CHAPTER III
DICK MARTIN STARTS SOMETHING
Dick Martin slowly turned, leaned his back against the bar, andlanguidly regarded a group of Mexicans at the other end of the room.Singly, or in combinations of two or more, each was imparting all heknew, or thought he knew about the ghost of San Miguel Canyon. Theirfellow-countryman, new to the locality, seemed properly impressed. Thatit was the ghost of Carlos Martinez, murdered nearly one hundred yearsbefore at the big bend in the canyon, was conceded by all; but there wasa dispute as to why it showed itself only on Friday nights, and why itwas never seen by any but a Mexican. Never had a Gringo seen it. TheMexican stranger was appealed to: Did this not prove that the murderhad been committed by a Mexican? The stranger affected to consider thequestion.
Martin surveyed them with outward impassiveness and inward contempt. Arealist, a cynic, and an absolute genius with a Colt .45, he was wellknown along the border for his dare-devil exploits and reckless courage.The brainiest men in the Secret Service, Lewis, Thomas, Sayre, andeven old Jim Lane, the local chief, whose fingers at El Paso felt everyvibration along the Rio Grande, were not as well known--except to thosewho had seen the inside of Government penitentiaries--and they werequite satisfied to be so eclipsed. But the Service knew of the ghost,as it knew everything pertaining to the border, and gave it no seriousthought; if it took interest in all the ghosts and superstitionspeculiar to the Mexican temperament it would have no time for seriouswork. Martin once, in a spirit of savage denial, had wasted the betterpart of several successive Friday nights in the San Miguel, but to noavail. When told that the ghost showed itself only to Mexicans he hadshrugged his shoulders eloquently and laughed, also eloquently.
"A Greaser," he replied, "is one-half fear and superstition, an' theother half imagination. There ain't no ghosts, but I know the _Greasers_have seen 'em, all right. A Greaser can see anything scary if he makesup his mind to. If _I_ ever see one an' he keeps on being one afterI shoot, I'll either believe in ghosts, or quit drinking." His eyestwinkled as he added: "An' of the two, I think I'd _prefer_ to seeghosts!"
He was flushed and restless with deviltry. His fifth glass alwaysmade him so; and to-night there was an added stimulus. He believedthe strange Mexican to be Juan Alvarez, who was so clever that theGovernment had never been able to convict him. Alvarez was fearless torecklessness and Martin, eager to test him, addressed the group with theblunt terseness for which he was famed, and hated.
"Greasers are cowards," he asserted quietly, and with a smile whichinvited excitement. He took a keen delight in analyzing the expressionson the faces of those hit. It was one of his favorite pastimes whenfeeling coltish.
The group was shocked into silence, quickly followed by great unrest andhot, muttered words. Martin did not move a muscle, the smile was set,but between the half-closed eyelids crouched Combat, on its toes. TheMexicans knew it was there without looking for it--the tone of hisvoice, the caressing purr of his words, and his unnatural languor weresigns well known to them. Not a criminal sneaking back from voluntarybanishment in Mexico who had seen those signs ever forgot them, if helived. Martin watched the group cat-like, keenly scrutinizing each face,reading the changing emotions in every shifting expression; he had thisart down so well that he could tell when a man was debating the pull ofa gun, and beat him on the draw by a fraction of a second.
"De senor ees meestak," came the reply, as quiet and caressing as thewords which provoked it. The strange Mexican was standing proudly andlooking into the squinting eyes with only a grayness of face and atigerish litheness to tell what he felt.
"None go through the canyon after dark on Fridays," purred Martin.
"_I_ go tro' de canyon nex' Friday night. Eef I do, then you mak apologyto me?"
"I'll limit my remark to all but one Greaser."
The Mexican stepped forward. "I tak' thees gloove an' leave eet atde Beeg Ben', for you to fin' in daylight," he said, tapping one ofMartin's gauntlets which lay on the bar. "You geev' me eet befo' I go?"
"Yes; at nine o'clock to-morrow night," Martin replied, hiding hiselation. He was sure that he knew the man now.
The Mexican, cool and smiling, bowed and left the room, his companionshastening after him.
"Well, I'll bet twenty-five dollars he flunks!" breathed the bartender,straightening up.
Martin turned languidly and smiled at him. "I'll take that, Charley," hereplied.