The Fourth Western Novel

by H. H. Knibbs

  He had had a brief respite from riding and dodging peace officers. Shortly after his escape from Buck Yardlaw, Dave Hamill had secured a job freighting in the San Andreas district. He was to join Pete again after making a grubstake. By a combination of good luck, personality and keeping his mouth shut, Pete had managed to land a job with a small cow outfit in the lonely Hazard’s Well country. His ability and a continued run of good luck enabled him to keep it for a while. He liked this region. He had hoped to hold the job indefinitely. The hue and cry had died down. Pete began to feel optimistic. In spite of plenty of riding he had taken on a little weight, grown a bit taller. He seldom saw strangers.

  In a few years, he thought, folks would have all but have forgotten the Tonto Kid. Sometimes he could even see himself, a solid cattleman now, with other old-timers at some round-up, talking with his old friend Alexander Akers, who by chance might still be a card man, or possibly a politician. But as it always did, something happened. A district peace officer visited the outfit in the Hazard’s Well valley. The officer was not after Young Pete. The officer looked at him, said nothing, and departed after fulfilling his original mission. A few days later while Pete was loafing the evening away with a companion, the officer accompanied by another man rode up to the ranch house. Pete had seen them coming. When they strolled round to the corrals Young Pete had vanished. By some fast riding and his accurate knowledge of the immediate country he managed to elude them.

  Dropping down into the Tonto Basin, Pete had no difficulty in making his way to the western rim. He felt that here he was reasonably safe. He had been traveling across Arizona several days and nothing had happened. Now he was afoot, his horse shot from under him. The shot, fired from a low ridge some two hundred yards south of the trail, had been as unexpected as a cloudburst. No warning, no sign of horse or horseman—just a sudden harsh ripping of the air, a jolt, and the distant crang of a rifle. No member of Yardlaw’s posse, no Benavides man had fired the shot. Pete was certain of that, because but one shot had been fired. Who in that country, he wondered, was gunning for him?

  Picking up his hat, he slapped it on his thigh and put it on. Gazing down at the dead horse he said, “One minute you’re a stout, handy pony. The next, you’re crow bait.”

  Afoot in that all but waterless region, Pete wasted no sympathy on himself. He still had his canteen. With that he could manage to get somewhere. He had been sparing of water, not knowing just when he would find the next desert sink. Thirst was teasing him now. A mouthful of water, and he would strip off saddle and bridle, cache them, and strike for the nearest settlement—Showdown. Still wondering why the man that shot at him hadn’t fired again, Pete scooped away the sand and pulled the canteen from beneath the dead animal’s shoulder. It was empty. A half-inch round hole told its story. “Darn’ funny,” said Pete. “And then again, it ain’t.”

  Why he had been shot at he did not know. Probably he had been mistaken for someone else. He was sure that as yet no one in that region knew he was worth two thousand dollars, dead or alive. There was no railroad, no telegraph line in that section. There were no ranches or towns—except Showdown. And the law seldom investigated that desert refuge of outlaws and renegades.

  Stripping saddle and bridle from the dead horse Pete cached them at the foot of a big cholla, noted the spot, and started for the ridge south. He took no pains to approach unobserved. The man who had shot at him must have gone, for when his horse dropped, Pete had lain still, counting the seconds, peering over the back of his horse. Minute followed minute, and no sign of movement on the ridge, no sound, save the slithering of hoofs as the dying horse stiffened.

  Topping the ridge, Pete surveyed the desert below. It was rough, broken country, seamed with red arroyos and laced with ridges of red rock. He had hoped to see a clump of green somewhere, some indication of a water hole. He saw no horseman. But he found hoof-tracks bearing down the southern slope—a shod horse, with a right front foot that turned in a little. He would remember that.

  For half a mile he trailed the vanished enemy. But the country was so rough and desolate, so unpromising of habitation, that he turned back. He decided to stick to the wagon-road—a lean trail, but sure, in that it led to Showdown; and Showdown meant food and water.

  The land sloped up toward a mesa-like flat of gravel and huge, scattered boulders. The trail took him winding among the rocks, promising nothing more than he could see—heat-waves, glimmering sand, and the occasional sharp sparkle of mica schist.

