CHAPTER V
Of the outlaws present Euchre appeared to be the one most inclined tolend friendliness to curiosity; and he led Duane and the horses awayto a small adobe shack. He tied the horses in an open shed and removedtheir saddles. Then, gathering up Stevens's weapons, he invited hisvisitor to enter the house.
It had two rooms--windows without coverings--bare floors. One roomcontained blankets, weapons, saddles, and bridles; the other a stonefireplace, rude table and bench, two bunks, a box cupboard, and variousblackened utensils.
"Make yourself to home as long as you want to stay," said Euchre. "Iain't rich in this world's goods, but I own what's here, an' you'rewelcome."
"Thanks. I'll stay awhile and rest. I'm pretty well played out," repliedDuane.
Euchre gave him a keen glance.
"Go ahead an' rest. I'll take your horses to grass." Euchre left Duanealone in the house. Duane relaxed then, and mechanically he wiped thesweat from his face. He was laboring under some kind of a spell or shockwhich did not pass off quickly. When it had worn away he took off hiscoat and belt and made himself comfortable on the blankets. And he had athought that if he rested or slept what difference would it make on themorrow? No rest, no sleep could change the gray outlook of the future.He felt glad when Euchre came bustling in, and for the first time hetook notice of the outlaw.
Euchre was old in years. What little hair he had was gray, his faceclean-shaven and full of wrinkles; his eyes were half shut from longgazing through the sun and dust. He stooped. But his thin frame denotedstrength and endurance still unimpaired.
"Hey a drink or a smoke?" he asked.
Duane shook his head. He had not been unfamiliar with whisky, and hehad used tobacco moderately since he was sixteen. But now, strangely, hefelt a disgust at the idea of stimulants. He did not understand clearlywhat he felt. There was that vague idea of something wild in his blood,something that made him fear himself.
Euchre wagged his old head sympathetically. "Reckon you feel a littlesick. When it comes to shootin' I run. What's your age?"
"I'm twenty-three," replied Duane.
Euchre showed surprise. "You're only a boy! I thought you thirtyanyways. Buck, I heard what you told Bland, an' puttin' thet with myown figgerin', I reckon you're no criminal yet. Throwin' a gun inself-defense--thet ain't no crime!"
Duane, finding relief in talking, told more about himself.
"Huh," replied the old man. "I've been on this river fer years, an' I'veseen hundreds of boys come in on the dodge. Most of them, though, was nogood. An' thet kind don't last long. This river country has been an' isthe refuge fer criminals from all over the states. I've bunked withbank cashiers, forgers, plain thieves, an' out-an'-out murderers, allof which had no bizness on the Texas border. Fellers like Bland areexceptions. He's no Texan--you seen thet. The gang he rules here comefrom all over, an' they're tough cusses, you can bet on thet. They livefat an' easy. If it wasn't fer the fightin' among themselves they'dshore grow populous. The Rim Rock is no place for a peaceable, decentfeller. I heard you tell Bland you wouldn't join his gang. Thet'll notmake him take a likin' to you. Have you any money?"
"Not much," replied Duane.
"Could you live by gamblin'? Are you any good at cards?"
"No."
"You wouldn't steal hosses or rustle cattle?"
"No."
"When your money's gone how'n hell will you live? There ain't any worka decent feller could do. You can't herd with greasers. Why, Bland's menwould shoot at you in the fields. What'll you do, son?"
"God knows," replied Duane, hopelessly. "I'll make my money last as longas possible--then starve."
"Wal, I'm pretty pore, but you'll never starve while I got anythin'."
Here it struck Duane again--that something human and kind and eagerwhich he had seen in Stevens. Duane's estimate of outlaws had lackedthis quality. He had not accorded them any virtues. To him, as to theoutside world, they had been merely vicious men without one redeemingfeature.
"I'm much obliged to you, Euchre," replied Duane. "But of course I won'tlive with any one unless I can pay my share."
"Have it any way you like, my son," said Euchre, good-humoredly. "Youmake a fire, an' I'll set about gettin' grub. I'm a sourdough, Buck.Thet man doesn't live who can beat my bread."
"How do you ever pack supplies in here?" asked Duane, thinking of thealmost inaccessible nature of the valley.
