by H. H. Knibbs
“I’ll tell ’em you’re Bud, and you’re runnin’ the shop till Bill Petty gets back.”
Pete was stooping over fitting one of the shoes to the bay cowpony when Buck Yardlaw, sheriff of Apache County, Arizona, stepped in. His three deputies sat their horses near the doorway. Young Pete and the man who had been after him so long were now within a hand’s reach of one another. From the corner of his eye Pete saw that so far the tall, grizzled sheriff had not recognized him.
“Shod any buckskin ponies lately?” asked Yardlaw.
“A couple—last week. Somebody lost a horse?”
“Yes. And a man.”
“Oh, you mean the Tonto Kid—on the bill out there?”
“That’s the man.”
“He’s gone to Socorro,” cried Crazy Charley. “He’s on a drunk. Won’t be back for a week, same as last time.”
Sheriff Yardlaw glanced sharply at the cripple. “Who’s gone to Socorro?”
“Bill Petty. He runs this shop. He put my eye out.” The cripple spoke as though proud of the fact.
“He did, eh? How did that happen?”
“Sparks! I’ll show you!” Crazy Charley picked up a strip of bar iron and thrust it into the fire.
The sheriff stepped to the shed at the back of the shop and glanced in. He was pretty sure the Tonto Kid was somewhere in the neighborhood. Between Datil and the shop the Kid’s horse had cast a shoe and tracked as though slightly lame. Also, the storekeeper in Datil had given the sheriff some interesting information.
Glancing at Young Pete as he came back through the shop, the sheriff told his deputies to ride on down to the store and wait for him.
Pete drove a nail. His back ached. But he dared not straighten up, even for a second or two, fearing to disclose his height. The sheriff had lighted a cigar and was sitting on a nail keg watching him.
“Been working here long?”
“About a week—this trip.”
“When did Bill Patton leave for Socorro?”
“Patton? Mebby you mean Bill Petty. He sent for me to come over last Monday. Was you lookin’ for him?”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
Pete drove another nail. “Don’t know when he’ll be back. But if there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”
“Thanks. Would you know the Tonto Kid if you happened to see him?”
Pete drove another nail. “I reckon I would, if he looks anything like his description.”
Crazy Charley was blowing the fire—heating an iron. He’d show the sheriff how Bill Petty had put his eye out.
Dragging the tool-box, Pete backed round the bay pony and took up his other forefoot. “Hey, Charley, would you mind handin’ me that horseshoe?”
Crazy Charley handed Pete the shoe and went back to the forge. From the shed at the rear of the shop came a strange scuffling sound. “What’s that?” said Crazy Charley, letting go the arm of the bellows.
“It’s that darn’ dog again, chewin’ them cowhides.” Pete began to drive the remaining nails swiftly. If the blacksmith should happen to appear just then there was nothing for it but to jerk the tie-rope loose, swing up, and make a dash for the open.
The cripple stepped cautiously to the shed. Pete heard a muffled exclamation. Crazy Charley had discovered the blacksmith half hidden by the cow-hides.
“I’ll fix him!” said the cripple as he came back to the forge. “Put his eye out.”
Pete’s back went cold. “What’s the use of burnin’ up that iron?” he said to Charley. “Throw somethin’ at that dog if he shows up again.”
“That boy sure is loco,” said Sheriff Yardlaw, rising. Stepping out to his horse, he mounted and started to ride toward town.
Again came that shuffling sound from the shed. Pete hastily rough-clinched the remaining nails, and straightening up took off the leather apron. Through the grimy side window he saw the sheriff, meeting the posse, coming back.
Crazy Charley drew the iron rod from the fire, white-hot. “Put his eye out!” he said, grinning.
Pete swung round. “Where you goin”?” But Crazy Charley paid no attention. He shuffled to the shed where the blacksmith lay.
The sheriff and his men were riding back to the blacksmith shop. A second lost meant that Pete would have to shoot his way through the posse. Dropping the tie-rope, he sprang for Crazy Charley just as the cripple thrust the white-hot iron at Petty. The blacksmith flung up his arm. The iron seared the side of his face. Roused from his stupor, he reared to his knees. Again Crazy Charley thrust at him. The blacksmith turned the hot iron aside with his open hand. Pete grabbed Crazy Charley from behind. Dropping the iron, the cripple boy screamed and fought like a maniac. Pete tried to break free and get to the bay pony. Bill Petty staggered up, and seizing a heavy wagon spoke struck the cripple on the head. Crazy Charley went limp. Pete jumped back as Petty again swung up the wagon spoke. Something hard jabbed Pete between the shoulders.