  Far ahead, sun-beaten on top, black in its own shadow, loomed a boulder bigger than the rest—a square rock that might be some kind of landmark. Stepping wide of a rattler coiled in the scant shade of a low rock, Pete went on. The air seemed suddenly tense and still.

  “Reckon that snake don’t mind bein’ afoot in dry country,” mused Pete. “He’s used to it. He says to keep off his neck and he’ll mind his own business. My idea, too. I wonder what in hell was the idea of that fella that tried to plug me.”

  Fifteen years old—and he had already battled his way through more turmoil and trouble than most men know by sixty. Well, he wasn’t kicking, but he would like to be warned in plenty of time before things were going to ease up for him. Otherwise the shock might lay him out.

  Pete pulled his hat down against the vicious glare of the afternoon sun. His mouth was stiff. His throat ached. He walked to the rhythm of an old cowboy song, the shadow of his active, slim figure bobbing along beside him. He knew he was in a mighty bad way, but misfortune did not get him down.

  A mile farther along, Pete came to the conclusion that he was seeing things. The big rock was a wagon. There was no sign of life about it. He was looking at the rear of the wagon, however. Maybe there was a team and a driver. The winnowing heat-waves bothered him. Nearer he would be able to see better. But he would take care to see first. Folks in the Basin were too handy with their rifles.

  Cautiously he circled the silent caravan. A team of grays stood with heads low, dozing in the heat. The canvas top was old and weathered. “Nester’s outfit, or sheepman’s,” reflected Pete, “but where’s he at?”

  A flapping black shadow rose heavily from the back of the wagon. “Another one?” The buzzard flew low across the rocks.

  “Looks like business was good in this section.” He approached the wagon from the side. “Anybody to home?” he called out. There was no answer.

  The water keg was not empty, but the shell that had contained the spirit of the old man lying in the bottom of the wagon, was. His long gray beard was clotted with red, his big-knuckled hands were clenched, his eyes staring blindly.

  Pete drank a little water, then walked round the wagon. The horses stared at him incuriously. The small chuck box was filled; the water keg, Pete estimated, was more than half full. The old man’s spare clothing, faded “Sunday best,” a pair of shoes, a worn Bible, and some odds and ends, including a tintype of a woman, were neatly packed in the leather-covered trunk.

  “Amos Jepson,” was the name written in the Bible. “To Amos, from mother.”

  There was a sack of corn, part of a bale of hay, a bucket, a shovel, and an axe. Under the wagon Pete found a leather wallet, open and empty. Pete circled, looking for tracks. A few yards north of the wagon he came upon the ashes of a small fire. There were still live embers among them. Alongside the fire stood a half-empty coffee-pot and tin cup. About the fire were the tracks of the old man’s heavy, wide soles, and the smaller tracks of high-heeled boots.

  The high-heeled boot-tracks led to a clump of brush, where Pete found that someone had recently tied a horse, then had walked from there to the wagon. Why had he gone on foot?

  Pete tried to picture the tragedy. Man walked up, said he was afoot and hungry. Old man heated up beans and coffee and fed the stranger. Stranger followed old man to the wagon, shot him in the back, and robbed him. Pete was puzzled. The horse that had been tied in the clump of brush had
a crooked right front foot.

  “Did the bird that killed Amos Jepson take a crack at me, scared I’d ride onto the old man dead? Or was he just some killer exercisin’ his talents? I’d sure like to know.”

  There were two Petes at work in him. The Tonto Kid was inclined to take one of the old man’s horses and trail the murderer. But it was Young Pete who cancelled this decision. And the Bible, “To Amos, from mother.” Pete wasn’t interested in Bibles, but the inscription—the date showed that Amos Jepson couldn’t have been much more than a boy when the gift was made—that stirred a sentiment in Pete’s tough young heart. “A darn’ shame,” he said. “He looks like a man who was kind to folks and critters. And shot in the back.”

  It was a lonely spot, and far from a habitation. The blizzards would come, and the coyotes. Pete unslung the long-handled shovel. Digging in that sun-baked earth was not easy. When his task was finished a mound of stone marked the resting place of the old man. Pete drank, then drove the wagon off the trail, stopping near the desert grave. He was tempted to drive on into Showdown and turn the horses and wagon over to someone. But such a journey would be slow, too slow. In a wagon you couldn’t leave the trail and slip across country if you were followed.

