by H. H. Knibbs
Always sensitive to the slightest political draught, Governor Rowland shook his head. To pardon the Tonto Kid offhand would raise a storm of protest. Political rivals would charge the Governor with currying favor with the wild bunch. It wouldn’t do. For a full minute Governor Rowland studied the blotter on his desk.
“I’m sorry, Akers,” he said finally. “But it is impossible.”
“Pardon a contradiction. It’s not impossible. And you’re not sorry—yet. But you feel you might be, next election time.”
Slim Akers had anticipated that reply. Now he brought all his forces of persuasion to play on the politician. The Randall gang was a political embarrassment to the Governor. He would be in hot water until the Randalls were wiped out. Here was Mr. Akers’s proposition. Give the Tonto Kid a pardon, deputize him and turn him loose, and he would clean up the Randall outfit—or get shot to pieces trying. Either way, the Governor would win.
Mr. Akers was sorely tempted to say several things. Had he been suing for a pardon for himself he would have said them. But he represented his friend the Tonto Kid, so he restrained himself. “You speak of cooperation. That’s exactly what I’m offering. Sheriff Yardlaw has failed to land the gang, and Buck is the best man in the country, barring one. Deputize the Tonto Kid and he’ll make good.”
“I can hardly deputize an outlaw.”
“That’s a joke. I could name seven or eight outlaws drawing salaries from the Territory. I would even be willing to name ’em in print.” Mr. Akers rose.
Governor Rowland gestured to him to sit down. “No hurry, Akers. Let’s look at this from another angle. Suppose I issue the pardon. What guaranty have I that the Kid will clean up the gang?”
“None whatever. He’ll try.”
“All right. Tell him to go ahead.” Governor Rowland waved a magnanimous hand. “If he turns the trick I’ll issue the pardon.”
Mr. Akers deliberated. “No. The Kid won’t go after them without written authority from you. The pardon can come later.”
Governor Rowland reached for a pad, wrote a brief line, and handed it to his visitor. “Tell him to take this to Room 28, Capitol Building. Glad you came in, Akers. Give my regards to the Kid.”
The Governor was careful not to burn his fingers. His note to Room 28, Capitol Building, did not in so many words give the Tonto Kid any authority other than that of a deputy sheriff.
In deputizing Young Pete, however, the Governor had restored his citizenship, at least temporarily. Slim Akers felt thoroughly satisfied with his first move in the game. Stubbornly Pete had refused to plead for a pardon himself. If the Governor offered it, that would be different. Otherwise the Governor could go to hell. Outside of that Slim could do as he pleased.
Sheriff Yardlaw, summoned to a private conference with Governor Rowland, was informed of the situation. Pete’s friend Slim Akers had asked for a pardon for the Kid.
“Then why in hell don’t you give it to him?”
Suavely Governor Rowland gave his reasons. The Tonto Kid would have to earn it. He might get killed earning it—probably would. In that event the Territory would be saved a lot of trouble. If he should be lucky enough to clean up the gang, the issuing of a pardon could be taken up later. As for Yardlaw, he was to keep his hands in his pockets.
Buck Yardlaw was disgusted with the Governor’s slippery methods. The sheriff had accepted his new job with the understanding that he was to have a free hand in cleaning up the Randall gang. Now his aforetime enemy was given that job.
The tall, grizzled sheriff thought it over for a long time, from Pete’s early years with the Hemenway gang down to the time he had spared Yardlaw’s own life following the fight near Magdalena. Young Pete, he decided, was entitled to a better break than the Governor was offering. But how was the Kid to get it?
The following day, while loafing in the Capitol Hotel, the sheriff saw the Tonto Kid’s friend, Mr. Slim Akers, conversing with the proprietor of the local gambling-hall. Mr. Akers had no establishment in town. His continued presence in the Capitol was interesting. Yardlaw concealed his curiosity with a brief nod to the gambler, who finally left his companion and joined the sheriff.
“This,” said Akers, “is no place to talk politics.”
“Who wants to talk politics?” growled Yardlaw.
“I do.”