“We got you this time, Kid.” Sheriff Yardlaw’s voice was low and businesslike. He stood directly behind Young Pete. Through the broken window at the back of the shed poked the muzzle of a rifle. In the outer doorway stood a third deputy. Pete had neither time nor room to whirl and fire.
“Dead or alive?” asked Yardlaw. “Talk fast.”
“Depends on how scared you fellas are,” said Young Pete, grinning.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Yardlaw told the man with the rifle. “If he moves a finger, drill him.” The sheriff reached over Young Pete’s shoulder and took his gun.
Captured without a fight. Pete was momentarily stunned. Bitterness surged up in him.
The blacksmith kicked the unconscious cripple in the ribs. “They laid for me—and they darn’ near got me.”
“Go easy with your boots, there!” said Yardlaw.
“You ain’t in Arizona.”
“No, but I’m here. Leave that cripple alone.” Yardlaw handcuffed Young Pete. “You pretty near made it, Kid. A couple of seconds more and that crazy boy would have blinded him.”
“I ain’t kickin’,” said Young Pete at last. “But don’t you go to figurin’ I’m through just because you got these irons on me.”
“And don’t you forget the pull on this gun is as fine as a horsehair.”
“I like ’em that way. But why in hell don’t some of you thief-chasers gather up that cripple and pack him to his folks?”
“We’re gathering you up, just now.”
Bill Petty turned on Pete, his arm raised. Sheriff Yardlaw stopped him sharply, cutting short Petty’s hints that he was entitled to a share of the reward.
The young outlaw grinned up at the sheriff. “You got me. I ain’t sore. You been kinda white. So I’m tellin’ you—I’ll kill you if I get the chance.”
“Thanks. But I’m kind of particular about getting killed. You better think it over.”
* * * *
The posse and their horses were about played out. The sheriff was not over-anxious to spend the night in Magdalena, or in fact anywhere in New Mexico. He was out of his legitimate territory. In capturing Young Pete he had lifted two thousand dollars’ reward from under the noses of the New Mexico authorities. Both he and his prisoner were in constant danger. If the Benavides cowboys learned that the Tonto Kid was in New Mexico, any one of them would shoot him down, not alone for the reward, but to wipe out their old grudge against him.
Secretly planning to leave Magdalena about midnight, and allowing the natives to believe he would be in town until morning, Sheriff Yardlaw and his posse had supper in Yancy’s Hotel—the sheriff and Young Pete handcuffed together.
Young Pete had ample time to size up the man who had been hunting him since the gunfight in Las Vegas. Yardlaw, Pete noted, was none of your paunchy, rocking-chair sheriffs. He was tall, solid, lean, and as hard as a bronco’s hoof. His sandy g
ray hair, clipped short, disclosed the scars of many a rough-and-tumble battle. Seamed and weathered, Yardlaw’s face would have been expressionless were it not for his quick gray eyes, eyes that asked the question his lips never uttered. Fearless and uncompromising, he had been called. Pete decided the sheriff was all of that. “A killer, working for the law,” was Young Pete’s silent verdict. Had he known Yardlaw better, he might have modified his opinion.
Always alert for a chance to make his escape, Young Pete complained of the handcuffs. “Ain’t you goin’ to take these things off so I can eat?”
“Not for a minute.” Yardlaw’s eyes seemed to be lighted with a grim smile. “I’ve heard you’re as handy with your left hand as with your right. I’m mostly right-handed, myself.”
“Well,” said Pete cheerfully, “I reckon I can stand it if you can.”
THE TONTO KID, by H. H. Knibbs (Part 2)
CHAPTER 13
Dave Hamill arrived in Magdalena about sundown. Twice during his long ride he had tried to overtake Young Pete by making a short cut. But he lost time instead of gaining. The posse, riding steadily, had made good time on the open road. Dave entered the barroom of the hotel, unaware that Young Pete had been captured. He bought a drink, washed up, and stepped into the dining-room. One of the long tables was empty. At the other sat the sheriff, Young Pete, and three deputies. Concealing his surprise, Dave made straight for the sheriff’s table.