  If he took but one horse he couldn’t turn the other one loose to starve. Handy, now, if he had had that Dave Hamill along. Squatting in the shade of the wagon, Pete wiped the sweat from his eyes. When he had smoked a cigarette, he rose.

  The wagon was stocked with provisions. Pete chose his mount and packed the other animal with what he might need. He filled the old man’s canteen. Bareback he returned to where he had cached his own saddle and bridle.

  Mounted and leading the pack-horse, Pete rode west down the trail with the sun in his eyes. The heat made him drowsy. Neither of the horses was a fast walker. To keep himself awake, Pete kept glancing at the landmarks on either side, at the far hills south, at the trail he rode, which had not been traveled for some days. An hour or so after he had left the wagon he came upon a reach where a band of sheep had crossed the road. He grew more alert. Sheep meant water and a habitation, or at least a camp. Beyond the sheep tracks the road smoothed out again to faint wagon-tire marks, old hooftracks. Pete drew up suddenly.

  Cutting into the road from the south were the fresh hoofprints of a horse, a lone horse with a crooked right front foot. Pete thought he understood the tracks, now. The road he was on swung south by west in a big arc. The man who had shot at him had struck across this big arc knowing he would come into the road again farther west.

  “I was ridin’ a bay pony this mornin’,” said Pete. “Now I’m ridin’ a gray and leadin’ a gray. If I run onto that fella ahead, he’ll recognize the old man’s team. If he does, it’ll be a good excuse to start shootin’. What I mean, an excuse for me to start shootin’. What do you say, Crow Bait?”

  Pete’s mount flicked back an ear. “Oh, I know you ain’t crow bait yet. But I’m givin’ you the name, just in case somethin’ happens.”

  Down a long, wide draw, red-ribbed and stifling, out onto a reach of gravelly earth, hard-packed and barren, the low sun still in his eyes, Pete rode, following the trail of the horse with the crooked foot.

  Imperceptibly the tufa, the red rock and black, the barrancas and ledges were left behind. The country flattened to sandy stretches dotted with cholla, cat-claw, and distant rock shadows. Desert, but not bad lands. Crow Bait sharpened his cars. Pete’s gaze traveled to clumps of green, far ahead. The lead-rope of the pack-horse grew slack. He also was interested, striking into a brisk walk. A long, low line, but not of mesa, butte, or ledge, quickened Pete’s gaze. Houses, the flat roofs of adobes, and cottonwoods. That would be Showdown.

  The road melted into a broad strip of sheep tracks again. Pete passed a long adobe on the edge of town, he pushed back the brim of his dusty black sombrero, eased the gun in its holster, and curled a smoke.

  Pete lost the tracks of the crooked front foot in the dust of the wide sheep trail that crossed the road.

  * * * *

  When there was any kind of chance, Young Pete was willing to buck any kind of game. He was too wise to waste himself regretting the luck that had hazed him into Showdown hard upon the trail of the man who had shot his horse and had, if tracks meant anything, murdered old Amos Jepson.

  Was the old man known in Showdown? If so, the gray horses would be recognized. Was the man who murdered Amos Jepson known in Showdown? More important stilly did anyone in town know the Tonto Kid?

  Pete asked himself these questions as he took in his surroundings. There was but one street. It ran east and west. The only building of any size was the saloon. Next to the saloon was a small Mexican grocery. On either side were the straggling adobes of poor Mexicans. A squalid settlement, it was the rendezvous of outlawry from both sides of the border. The saloon was the Spider’s place, gambling-hall and scene of many a gunfight. Beneath the gnawed hitch-rail a dog lay half buried in the dust.

  A hard-visaged Mexican sat on the saloon veranda, lazily cleaning an already clean rifle. A stout brown saddle-horse stood tied at the rail, the only horse in sight.

  Young Pete rode past, hailed an old paisano in a door-yard, and arranged for the feed and care of the two grays.

  “Where you come from?” asked the Mexican, eyeing the gray horses intently.