"Some comes across from Mexico, an' the rest down the river. Thet rivertrip is a bird. It's more'n five hundred miles to any supply point.Bland has mozos, greaser boatmen. Sometimes, too, he gets supplies infrom down-river. You see, Bland sells thousands of cattle in Cuba. An'all this stock has to go down by boat to meet the ships."
"Where on earth are the cattle driven down to the river?" asked Duane.
"Thet's not my secret," replied Euchre, shortly. "Fact is, I don't know.I've rustled cattle for Bland, but he never sent me through the Rim Rockwith them."
Duane experienced a sort of pleasure in the realization that interesthad been stirred in him. He was curious about Bland and his gang, andglad to have something to think about. For every once in a while he hada sensation that was almost like a pang. He wanted to forget. In thenext hour he did forget, and enjoyed helping in the preparation andeating of the meal. Euchre, after washing and hanging up the severalutensils, put on his hat and turned to go out.
"Come along or stay here, as you want," he said to Duane.
"I'll stay," rejoined Duane, slowly.
The old outlaw left the room and trudged away, whistling cheerfully.
Duane looked around him for a book or paper, anything to read; butall the printed matter he could find consisted of a few words oncartridge-boxes and an advertisement on the back of a tobacco-pouch.There seemed to be nothing for him to do. He had rested; he did not wantto lie down any more. He began to walk to and fro, from one end of theroom to the other. And as he walked he fell into the lately acquiredhabit of brooding over his misfortune.
Suddenly he straightened up with a jerk. Unconsciously he had drawn hisgun. Standing there with the bright cold weapon in his hand, he lookedat it in consternation. How had he come to draw it? With difficultyhe traced his thoughts backward, but could not find any that wasaccountable for his act. He discovered, however, that he had aremarkable tendency to drop his hand to his gun. That might have comefrom the habit long practice in drawing had given him. Likewise, itmight have come from a subtle sense, scarcely thought of at all, of thelate, close, and inevitable relation between that weapon and himself. Hewas amazed to find that, bitter as he had grown at fate, the desire tolive burned strong in him. If he had been as unfortunately situated, butwith the difference that no man wanted to put him in jail or take hislife, he felt that this burning passion to be free, to save himself,might not have been so powerful. Life certainly held no bright prospectsfor him. Already he had begun to despair of ever getting back to hishome. But to give up like a white-hearted coward, to let himself behandcuffed and jailed, to run from a drunken, bragging cowboy, or beshot in cold blood by some border brute who merely wanted to add anothernotch to his gun--these things were impossible for Duane because therewas in him the temper to fight. In that hour he yielded only to fate andthe spirit inborn in him. Hereafter this gun must be a living partof him. Right then and there he returned to a practice he had longdiscontinued--the draw. It was now a stern, bitter, deadly business withhim. He did not need to fire the gun, for accuracy was a gift and hadbecome assured. Swiftness on the draw, however, could be improved, andhe set himself to acquire the limit of speed possible to any man. Hestood still in his tracks; he paced the room; he sat down, lay down,put himself in awkward positions; and from every position he practicedthrowing his gun--practiced it till he was hot and tired and his armached and his hand burned. That practice he determined to keep up everyday. It was one thing, at least, that would help pass the weary hours.
Later he went outdoors to the cooler shade of the cottonwoods. Fromth
is point he could see a good deal of the valley. Under differentcircumstances Duane felt that he would have enjoyed such a beautifulspot. Euchre's shack sat against the first rise of the slope of thewall, and Duane, by climbing a few rods, got a view of the whole valley.Assuredly it was an outlaw settle meet. He saw a good many Mexicans,who, of course, were hand and glove with Bland. Also he saw enormousflat-boats, crude of structure, moored along the banks of the river. TheRio Grande rolled away between high bluffs. A cable, sagging deep inthe middle, was stretched over the wide yellow stream, and an old scow,evidently used as a ferry, lay anchored on the far shore.
The valley was an ideal retreat for an outlaw band operating on a bigscale. Pursuit scarcely need be feared over the broken trails of the RimRock. And the open end of the valley could be defended against almostany number of men coming down the river. Access to Mexico was easy andquick. What puzzled Duane was how Bland got cattle down to the river,and he wondered if the rustler really did get rid of his stolen stock byuse of boats.
Duane must have idled considerable time up on the hill, for when hereturned to the shack Euchre was busily engaged around the camp-fire.