“You can’t sit there,” the waitress told him, as she directed him to the unoccupied table.
“I can talk, can’t I?” said Dave, smiling.
“If you enjoy talking to yourself.”
“I’m a pore, lonely cowboy. Ain’t you got a heart?”
“Roast pork, steak and onions, and kidney stew.”
“Just my luck! Well, fetch me a pair of kidneys.”
The waitress thumped a pitcher of water down beside Dave Hamill’s plate.
“What’s that?” Dave gazed sternly at the water pitcher.
“Something you ain’t used too much of lately, mister.”
Dave wanted Pete to know that he had at least one friend in town; that if there was the merest fighting chance of a rescue it would be attempted. Pete stared at Dave, not daring to move an eyebrow in recognition. Dave took a handful of cartridges from his pocket and began a game of checkers on the red-and-white squares of the tablecloth. By the time the waitress had fetched his stew, Dave had cleaned the board of all but five men, leaving one against four.
“Crazy!” scoffed the waitress, smiling nevertheless.
“Ain’t I, though! Just watch this one. It’s my move.” Swiftly he jumped four men and swept them into his pocket. “That ain’t the only game I’m good at, either.” He attacked the kidney stew. “You just ought to see me roll marbles.”
Most of the punchers that ate at the Yancy Hotel were either too fresh, or dummies. This stranger was tall, young, and good-looking. The waitress lingered.
“Who is that outfit?” Dave’s whisper could be heard all over the dining-room.
“They’s a posse from Arizona. The young fella handcuffed to the big man is the Tonto Kid. You wouldn’t think by his looks he was a desperado, would you? I call him a right nice-looking boy.”
“Looks are deceiving, sometimes.” Dave gazed hard at the waitress. “Especially good looks.”
The waitress blushed. “Too bad that a boy like that should have to go jail. I wonder if he ain’t got any friends?”
“I dunno. I don’t see that those Arizona people has got any right to arrest him in New Mexico, though.” Dave gazed round. “Don’t anybody eat here but sheriffs and prisoners?”
“What do you call yourself?”
Dave smiled up at the waitress. “I’d hate to tell you in company. But I’d be willing, about eight this evening.”
With the merest lift of her eyebrows the waitress hastened to attend to a guest who had just come in.
Dave Hamill finished his supper and rose. He caught Pete’s eye. Pete read the silent message. He could imagine Dave saying, “Mark time. I’m on the job.”
Dave left the room. Pete gazed after him. Dave would go through to the finish. But what could he do single-handed? The men of Yardlaw’s posse were picked men and doubly alert in strange territory. The edge of the sheriff’s handcuff bit into Pete’s wrist. No, there wasn’t much chance that Dave could do anything.
Magdalena seemed to have grown a sudden thirst. The barroom was crowded. Behind him Dave heard the tramp of feet ascending the narrow stairway, the posse and Young Pete going to their room.
Over a drink Dave and the hotel-keeper Yancy discussed the recent arrest. “I thought Dick Wingate was sheriff of this county,” said Dave. “By rights them Arizona deputies ought to turn the Kid over to him.”
Yancy nodded. “But Dick’s down to Socorro, right now. They’ll be out of the territory before Dick hears the Kid is arrested.”
“Too bad.”
“It would make trouble for me if anything was to happen to them Arizona deputies in the hotel,” Yancy muttered.
“Yes. But if somebody held ’em up on the Datil road it would be different.”
Yancy’s eyes hardened. He shoved the bottle toward Dave. “On the house,” he said. “I’m going in and eat while I got a chance. See you later.”
Dave Hamill strolled down the dark street. “If anybody does any seeing, later, it’ll have to be me. Yancy’s got something biting on him. But he’s bashful. No, it ain’t me he’s going to see later.”
About eight that evening, Pete, sitting with Sheriff Yardlaw near the window, saw two figures walking down the dimly lighted street. One was a woman, the other a long-legged cowpuncher. Pete wondered why Dave was wasting his time flirting with a waitress.
