t sleep till you find out.”
“Huh! Come around in about four years and mebby I can use you.”
“I might, if I was sure you’d be here four years from now. You ain’t lookin’ for hands, you’re lookin’ for pedigrees.”
Pete started for the door. The bartender leaned toward Hazard. “You let a good man get away, Jim,” he whispered. “That’s the Tonto Kid. He used to ride with Tonto Charley.”
“The hell you say!” Hazard called Pete back. “I’m paying forty a month. I furnish the ammunition.”
“I’ll punch cows for you for fifty a month and furnish my own ammunition.”
“I’ll send you over to the ranch in the morning. Hold on a minute.”
Three men entered the barroom. They stopped in the middle of the room when they saw Young Pete talking with the foreman.
“Come here!” Hazard called. The punchers stepped over to the bar. “You can ride over to the ranch with these boys in the morning,” said Hazard.
“Mebby.” Pete recognized one of them as the man who had held up the Red Doctor.
“This is Dent,” said Hazard. “And this is Jake Slattery.”
Pete nodded. “That’s all right with me.”
“Well, it ain’t all right with me,” said Dent.
Hazard stepped between his punchers and Young Pete. “You better go slow, Dent,” he said in a low tone. “You’re talking to the Tonto Kid.”
“That’s what I am!” Dent shoved Hazard aside.
Young Pete had seen too many barroom fights to be caught by such a trick. As Hazard staggered to one side, Pete leaped to the other. Dent’s first shot gouged the top of the bar. His second shot went wild. Young Pete, his gun never above the level of his belt, fired twice. Both shots caught Dent in the stomach. He whirled round, stood staring straight ahead, then suddenly toppled and crashed to the floor. Slattery leaped back and fired at Young Pete. His shot also went wild. Realizing that he had missed at almost point-blank range, Slattery lost his nerve. Dropping his gun, he thrust up his hands. Pete laughed. Covering Slattery, he told him to pick up his gun and go back to his chicken ranch. But leaving his gun on the floor, Slattery made for the doorway.
Hazard came from the back of the room. “I don’t blame you, Kid.”
“He asked for it,” said Young Pete.
They stepped out into the alley. “You better bush out for a spell. The marshal won’t grieve a whole lot about Dent. But he might take a notion to run you in.”
“That fella Slattery,” said Pete. “If he’s workin’ for you you’re goin’ to lose another hand.”
“Slattery will pull his freight. You called him plenty.”
“How about that job, Mr. Hazard?”
“Hell! I can’t use you now till this blows over. Where do you hang out?”
“You’re askin’ me somethin’.”
“All right. Come over to the ranch in a couple of weeks.”
Pete realized there was nothing to do but lie low till Hazard could use him. Riding back to Manuel’s along the hill road, Young Pete kept a sharp ear for the sound of pursuit. As he topped a low rise, about a mile out of town, a rifle cracked in the brush. Pete swayed, met the lunge of his horse, and spurred him into a gallop. Pete did not know how hard he was hit until, within a half-hour’s ride of Manuel Escobar’s cabin, he all but fainted from loss of blood. His right leg, below the middle of his thigh was numb. A gnawing pain ground into his stomach. He cursed himself for a fool for letting Slattery get away. “Give a brave man a chance,” Tonto Charley had often told him, “but never turn a coward loose.”
Manuel came with a lantern. Pete slipped from the saddle. The sheepherder dragged him into the cabin.
Chewing the knotted end of a bandanna, Young Pete lay on Manuel Escobar’s cot, his face tallow-white, his eyes heavy with pain. Manuel bent over him, a jackknife in one hand, a blood-soaked rag in the other. “Dig, damn it! Get it out this time,” gasped Pete.
Manuel did his best, but the blood came too fast. He shook his head. “She too deep.”
Pete groaned, in spite of the knotted bandanna between his teeth. “The Red Doctor—Tecolote,” he whispered. “Tell him I heard him say once, a doctor plays no favorites.”
The old Mexican shook his head. A long ride. And the sheep—but the sheep could go to hell. Young Pete was his friend. Perhaps Young Pete would go to hell before he returned. Pretty bad.
It was better than forty miles to Tecolote, yet Manuel made it before midnight. He had no difficulty in locating the Red Doctor, or in persuading him to come to Pete’s aid. The doctor, riding a big, fast-walking thoroughbred, made it hard for Manuel to keep up with him. Manuel’s pony had already done forty miles, and was now doubling back alongside a fresh horse. Yet the tough little animal stuck to it. By noon next day they had arrived at the mountain cabin.
After a hasty breakfast the Red Doctor turned to Pete. “Well, young fellow?”
“Lead poisonin’,” murmured Pete, trying to grin. But in spite of his nerve he fainted.
Young Pete did not become fully conscious until evening. He saw the doctor standing looking at him. “Guess you’ll have to dig it out.”
“It’s out.”