"Wal, glad to see you ain't so pale about the gills as you was," hesaid, by way of greeting. "Pitch in an' we'll soon have grub ready.There's shore one consolin' fact round this here camp."
"What's that?" asked Duane.
"Plenty of good juicy beef to eat. An' it doesn't cost a short bit."
"But it costs hard rides and trouble, bad conscience, and life, too,doesn't it?"
"I ain't shore about the bad conscience. Mine never bothered me none.An' as for life, why, thet's cheap in Texas."
"Who is Bland?" asked Duane, quickly changing the subject. "What do youknow about him?"
"We don't know who he is or where he hails from," replied Euchre."Thet's always been somethin' to interest the gang. He must have beena young man when he struck Texas. Now he's middle-aged. I remember howyears ago he was soft-spoken an' not rough in talk or act like he isnow. Bland ain't likely his right name. He knows a lot. He can doctoryou, an' he's shore a knowin' feller with tools. He's the kind thetrules men. Outlaws are always ridin' in here to join his gang, an' ifit hadn't been fer the gamblin' an' gun-play he'd have a thousand menaround him."
"How many in his gang now?"
"I reckon there's short of a hundred now. The number varies. Then Blandhas several small camps up an' down the river. Also he has men back onthe cattle-ranges."
"How does he control such a big force?" asked Duane. "Especially whenhis band's composed of bad men. Luke Stevens said he had no use forBland. And I heard once somewhere that Bland was a devil."
"Thet's it. He is a devil. He's as hard as flint, violent in temper,never made any friends except his right-hand men, Dave Rugg an' ChessAlloway. Bland'll shoot at a wink. He's killed a lot of fellers, an'some fer nothin'. The reason thet outlaws gather round him an' stick isbecause he's a safe refuge, an' then he's well heeled. Bland is rich.They say he has a hundred thousand pesos hid somewhere, an' lots ofgold. But he's free with money. He gambles when he's not off with ashipment of cattle. He throws money around. An' the fact is there'salways plenty of money where he is. Thet's what holds the gang. Dirty,bloody money!"
"It's a wonder he hasn't been killed. All these years on the border!"exclaimed Duane.
"Wal," replied Euchre, dryly, "he's been quicker on the draw than theother fellers who hankered to kill him, thet's all."
Euchre's reply rather chilled Duane's interest for the moment. Suchremarks always made his mind revolve round facts pertaining to himself.
"Speakin' of this here swift wrist game," went on Euchre, "there's beenconsiderable talk in camp about your throwin' of a gun. You know, Buck,thet among us fellers--us hunted men--there ain't anythin' calculatedto rouse respect like a slick hand with a gun. I heard Bland say thisafternoon--an' he said it serious-like an' speculative--thet he'dnever seen your equal. He was watchin' of you close, he said, an' justcouldn't follow your hand when you drawed. All the fellers who seen youmeet Bosomer had somethin' to say. Bo was about as handy with a gun asany man in this camp, barrin' Chess Alloway an' mebbe Bland himself.Chess is the captain with a Colt--or he was. An' he shore didn't likethe references made about your speed. Bland was honest in acknowledgin'it, but he didn't like it, neither. Some of the fellers allowed yourdraw might have been just accident. But most of them figgered different.An' they all shut up when Bland told who an' what your Dad was. 'Pearsto me I once seen your Dad in a gunscrape over at Santone, years ago.Wal, I put my oar in to-day among the fellers, an' I says: 'What ailsyou locoed gents? Did young Duane budge an inch when Bo came roarin'out, blood in his eye? Wasn't he cool an' quiet, steady of lips, an'weren't his eyes readin' Bo's mind? An' thet lightnin' draw--can'tyou-all see thet's a family gift?'"
Euchre's narrow eyes twinkled, and he gave the dough he was rolling aslap with his flour-whitened hand. Manifestly he had proclaimed himselfa champion and partner of Duane's, with all the pride an old man couldfeel in a young one whom he admired.
