Heart of the Sunset

by Beach, Rex Ellingwood

  "What are you aimin' at?" Blaze inquired.

  "If we had Ricardo's body on this side it would put an end to all the lies, and perhaps force Colonel Blanco to make known the real facts. It might even mean a case against Tad Lewis. What do you think of my reasoning?"

  "It's eighteen karat. What d'you say we go over there and get Ricardo?"

  Dave smiled. "That's what I've been leading up to. Will you take a chance?"

  "Hell, yes!"

  "I knew you would. All we need is a pair of Mexicans to—do the work. I liked Ricardo; I owe him something."

  "Suppose we're caught?"

  "In that case we'll have to run for it, and—I presume I'll be discharged from the Ranger service."

  "I ain't very good at runnin'—not from Mexicans." Blaze's eyes were bright and hard at the thought. "It's more'n possible that, if they discover us, we can start a nice little war of our own."

  That evening Dave managed to get his Ranger captain by long-distance telephone, and for some time the two talked guardedly. When Dave rang off they had come to a thorough understanding.

  It had been an easy matter for José Sanchez to secure a leave of absence from Las Palmas, especially since Benito was not a little interested in the unexplained disappearance of Panfilo and work was light at this time. Benito did not think it necessary to mention the horse-breaker's journey to his employer; so that Alaire knew nothing whatever about the matter until José himself asked permission to see her on a matter of importance.

  The man had ridden hard most of the previous night, and his excitement was patent. Even before he spoke Alaire realized that Panfilo's fate was known to him, and she decided swiftly that there must be no further concealment.

  "Señora! A terrible thing!" José burst forth. "God knows, I am nearly mad with grief. It is about my sainted cousin. It is strange, unbelievable! My head whirls—"

  Alaire quieted him, saying in Spanish, "Calm yourself, José, and tell me everything from the beginning."

  "But how can I be calm? Oh, what a crime! What a misfortune! Well, then, Panfilo is completely dead. I rode to that tanque where you saw him last, and what do you think? But—you know?"

  Alaire nodded. "I—suspected."

  José's dark face blazed; he bent forward eagerly. "What did you suspect, and why? Tell me all. There is something black and hellish here, and I must know about it quickly."

  "Suppose you tell me your story first," Alaire answered, "and remember that you are excited."

  The Mexican lowered his voice. "Bueno! Forgive me if I seem half crazed. Well, I rode to that water-hole and found—nothing. It is a lonely place; only the brush cattle use it; but I said to myself, 'Panfilo drank here. He was here. Beyond there is nothing. So I will begin.' God was my helper, señora. I found him—his bones as naked and clean as pebbles. Caramba! You should have heard me then! I was like a demon! I couldn't think, I couldn't reason. I rode from that accursed spot as if Panfilo's ghost pursued me and—I am here. I shall rouse the country; the people shall demand the blood of my cousin's assassin. It is the crime of a century."

  "Wait! When you spoke to me last I didn't dream that Panfilo was dead, but since then I have learned the truth, and why he was killed. You must let me tell you everything, José, just as it happened; then—you may do whatever you think best. And you shall have the whole truth."

  It was a trying situation; in spite of her brave beginning, Alaire was tempted to send the Mexican on to Jonesville, there to receive an explanation directly from David Law himself; but such a course she dared not risk. José was indeed half crazed, and at this moment quite irresponsible; if he met Dave, terrible consequences would surely follow. Accordingly, it was with a peculiar, apprehensive flatter in her breast that Alaire realized the crisis had come. Heretofore she had blamed Law, but now, oddly enough, she found herself interested in defending him. As calmly as she could she related all that had led up to the tragedy, while José listened with eyes wide and mouth open.

  "You see, I had no suspicion of the truth," she concluded. "It was a terrible thing, and Mr. Law regrets it deeply. He would have made a report to the authorities, only—he feared it might embarrass me. He will repeat to you all that I have said, and he is ready to meet the consequences."

  José was torn with rage, yet plainly a prey to indecision; he rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath. "These Rangers!" he muttered. "That is the kind of men they are. They murder honest people."

  "This was not murder," Alaire cried, sharply. "Panfilo was aiding a felon to escape. The courts will not punish Mr. Law."