Strolling out to the edge of town, Dave and the waitress stood under a cottonwood gazing out across the starlit hills. “Pretty country,” said Dave.
The waitress took his arm. “I got to get back,” she said. “Yancy’ll call me down if he knows I been out with you.”
They turned and walked toward town. “Speaking of Yancy,” said Dave, “I want to ask a favor.”
“I thought you would.”
“You got me wrong. What I mean, I want you to do something for the Kid.”
“Him! You a friend of his?”
“I wouldn’t say that. But I know a lot about him.” Dave went on to tell the young waitress that Pete was a square kid who had played in hard luck. The Kid didn’t have a friend in that part of the country. There were any number of men in the district who would kill him just for the reward.
Dave’s plan was simple, and would involve the waitress in no trouble or danger. “Sounds kind o’ risky,” she hesitated. “But I like the Kid. He’s game. When I fetched in his supper he smiled and said thanks. The rest of ’em set there like they was at a funeral.”
Dave left her at the back of the hotel. “I’ll do it,” she whispered as she took his hand and said goodnight. “You didn’t get fresh and try to kiss me almost before you knew my name.”
“I’d sure like to know your name,” said Dave.
About ten o’clock that evening the local constable, Bill Stroud, asked for an audience with Sheriff Yardlaw and handed him a telegram. It was from Sheriff Dick Wingate, demanding that Yardlaw turn Young Pete over to Constable Stroud.
As Yardlaw read the message aloud, Young Pete stared hard at the constable. Stroud, heavy-set, dark, and sullen-looking, showed evidence of too much whiskey. Young Pete knew what would happen if the Arizona posse turned him over to the New Mexican authorities. There would be no trial, not even a lynching. He would be found shot to death—killed, the papers would say, while trying to escape. Worth just as much dead as alive, why should his captors run any risk at all?
“Goin’ to turn the Kid over to me?”
Buck
Yardlaw looked Constable Stroud in the eye. “If Sheriff Wingate isn’t here by noon tomorrow, I’ll turn the prisoner over to you.”
“This telegram demands you turn the prisoner over to me right now.”
“With you and Yancy and your long-eared friends set to murder the Kid for the reward, because you haven’t got nerve enough to hold him alive? Man, somebody’s been putting ideas into your head. The Kid stays right here till Dick Wingate shows up. And get this one by heart: if any of you want the Kid bad enough to try and take him away from me, I’ll unlock these handcuffs, give him a six-shooter, and turn him loose, so help me God!”
Young Pete cocked his head sideways, looking up at Stroud. “If Buck Yardlaw turns me loose, I’m backin’ his play till the bunch of us is down and done for. Get that by heart, likewise.”
After the angry constable left, the hotel became unusually still. Most of the lights had gone out, although it was but a little past ten. The street was dark, visible only because of the stars.
“Ten-thirty,” said Sheriff Yardlaw, lowering his voice. “We’ll pull out about twelve. We better get a little sleep first.”
“I sure could use some,” said Pete.
Yardlaw told his chief deputy, Bill Stewart, to stand watch while they slept, and to call them in an hour. The sheriff then sent Deputy Frank Tenny to the livery to side Ed Foster, who was guarding their horses. Buck Yardlaw and Pete lay down, Pete on the inside of the bed. Stewart turned the lamp low, and lighting a cigar sat with his chair tilted back against the wall near the window. Almost instantly the sheriff fell asleep. Pete, however, lay staring at the open window and the flare and fade of red as Stewart smoked a cigar. Becoming cramped, Pete turned on his side. The pillow felt strangely hard. This one seemed to have a lump in the middle. “Rocks!” Pete said to himself. “The darn’ thing is stuffed with ’em.” He felt of the pillow with his free hand.
“What’s the matter?” said Stewart in a low tone.
“Bugs. This bed is a regular bug pasture. If I can catch the bug that just bit me, I’ll sure punch his head off.”
Pete was talking to cover up a discovery. He had found a slit in the pillow. Thrusting his hand through it he found the lump to be a six-shooter. How did it get there? He thought hard. He had it! The waitress who had changed the linen. Dave Hamill had been mighty friendly with that waitress. Went for a walk with her, after supper, Pete remembered. Then later she came up and changed the linen and pillows.