  “Me?” said Pete in Spanish. “It wasn’t from heaven. But I sure took a long drop.”

  The Mexican nodded. “This is a bad town.”

  Showdown asked few questions and answered none. Refugees came, tarried, disappeared. Gunmen, renegades, gamblers, horse thieves, frequented the Spiders place, but only on sufferance. A word from the Spider could save or destroy them. He was Showdown. It was said of him that he played no favorites, had no friends. It was also said he could command more high-class gunmen than anyone in Arizona.

  Young Pete knew the Spider by reputation. He had seen him once, in El Paso, but had never met him. He wasn’t especially anxious to meet the Spider now. Yet he knew it would be policy to show himself to the notorious gambler. And Pete was curious. The brown pony at the hitch-rail was in no other way remarkable, but his right front foot turned in noticeably. Pete stepped into the saloon.

  There were only four men in the room. Bull Malvey, burly, red, and freckled, was leaning on the bar reading a crumpled newspaper, dated several months back. Pete sized him up as one of the Spider’s henchmen. Near Malvey stood a lean, yellow Mexican, with sharp, black moustache and green eyes. He was dressed like a prosperous card man. His left ear, Pete noted, was missing. At a table toward the rear of the long room sat a short, broad-faced cowpuncher, with stubby blond hair and round blue eyes. He was filling a glass from a bottle evidently freshly opened. Pete wondered why he was drinking alone.

  On a high stool back of the bar sat the Spider. Pete’s glance took in the lean, bloodless face, the jet-black eyes, like beads, the neatly waxed moustache, the graying black hair, clipped close. The Spider stepped down from the high stool. He was a short man, lean and quick. Bull Malvey glanced sidewise at Young Pete. The one-eared Mexican hummed a song.

  Pete called for a drink, glanced round the room. Toward the back were cloth-covered tables; faro, monte, the wheel, and a crap table. The room opened onto a patio, adobe-walled and floored with brick. The windows of the saloon were high and iron-barred.

  Bull Malvey grunted over an old newspaper, following the print with his forefinger. “Gave Sheriff Yardlaw the slip somewhere west of Magdalena. Yardlaw was hit twice in a gunfight with Magdalena cowboys. Again the Tonto Kid shows our highly respected but unfortunate sheriff the east end of a horse going west. It is said on good authority that the Kid had Sheriff Yardlaw crowded into the fence, but let him go.”

  Bull Malvey squinted up at the Spider. “Let him go! Wonder what in hell he done that for?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” The Spider’s voice was thin
, whispering.

  Malvey stared stupidly round the room. “Ask him? Ask who?”

  Young Pete laughed. “Hell, yes! And mebby Sheriff Yardlaw would tell you.”

  “Smart kid, ain’t you?” blurted Malvey, who felt vaguely that he was the butt of some joke.

  “Who told you?”

  Malvey’s heavy face grew red. Young Pete picked up his change, leaving two bits on the bar. “That bird,” he touched the quarter with his finger, “is an eagle. But I never heard it say so.”

  Malvey faced Pete. “Say, just what’s your game?”

  “Me, I like music. Give us another solo on the mouth-organ.”

  The broad-faced cowboy at the table laughed. “You’re all right, Kid. You’re drinkin’ with me.”

  “Thanks,” said Pete. “But if you look closer, you’ll notice I’m drinkin’ alone.”

  A thin smile touched the Spider’s pallid face. The Mexican on the other side of Pete stopped humming. “You don’ dreenk with me, no?”

  “Yes, I don’t drink with you, no.”

  “Who the hell you are?” asked the dude Mexican.

  “Ain’t I?” Pete grinned. “Does anybody ever laugh in this joint?”

  Malvey grumbled something and read his paper. The one-eared Mexican began humming again. But the blue-eyed cowboy rose, and, taking a handful of change out of his pocket, laid a coin on the bar. “This here eagle kin talk.”

  “I’m listenin’.” Pete grinned. As yet he had not determined who owned the horse with the crooked foot. He was willing to let the cowboy talk, preferably at the table toward the back of the room.

  The Spider’s beady black eyes told nothing, yet somehow Pete felt that the gambler was missing nothing that was going on; probably wondering why he had changed front so suddenly.