  "Bah! Who cares for the courts? This man is a Gringo, and these are

  Gringo laws. But I am Mexican, and Panfilo was my cousin. We shall see."

  Alaire's eyes darkened. "Don't be rash, José," she exclaimed, warningly. "Mr. Law bears you no ill-will, but—he is a dangerous man. You would do well to make some inquiries about him. You are a good man; you have a long life before you." Reading the fellow's black look, she argued: "You think I am taking his part because he is my countryman, but he needs no one to defend him. He will make this whole story public and face the consequences. I like you, and I don't wish to see you come to a worse end than your cousin Panfilo."

  José continued to glower. Then, turning away, he said, without meeting his employer's eyes, "I would like to draw my money."

  "Very well. I am sorry to have you leave Las Palmas, for I have regarded you as one of my gente." José's face remained stony. "What do you intend to do? Where are you going?"

  The fellow shrugged. "Quien sabe! Perhaps I shall go to my General Longorio. He is in Romero, just across the river; he knows a brave man when he sees one, and he needs fellows like me to kill rebels. Well, you shall hear of me. People will tell you about that demon of a José whose cousin was murdered by the Rangers. Yes, I have the heart of a bandit."

  Alaire smiled faintly. "You will be shot," she told him. "Those soldiers have little to eat and no money at all."

  But José's bright eyes remained hostile and his expression baffling. It was plain to Alaire that her explanation of his cousin's death had carried not the slightest conviction, and she even began to fear that her part in the affair had caused him to look upon her as an accessory. Nevertheless, when she paid him his wages she gave him a good horse, which José accepted with thanks but without gratitude. As Alaire watched him ride away with never a backward glance she decided that she must lose no time in apprising the Ranger of this new condition of affairs.

  She drove her automobile to Jonesville that afternoon, more worried than she cared to admit. It was a moral certainty, she knew, that José Sanchez would, sooner or later, attempt to take vengeance upon his cousin's slayer, and there was no telling when he might become sufficiently inflamed with poisonous Mexican liquor to be in the mood for killing. Then, too, there were friends of Panfilo always ready to lend bad counsel.

  Law was nowhere in town, and so, in spite of her reluctance, Alaire was forced to look for him at the Joneses' home. As she had never called upon Paloma, and had made it almost impossible for the girl to visit Las Palmas, the meeting of the two women was somewhat formal. But no one could long remain stiff or constrained with Paloma Jones; the girl had a directness of manner and an honest, friendly smile that simply would not be denied. Her delight that Alaire had come to see her pleased and shamed the elder woman, who hesitatingly confessed the object of her visit.

  "Oh, I thought you were calling on me." Paloma pouted her pretty lips. "Dave isn't here. He and father—have gone away." A little pucker of apprehension appeared upon her brow.

  "I must get word to him at once."

  Miss Jones shook her head. "Is it very important?"

  It needed no close observation to discover the concern in Paloma's eyes; Alaire told her story quickly. "Mr. Law must be warned right away," she added, "for the man is capable of anything."

  Paloma nodded. "Dave told us how he had killed Panfilo—" She hesitated, and then cried, impul
sively: "Mrs. Austin, I'm going to confess something—I've got to tell somebody or I'll burst. I was walking the floor when you came. Well, Dad and Dave have completely lost their wits. They have gone across the river—to get Ricardo Guzman's body."

  "What?" Alaire stared at the girl uncomprehendingly.

  "They are going to dig him up and bring him back to prove that he was killed. Dave knows where he's buried, and he's doing this for Ricardo's family—some foolish sentiment about a bridle—but Dad, I think, merely wants to start a war between the United States and Mexico."

  "My dear girl, aren't you dreaming?"

  "I thought I must be when I heard about it. Dad wouldn't have told me at all, only he thought I ought to know in case anything happens to him." Paloma's breath failed her momentarily. "They'll be killed. I told them so, but Dave seems to enjoy the risk. He said Ricardo had a sentimental nature—and, of course, the possibility of danger delighted both him and Dad. They're perfect fools."

  "When did they go? Tell me everything."

  "They left an hour ago in my machine, with two Mexicans to help them. They intend to cross at your pumping-plant as soon as it gets dark, and be back by mid-night—that is, if they ever get back."

  "Why, it's—unbelievable."