“Hell!”
The Red Doctor nodded. “Don’t founder yourself when your appetite comes back. Drink lots of water when you feel hungry.”
“We got plenty water.”
“Short of grub?”
“We got enough.”
“No money, eh? Well, you can pay me when you get round again. My charge is twenty-five dollars.”
“Darn’ glad I wasn’t hit twice. Say, Doc, about that time in Andreas Valley—”
The Red Doctor interrupted with a gesture. “You’re running a little temperature. You’ll imagine a lot of queer things.”
“You mean I didn’t hear you tell Buck Yardlaw to follow the man that stuck you up, instead of sending him after me?”
“Never saw you before.”
“Doc, you’re a better liar than I am.”
“Don’t let that worry you. Don’t let the wound worry you, either. It’s clean, now. I’m leaving this with you so you can keep it clean.” The doctor wrote out a prescription.
“Thanks, Doc. When can I get goin’?”
“Take it mighty easy for a couple of weeks. If I were you I’d keep off a horse for quite a while.”
The Red Doctor stepped out into the morning sunlight. In a few minutes he rode back, ready for the return journey. “Good luck!” he called to Pete through the open doorway.
“That’s a good horse you’re ridin’,” said Pete, raising his head.
“You recognize him, eh?”
“Never saw him before.”
Manuel and his sheep-dog stood watching the Red Doctor as he rode down the hillside trail. “He darn’ good hombre!” said Manuel. The sheep-dog wagged its tail.
CHAPTER 11
The Red Doctor hadn’t collected enough that month to pay his horse feed. He decided to go down to Tascosa in the Panhandle. There was a lot of smallpox down that way. Before leaving, he mailed Jim Wolf’s confession to the prosecuting attorney.
A week later the Red Doctor arrived in the little cow-town of Tascosa, Texas. He was warmly welcomed. Tascosa had no mail service, town officials, jail, or saloon. The big general store supplied all the demands of the two cattle outfits occupying the outlying district. The population of Tascosa was Mexican, with the exception of Baird and Lovell, who ran the general store. “Hang up your shingle here,” said Baird, “and you can have any ’dobe on the plaza for your office, rent free. You can keep your horse in our corral. Feed won’t cost you a cent.”
Smallpox was pretty bad. The doctor was obliged to make some long rides. Settlers in the Panhandle were few and far between. Returning to Tascosa one hot afternoon some two months after his arrival the Red Doctor unlocked his office, laid his saddle-bags on the table, and hung up his belt and gun. He sat mopping his face with a bandanna when two men crossed the plaza. The doctor was surprised to recognize one of them as Slattery, the cowboy who had been with Jim Wolf when he died. The other man, short, pale-eyed and with exceedingly light hair, was unknown to him.
Without invitation the short man, known as White-head, entered the doctor’s office and took a chair near the door. Slattery remained standing in the doorway.
“How have you been, Slattery?” asked the doctor.
“Dry, ever since I hit the Panhandle.”
“There’s some good water over at the store.” The doctor turned to Whitehead. “What seems to be your trouble?”
“He’s been worryin’—worryin’ about a friend of his,” said Slattery.
“We’re takin’ you to see him,” declared Whitehead.
Whitehead’s tone was insolent. The doctor became wary. “What seems to be the matter with your friend?”
“Nothin’,” said Whitehead, “except he’s dead.”
The Red Doctor rose. “Sit down!” said Whitehead, covering him with a gun. The doctor sat down. Glancing out of the window he saw Jim Lovell come out of the store and mount his horse. Lovell was making a ride to the X I T home ranch. Ordinarily he would have stopped at the doctor’s office for a word with him before he left. But seeing someone in the doorway, the storekeeper took it that the doctor was busy.
“Now we can talk business,” said Slattery as Lovell disappeared.
“You do the talkin’,” Whitehead ordered. “I’ll do the rest.”
“Just what do you mean?” said the Red Doctor.
“You been summoned as a witness in the Bodie murder trial.”
The Red Doctor now understood they were trying to get him out of the way so that he could not testify.
“Have you a subpoena?”
Whitehead indicated his gun.
“We don’t want to kill you, Doc,” said Slattery, “unless we have to.”
“That’s generous of you, Slattery. But just among ourselves, I’m not riding with you this evening, or any other evening.”
“You fooled me once—when you got that confession out of Jim Wolf. You don’t fool me again.”
“So that’s why you’re here?” The Red Doctor laughed. “Now I thought it was because the Tonto Kid ran you out of the Bend. Dent didn’t run, though. I hear they carried him out.”
Slattery’s face went red. “The Kid got what was comin’ to him.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” said the doctor gravely.
“You keep your eye on the square.” Whitehead nodded to Slattery. “There’s a puncher just rode in. He’s gone into the store.”
The Red Doctor recognized him as a patient, a Texas boy named Hamill. Or was he from Arizona?