If anyone knew why the Governor was protecting the Tonto Kid, it would be Mr. Akers. Recalling the Governor’s injunction to keep his hands off the Tonto Kid, the sheriff accepted Mr. Akers’ invitation to more private quarters—an upstairs hotel room overlooking the plaza. Not that the gambler ever did any loose talking. But he had expressed a desire to talk.
“Have a cigar,” said Mr. Akers, as they entered the room.
“Just had one.”
“Have a drink?”
“Just had one.”
“Well, have a chair.”
It was warm, and they sat by the open window. “Suppose,” said the gambler, “we get down to cases.”
“Suits me.”
“You’re taking a little vacation. Don’t be surprised that I know it. I’m largely responsible.”
Yardlaw said nothing.
“Just between ourselves, Buck, the Governor has deputized the Kid to go out and clean up the Randall outfit.” Yardlaw nodded.
“If the Kid busts the gang, he gets his pardon.”
“I’ll be damned glad if he does.”
“Save us all a lot of wear and tear, won’t it? You know as well as I do that Young Pete is entitled to a break. I had an idea the Governor would talk to you about it. But you can’t always tell about governors.”
“Or about the Kid.”
Yardlaw nodded toward the plaza. “Yes. I’ve been watching him.”
Mr. Akers leaned out. “Hey, Pete, come on up and meet a friend.”
The gaunt, grizzled sheriff rose, took off his belt and gun, and laid them on the dresser. This was a great concession for the fighting sheriff to make to his old enemy the Tonto Kid. And yet it was natural enough. Between them existed no personal enmity. Outlaw and peace officer, they had come to respect each other’s nerve and ability. It was more than admiration. Now a penciled line from the Governor and a little piece of plated metal had put them on an equal footing socially. In disarming himself the sheriff had been wise. Although the Tonto Kid had said he would kill Yardlaw, he would never shoot an unarmed man.
Someone knocked on the hotel room door, and although it was unlocked, waited for it to be opened. Mr. Akers did the honors. “This young fellow,” he said as Pete stepped in, “is the Tonto Kid.”
Young Pete grinned. “Hello, Buck. How’s it goin”?” Noting the belt and gun on the dresser, the Kid followed Yardlaw’s example. Mr. Akers insisted that they shake hands.
Yardlaw smiled. “Understand you’re going after the Randall gang.”
“So Slim tells me.”
“Going in alone?”
“Sure! I don’t want any posse messin’ up my party,” Dark-eyed, slender, boyish-looking except when his eyes hardened, Young Pete stood gazing at the sheriff. Gaunt, battle-scarred, Yardlaw surveyed the youth who so often had given him the slip.
Mr. Akers relieved what seemed a slight tension. “First time you fellows have ever shaken hands, I take it?”
Young Pete laughed. “Hell, I been willin’ to shake hands with Buck any time he let go his gun.”
Yardlaw indicated the badge on Young Pete’s vest. “How does it feel to be wearing one of those things?”
“Kinda like hidin’ behind a tree when you’re shootin’. I don’t figure to be wearin’ it long.”
“Don’t know that you will, if you stack up against the Randall outfit single-handed.”
“The fella that gets it can keep it.”
Sheriff Yardlaw nodded grimly. “Bart Randall might like to try
for it. He’s in town.”
Bart Randall was in town! This was news. Yet Young Pete said nothing. Slim Akers merely elevated his eyebrows. Randall’s younger brother was in town, probably doing some scouting for the gang. Both Slim and Young Pete knew that Yardlaw would have gone after him except for the Governor’s orders.
“I’d kind of like to meet him,” said Pete. “What does he look like?”
Yardlaw told him. For a moment Young Pete stood gazing down onto the plaza. Presently he moved toward the dresser and took up his belt and gun.
“Guess you fellas’ll have to excuse me for a couple of minutes.”
“Don’t make it any longer,” said Slim Akers.
The door closed. Mr. Akers glanced at Yardlaw. The sheriff rose.
“I feel like taking a little walk,” declared the gambler.