  "It's too much for me. Longorio himself is in Romero, and he'd have them shot if he caught them. We'd never even hear of it." Paloma's face was pale, her eyes were strained and tragic. "Father always has been a trial to me, but I thought I could do something with Dave." She made a hopeless gesture, and Alaire wondered momentarily whether the girl's anxiety was keenest for the safety of her father or—the other?

  "Can't we prevent them from going?" she inquired. "Why, they are breaking the law, aren't they?"

  "Something like that. But what can we do? It's nearly dark, and they'll go, anyhow, regardless of what we say."

  "Mr. Law is a Ranger, too!"

  The girl nodded. "Oh, if it's ever discovered he'll be ruined. And think of Dad—a man of property! Dave declares Tad Lewis is at the bottom of it all and put the Federals up to murder Ricardo; he thinks in this way he can force them into telling the truth. But Dad is just looking for a fight and wants to be a hero!"

  There was a moment of silence. Then Alaire reasoned aloud: "I presume they chose our pumping-plant because it is directly opposite the Romero cemetery. I could have Benito and some trusty men waiting on this side. Or I could even send them over—"

  "No, no! Don't you understand? The whole thing is illegal."

  "Well, we could be there—you and I."

  Paloma agreed eagerly. "Yes! Maybe we could even help them if they got into trouble."

  "Come, then! We'll have supper at Las Palmas and slip down to the river and wait."

  Paloma was gone with a rush. In a moment she returned, ready for the trip, and with her she carried a Winchester rifle nearly as long as herself.

  "I hope you aren't afraid of firearms," she panted. "I've owned this gun for years."

  "I am rather a good shot," Alaire told her.

  Paloma closed her lips firmly. "Good! Maybe we'll come in handy, after all. Anyhow, I'll bet those Mexicans won't chase Dad and Dave very far."

  José Sanchez was true to his declared purpose. With a horse of his own between his knees, with money in his pocket and hate in his heart, he left Las Palmas, and, riding to the Lewis crossing, forded the Rio Grande. By early afternoon he was in Romero, and there, after some effort, he succeeded in finding General Longorio.

  Romero, at this time the southern outpost of Federal territory, standing guard against the Rebel forces in Tamaulipas, is a sun-baked little town sprawling about a naked plaza, and, except for the presence of Colonel Blanco's detachment of troops, it would have presented much the same appearance as any one of the lazy border villages. A scow ferry had at one time linked it on the American side with a group of 'dobe houses which were sanctified by the pious name of Sangre de Cristo, but of late years more advantageous crossings above and below had come into some use and Romero's ferry had been abandoned. Perhaps a mile above Sangre de Cristo, and directly opposite Romero's weed-grown cemetery, stood the pumping-plant of Las Palmas, its corrugated iron roof and high-flung chimney forming a conspicuous landmark.

  Luis Longorio had just awakened from his siesta when José gained admittance to his presence. The general lay at ease in the best bed of the best house in the village; he greeted the new-comer with a smile.

  "So, my brave José, you wish to become a soldier and fight for your country, eh?"

  "Yes, my general."

  Longorio yawned and stretched lazily. "Body of Christ! This is a hard life. Here am I in this goatherd's hovel, hot, dirty, and half starved, and all because of a fellow I never saw who got himself killed. You would think this Ricardo was an Englishman instead of a Gringo, for the fuss that is made. Who was he? Some great jefe?

  "A miserable fellow. I knew him well. Then he is indeed dead?"

  "Quite dead, I believe," Longorio said, carelessly; then turning his large, bright eyes upon the visitor, he continued, with more interest, "Now tell me about the beautiful señora, your mistress."

  José scowled. "She's not my mistress. I am no longer of her gente. I have a debt of blood to wipe out."

  Longorio sat up in his bed; the smile left his face. "My José", he said, quietly, "if you harm her in the least I shall bury you to the neck in an ant's nest and fill your mouth with honey. Now, what is this you are telling me?"

  José, uncomfortably startled by this barbarous threat, told as connectedly as he knew how all about his cousin's death and his reasons for leaving Las Palmas.