Drifting down into the Panhandle after leaving Young Pete, Dave Hamill had taken a job riding for the X I T outfit. He had been working for the X I T barely a week when he broke his arm. The Red Doctor set it. Dave was now making his second visit to the doctor. His arm in a sling, his hat tilted back, Dave crossed the plaza. “Is the doc back yet?” he asked Slattery. Slattery told him that the doctor was busy. Dave strolled back to the store, and bought a bottle of beer and some crackers. Baird, the storekeeper, who had heard that Dave was from Arizona, mentioned the Bodie murder, stating that things were pretty bad over there according to the latest news. The murderer had confessed shortly before, he died. While people were morally certain that Bancroft was responsible for the murder, evidence was hard to get. One important witness had suddenly been called back home to Dakota, and he had left no address.
Dave Hamill listened placidly. Bodie was nothing to him, or Bancroft either. But another name was. And the storekeeper was just mentioning it. “Back in Tecolote,” the storekeeper said, “folks claim that Jim Wolf was killed by the Tonto Kid.”
Dave showed no surprise, but he felt uneasy. Was that why he hadn’t heard from Pete or been able to find out anything about him since they had taken separate trails in Tecolote Cañon? Dave rose, lighted a cigarette, and stated that as the doctor seemed to be busy he was going to the X I T wagon.
On his way to the wagon Dave told himself he wished he knew where the Tonto Kid was. Since they had taken different trails, Dave following later but never able to pick up Pete’s trail south of Andreas Valley, Dave had thought quite a lot about their companionship. He missed Young Pete. Pete was tough, all right, but once you knew him well you had to like him.
About a half-mile out of town Dave passed a young Mexican on a buckskin horse. The Mexican’s hair hung almost to his shoulders. His old black hat was flop-brimmed and torn. He wore overalls, a cheap cotton shirt, and heavy-soled shoes. He looked like a sheepherder. But something about the way he sat his horse caused Dave Hamill to turn and glance back. The young Mexican had also turned and was looking back.
Dave reined round and rode up to him. “Want to see me?”
“Not for a minute,” said Young Pete, grinning. “You don’t recognize your friends since you took to workin’ for a livin’.”
“Why you flat-footed little son-of-a-gun! But where’s the sheep?”
“Up north. Can’t you punch cows without breakin’ your arm? Or was you tryin’ to learn to play the fiddle?”
“Nope.” Dave stared hard at Pete’s thick-soled shoes. “I never shook hands with a sheepherder yet. Say, what you doing down in this country?”
“I started out lookin’ for a fella by the name of Dave Hamill. But I changed my mind. I’m lookin’ for the wagon.”
“They’d shoot you dead for a sheepherder,” laughed Dave. “But you can eat in Tascosa.”
“Which way you headed?”
“Seeing it’s you—back to Tascosa.”
More than glad to see each other, they pretended indifference. However, while their manner was casual their talk was filled with significance. Before they reach
ed town Dave had managed to sketch his recent experiences, and Young Pete, while touching only the high spots, made his friend familiar with his own adventures. Dave assured Pete that Tascosa was a pretty safe town for anyone wishing to change his name, the only white residents being Baird and Lovell, who ran the store, and a new man from up north, Doctor Hapgood.
“The Red Doctor?” Young Pete allowed himself to show surprise.
“Know him?”
“Some.”
“Say, Kid, they’re making plenty free with your name up Tecolote way.”
“That’s all right. One of Bancroft’s warriors won’t do no more talkin’ about me. And there’s another one I wouldn’t mind meetin’. But neither of ’em was named Jim Wolf.”
Somehow, Dave was glad. Though he had never known Wolf, he did not like the idea of Young Pete getting in any deeper than he was. Dave Hamill didn’t say so, but he hoped his friend would get a job with the X I T and stay in the Panhandle. He glanced at Pete half tempted to make the suggestion. They were just entering the plaza.
Pete’s eyes were on two saddle-horses tied at the store hitch-rail. “Whose horses?”
“Couple of punchers from up north. They’re over in the doctor’s office. Don’t know who they are.”
“Let’s ride round to the back of the store,” said Pete.
They bought bottled beer and crackers. Presently Young Pete left Dave Hamill talking to Baird while he sauntered over to call on the Red Doctor.
Slattery stopped him. “The doc is busy. Come around tomorrow.”
Pete did some quick thinking. He had recognized Slattery, though Slattery had not recognized him through his disguise. Glancing past Slattery, Pete was surprised to see Whitehead seated in the doctor’s office. Another of Bancroft’s killers! Pete still had time to back out—shuffle away like a sheepherder. That both gunmen were not only in Tascosa, but in the doctor’s office, seemed queer.
Unused to backing up, Pete determined to find out what was going on. “I got the sick,” he whined in Mexican English. “I come for those medicine.”
“Get to hell out of here!”
That decided Pete. “You see me?” he called to the doctor.