"Wal," he resumed, presently, "thet's your introduction to the border,Buck. An' your card was a high trump. You'll be let severely alone byreal gun-fighters an' men like Bland, Alloway, Rugg, an' the bosses ofthe other gangs. After all, these real men are men, you know, an' onlessyou cross them they're no more likely to interfere with you than youare with them. But there's a sight of fellers like Bosomer in the rivercountry. They'll all want your game. An' every town you ride into willscare up some cowpuncher full of booze or a long-haired four-flushgunman or a sheriff--an' these men will be playin' to the crowd an'yellin' for your blood. Thet's the Texas of it. You'll have to hide ferever in the brakes or you'll have to KILL such men. Buck, I reckon thisain't cheerful news to a decent chap like you. I'm only tellin' youbecause I've taken a likin' to you, an' I seen right off thet you ain'tborder-wise. Let's eat now, an' afterward we'll go out so the gang cansee you're not hidin'."
When Duane went out with Euchre the sun was setting behind a blue rangeof mountains across the river in Mexico. The valley appeared to open tothe southwest. It was a tranquil, beautiful scene. Somewhere in a housenear at hand a woman was singing. And in the road Duane saw a littleMexican boy driving home some cows, one of which wore a bell. Thesweet, happy voice of a woman and a whistling barefoot boy--these seemedutterly out of place here.
Euchre presently led to the square and the row of rough houses Duaneremembered. He almost stepped on a wide imprint in the dust whereBosomer had confronted him. And a sudden fury beset him that he shouldbe affected strangely by the sight of it.
"Let's have a look in here," said Euchre.
Duane had to bend his head to enter the door. He found himself in a verylarge room inclosed by adobe walls and roofed with brush. It was full ofrude benches, tables, seats. At one corner a number of kegs and barrelslay side by side in a rack. A Mexican boy was lighting lamps hung onposts that sustained the log rafters of the roof.
"The only feller who's goin' to put a close eye on you is Benson,"said Euchre. "He runs the place an' sells drinks. The gang calls himJackrabbit Benson, because he's always got his eye peeled an' his earcocked. Don't notice him if he looks you over, Buck. Benson is scared todeath of every new-comer who rustles into Bland's camp. An' the reason,I take it, is because he's done somebody dirt. He's hidin'. Not froma sheriff or ranger! Men who hide from them don't act like JackrabbitBenson. He's hidin' from some guy who's huntin' him to kill him. Wal,I'm always expectin' to see some feller ride in here an' throw a gun onBenson. Can't say I'd be grieved."
Duane casually glanced in the direction indicated, and he saw a spare,gaunt man with a face strikingly white beside the red and bronze anddark skins of the men around him. It was a cadaverous face. The blackmustache hung down; a heavy lock of black hair dropped down over thebrow; deep-set, hollow, staring eyes looked out piercingly. The man hada restless, alert, nervous manner. He put his hands on the board thatserved as a bar and stared at Duane. But when he met
Duane's glance heturned hurriedly to go on serving out liquor.
"What have you got against him?" inquired Duane, as he sat down besideEuchre. He asked more for something to say than from real interest. Whatdid he care about a mean, haunted, craven-faced criminal?
"Wal, mebbe I'm cross-grained," replied Euchre, apologetically. "Shorean outlaw an' rustler such as me can't be touchy. But I never stolenothin' but cattle from some rancher who never missed 'em anyway. Thetsneak Benson--he was the means of puttin' a little girl in Bland's way."
"Girl?" queried Duane, now with real attention.
"Shore. Bland's great on women. I'll tell you about this girl when weget out of here. Some of the gang are goin' to be sociable, an' I can'ttalk about the chief."
During the ensuing half-hour a number of outlaws passed by Duane andEuchre, halted for a greeting or sat down for a moment. They were allgruff, loud-voiced, merry, and good-natured. Duane replied civillyand agreeably when he was personally addressed; but he refused allinvitations to drink and gamble. Evidently he had been accepted, in away, as one of their clan. No one made any hint of an allusion to hisaffair with Bosomer. Duane saw readily that Euchre was well liked. Oneoutlaw borrowed money from him: another asked for tobacco.