Buck Yardlaw picked up his belt and gun and followed Mr. Akers down to the street. “It’s his party,” said Mr. Akers as they moved toward the Capitol Saloon, “unless another one of the gang should happen to be in town. I don’t want to see anyone get shot in the back.”
Opposite the front of the saloon stood a telephone pole. Against the pole leaned Young Pete, his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest. His hat was pushed back. A thin smile played about his mouth. Directly across the street in the doorway of the saddle shop stood Mr. Akers and Sheriff Yardlaw. Mr. Akers was smoking a cigar. Yardlaw was gazing at a cow-pony tied to a hitch-rail a half-block away, a bay and white paint horse. Altogether too showy, reflected Yardlaw. Too easily spotted. The horse belonged to Bart Randall, brother of the outlaw. Mr. Akers’s gaze was fixed on the doorway of the Capitol.
With no definite plan in mind, Young Pete had begun his campaign by simply awaiting developments. Bart Randall was in the saloon. Sooner or later he would show up. If the outlaw wanted a fight, he could have it. If he chose to ignore the deputy loafing outside the saloon, Pete would not challenge him. But he would mark him down, note how he dressed and acted. A mining man and a local attorney came out of the saloon, glanced at the young fellow leaning against the telephone pole, and moved on. In the doorway of the saddle shop Yardlaw and Slim Akers stood talking quietly. The paint horse stamped and switched flies. A number of townsfolk were passing hack and forth. Pete noted that there was not a constable in sight.
Black hair, blue eyes, medium build, about twenty-five years old, acts tough. This was Yardlaw’s description of Bart Randall. Aware that the gang had friends in town, Young Pete kept the telephone pole at his back.
Glancing across the street, he noted that Slim Akers and the sheriff were leaving the doorway of the saddle shop—as plain a hint as he could wish. The saddle shop was directly in line of fire should the man who had just come out of the Capitol Saloon happen to be Randall. Pete seemed to be talking to himself. “Black hair, blue eyes…” The roughly clad man coming toward him stopped and stared at the badge on Pete’s vest. “Acts tough,” murmured Pete, flicking his half-smoked cigarette into the gutter. Casually the Tonto Kid glanced at the other man, whose face was lined with a sneer of disdain for the slender, smooth-faced youth sporting a deputy’s badge. Still leaning easily against the telephone pole, Pete seemed to be staring at the other’s boots, powdered with the red clay dust of the hill country. Yardlaw had disappeared. Slim Akers was standing a few doors up the street from the saddle shop.
“Anything about those boots you don’t like?”
Young Pete looked up questioningly. “Talkin’ to me?”
“Talking to you.”
“All right. Go ahead.” Pete saw Randall glance toward the paint horse.
“You’re feeling real healthy, ain’t you?”
Pete nodded. “Real healthy.”
Randall strode up and crooked his finger at the deputy’s badge as though snapping a fly from Young Pete’s vest.
“Anything about that badge you don’t like?” Pete moved an inch or two, freeing his shoulder from the telephone pole.
Randall seemed to hesitate. Finally he swung round, and started to walk toward the paint horse at the hitch-rail. Slim Akers, across the street, thought that the outlaw had backed down. But Young Pete had a different idea. Hardly had the outlaw taken two steps when he whirled. The guns of the outlaw and the Tonto Kid crashed like a single shot. Slim Akers groaned. His sympathy was wasted. Randall swayed and fell face down on the sidewalk. Gun poised, Young Pete walked slowly toward him.
In the few seconds between the time Randall had accosted the Tonto Kid and the shooting but one or two had seen the fight or knew exactly what had happened. In the crowd gathering round the dead outlaw loomed the grizzled face of Sheriff Yardlaw. “Yes, it’s Bart Randall,” he said. But when questioned as to who shot the outlaw, Yardlaw had no answer. Rumor spread that Buck Yardlaw had killed Bart Randall. When the news reached the Governor, he sent for the sheriff and got the facts. Apparently uninterested in the shooting, Mr. Slim Akers stood a few feet up the street using his penknife to dig a bullet from a telephone pole.