  "Ah-h!" Longorio relaxed. "You gave me a start. At first I thought you came with a message from her—but that was too much to expect; then I feared you meant the lady some evil. Now I shall tell you a little secret: I love your señora! Yes, I love her madly, furiously; I can think of nothing but her. I came to this abominable village more to see her than to annoy myself over the death of Ricardo Guzman. I must see my divinity; I must hear her blessed voice, or I shall go mad. Why do I tell you this? Because I have decided that you shall lead me to her to-night." The general fell silent for a moment, then, "I intend to have her some day, José, and—perhaps you will be my right hand. See, I make you my confidant because you will not dare to anger me or—Well, my little friend, you must understand what fate would befall you in that case. I can reach across the Rio Grande."

  Amazement and then fear were depicted in José's face as he listened; he asserted his loyalty vehemently.

  "Yes, yes, I know you love me," the general agreed, carelessly. "But what is far more to the point, I intend to pay well for your services. Perhaps I shall also arrange so that you may have a reckoning with the murderer of your cousin. What is his name?"

  It was José's opportunity to make an impression, and he used it to the full, telling all that he knew of the killing of Panfilo, and describing Law with the eloquence of hatred.

  Longorio listened for a time, and then held up his hand. "Enough. For my sake, too, you shall kill him, for you have made me jealous."

  "Impossible!" José raised protesting palms. He was sure the general was wrong. Señora Austin was above suspicion of any kind.

  "And yet this man met her in Pueblo and rode with her to Las Palmas? He comes to see her frequently, you say?" The general bent his bright, keen eyes upon the visitor.

  "Yes. She gave him the finest horse at Las Palmas, too, and—" A new thought presented itself to José. "Ho! By the way, they were alone at the water-hole when my cousin Panfilo was shot. Now that I think of it, they were alone together for a day and a night. I begin to wonder—"

  Longorio breathed an oath and swung his long legs over the edge of the bed. "You have poisoned my mind. A whole day and night, eh? That is bad. What happened? What kind of a fool is her husband? I cannot bear to think of this! See, I am beside myself. Caramba! I live in paradise; I come flying on the wings of the wind, only to learn that my blessed di
vinity has a lover. If only my excellent Blanco had shot this fellow Law instead of that Guzman! If only I could lay hands upon him here in Mexico! Ha! There would be something to print in the American papers." He began to dress himself feverishly, muttering, as he did so: "I will permit no one to come between us. … The thought kills me. … You bring me bad news, José, and yet I am glad you came. I accept your offer, and you shall be my man henceforth; … but you shall not go out to be shot by those rebels. No, you shall return to Las Palmas to be my eyes and my ears, and, when the time comes, you shall be my hands, too. … I will avenge your cousin Panfilo for you, my word on that. Yes, and I will make you a rich man."

  José listened hungrily to these promises. He was relieved at the change in his plans, for, after all, a soldier's life offered few attractions, and—the food at Las Palmas was good. The general promised him fine wages, too. Truly, it was fortunate that he had come to Romero.

  "Now we have settled this," José's new employer declared, "run away and amuse yourself until dark. Then we will take a little journey by way of the old ferry."

  "It is not altogether safe," ventured José. "That country over there is alive with refugees."

  "I will take some men with me," said Longorio. "Now go and let me think."

  XVIII

  ED AUSTIN TURNS AT BAY

  Had it not been for her fears, Paloma Jones would have taken her visit to the Austin ranch as an unmixed enjoyment. To her Alaire had always been an ideally romantic figure. More than once, in her moments of melancholy, Paloma had envied Mrs. Austin's unhappiness and yearned to bear a similar sorrow—to be crossed in love and to become known as a woman of tragedy. To have one's life blasted, one's happiness slain by some faithless lover, impressed the girl as interesting, thrilling. Moreover, it was a misfortune calculated to develop one's highest spiritual nature. Surely nothing could be more sadly satisfying than to live alone with regretful memories and to have the privilege of regarding the world as a vain show. Unfortunately, however, Paloma was too healthy and too practical to remain long occupied with such thoughts. She was disgustingly optimistic and merry; misanthropy was entirely lacking in her make-up; and none of her admirers seemed the least bit inclined to faithlessness. On the contrary, the men she knew were perfect nuisances in their earnestness of purpose, and she could not manage to fall in love with any one sufficiently depraved to promise her the slightest misery. Paloma felt that she was hopelessly commonplace.