In Mr. Akers’s room in the Capitol Hotel sat Young Pete, gazing down onto the plaza. No matter what happened now, he would have to go through with the job. The elder Randall wouldn’t leave a leg under a horse till he rode down the man who had killed his brother.
Cool and smiling, Mr. Slim Akers entered the room. Walking over to the Tonto Kid he laid a lead slug on the window sill. “Compliments of Bart Randall. I figured he had got you.”
“No. Because he didn’t know what I would do. The minute he started to walk away, I knew what he would do. Some fellas make mistakes like that.”
“Going to stay around town and take them on as they come?”
Pete shook his head. “I’m going over into their country.” Slim Akers elevated his eyebrows. “I know the trails pretty well. I’ll need a pack-horse and some grub. Mebby you or Buck can stake me.”
“Buck will let you have most anything he’s got. Know where he was when the ruckus started?”
“No.”
“He was sitting in the upstairs window of Rodney’s, next to the saddle shop. No one would have got you from behind.”
“And I suppose you were wearin’ a telegraph pole for chest protector.”
“That’s exactly what I was doing. How would you like a little drink?”
“When I can’t handle myself without liquor, I’ll hang up my gun.”
CHAPTER 19
A rumor soon began to spread that the Tonto Kid was in town. An eye-witness of the shooting was responsible for the news. Governor Rowland, who didn’t want the Tonto Kid’s presence and his killing of Randall advertised, was anything but pleased. But Yardlaw pointed out that it was the best thing that could have happened. The news would reach Randall, who, while he would hardly risk another raid immediately, probably would quietly send in someone to get the Tonto Kid. “Let folks talk all they want to,” advised Yardlaw. “Let them say the Tonto Kid is hiding somewhere in town until he can make a safe getaway. Just as long as no one actually knows where he is, just so much easier it will be for him to follow out his plans.”
“What are his plans?” asked the Governor bluntly.
“I don’t know what his plans are. I don’t even know whether he’s in town or not.”
The Governor, who wished to give some carefully edited news to the papers, surmised that Yardlaw knew considerably more than he cared to tell. “Governor Out to Clean Up the Randall Gang.” That would make a valuable headline. But the headline didn’t appear. Even Young Pete’s closest friend, Mr. Akers, seemed to know nothing of his whereabouts.
Young Pete, riding his own horse and leading a pack-animal loaned him by Yardlaw, was well on his way to Thunder Mountain and Horse Thief Hollow. It seemed strange to be heading back into country so alive with memories of Charley Lee, Pecos Jim, and the Hamills. That he now rode as a peace officer seemed even more strange.
At
dawn he made camp in the timbered range of Thunder Mountain. His next ride would bring him well over the range and into San Dimas Valley. Heading up San Dimas, another eight hours’ ride and he would be in the rough, rock-strewn foothills back of Horse Thief Hollow. Surmising that the Randall gang would have scattered following the recent raid, Young Pete planned to hunt them down one at a time. It was a fool’s job, with the chances a hundred to one that he would not come out of the venture alive. But that bothered him considerably less than the fact that he, who had been hunted from Mexico to Montana, was now the hunter. Reason told him that he was right—that he had the law behind him. That every member of the gang was a killer who would shoot him or any other peace officer on sight. Yet he hated this job, and had he not given his word that he would see it through, he would have quit long before he reached the back yard of the Randall stronghold.
Both his horses staked well down the mountain-side, Young Pete climbed to the crest overlooking Horse Thief Cañon. The air was clear and warm, the grass stirrup-high. Below, the great rock-walled cleft spread from a knife-edge to a wide boulder-strewn wash where it met the distant desert. Pete stared down into the great hollow, recalling Charley Lee and his gang. Now another band of outlaws were making it their headquarters. The ledge trail leading up to the stone house where several years ago he had fetched the mortally wounded Pecos Jim showed sharp-edged in the morning sun. In the corral back of the house stood two horses. Young Pete reasoned that at least two of the outlaws were at the stone house, possibly the man wounded in the recent raid and a companion. Bart Randall was out of it. If two were holding out in the cañon, there must be five of the outlaws scattered back in the hill country.