By the time it was dark the big room was full of outlaws and Mexicans,most of whom were engaged at monte. These gamblers, especially theMexicans, were intense and quiet. The noise in the place came from thedrinkers, the loungers. Duane had seen gambling-resorts--some of thefamous ones in San Antonio and El Paso, a few in border towns wherelicense went unchecked. But this place of Jackrabbit Benson's impressedhim as one where guns and knives were accessories to the game. To hisperhaps rather distinguishing eye the most prominent thing about thegamesters appeared to be their weapons. On several of the tables werepiles of silver--Mexican pesos--as large and high as the crown of hishat. There were also piles of gold and silver in United States coin.Duane needed no experienced eyes to see that betting was heavy and thatheavy sums exchanged hands. The Mexicans showed a sterner obsession, anintenser passion. Some of the Americans staked freely, nonchalantly,as befitted men to whom money was nothing. These latter were manifestlywinning, for there were brother outlaws there who wagered coin withgrudging, sullen, greedy eyes. Boisterous talk and laughter among thedrinking men drowned, except at intervals, the low, brief talk of thegamblers. The clink of coin sounded incessantly; sometimes just low,steady musical rings; and again, when a pile was tumbled quickly, therewas a silvery crash. Here an outlaw pounded on a table with the butt ofhis gun; there another noisily palmed a roll of dollars while he studiedhis opponent's face. The noises, however, in Benson's den did notcontribute to any extent to the sinister aspect of the place. Thatseemed to come from the grim and reckless faces, from the bent, intentheads, from the dark lights and shades. There were bright lights,but these served only to make the shadows. And in the shadows lurkedunrestrained lust of gain, a spirit ruthless and reckless, a somethingat once suggesting lawlessness, theft, murder, and hell.
"Bland's not here to-night," Euchre was saying. "He left today on one ofhis trips, takin' Alloway an' some others. But his other man, Rugg, he'shere. See him standin' with them three fellers, all close to Benson.Rugg's the little bow-legged man with the half of his face shot off.He's one-eyed. But he can shore see out of the one he's got. An', darnme! there's Hardin. You know him? He's got an outlaw gang as big asBland's. Hardin is standin' next to Benson. See how quiet an' unassumin'he looks. Yes, thet's Hardin. He comes here once in a while to seeBland. They're friends, which's shore strange. Do you see thet greaserthere--the one with gold an' lace on his sombrero? Thet's Manuel, aMexican bandit. He's a great gambler. Comes here often to drop his coin.Next to him is Bill Marr--the feller with the bandana round his head.Bill rode in the other day with some fresh bullet-holes. He's been shotmore'n any feller I ever heard of. He's full of lead. Funny, becauseBill's no troublehunter, an', like me, he'd rather run than shoot. Buthe's the best rustler Bland's got--a grand rider, an' a wonder withcattle. An' see the tow-headed youngster. Thet's Kid Fuller, the kid ofBland's gang. Fuller has hit the pace hard, an' he won't last the yearout on the border. He killed his sweetheart's father, got run out ofStaceytown, took to stealin' hosses. An' next he's here with Bland.Another boy gone wrong, an' now shore a hard nut."
Euchre went on calling Duane's attention to other men, just as hehappened to glance over them. Any one of them would have been a markedman in a respectable crowd. Here each took his place with more or lessdistinction, according to the record of his past wild prowess and hispresent possibilities. Duane, realizing that he was tolerated there,received in careless friendly spirit by this terrible class of outcasts,experienced a feeling of revulsion that amounted almost to horror.Was his being there not an ugly dream? What had he in common with suchruffians? Then in a flash of memory came the painful proof--he was acriminal in sight of Texas law; he, too, was an outcast.
For the moment Duane was wrapped up in painful reflections; but Euchre'sheavy hand, clapping with a warning hold on his arm, brought him back tooutside things.
The hum of voices, the clink of coin, the loud laughter had ceased.There was a silence that manifestly had followed some unusual word oraction sufficient to still the room. It was broken by a harsh curse andthe scrape of a bench on the floor. Some man had risen.
"You stacked the cards, you--!"
"Say that twice," another voice replied, so different in its cool,ominous tone from the other.
"I'll say it twice," returned the first gamester, in hot haste. "I'llsay it three times. I'll whistle it. Are you deaf? You light-fingeredgent! You stacked the cards!"
Silence ensued, deeper than before, pregnant with meaning. For all thatDuane saw, not an outlaw moved for a full moment. Then suddenly the roomwas full of disorder as men rose and ran and dived everywhere.
"Run or duck!" yelled Euchre, close to Duane's ear. With that he dashedfor the door. Duane leaped after him. They ran into a jostling mob.Heavy gun-shots and hoarse yells hurried the crowd Duane was withpell-mell out into the darkness. There they all halted, and severalpeeped in at the door.
"Who was the Kid callin'?" asked one outlaw.
"Bud Marsh," replied another.
"I reckon them fust shots was Bud's. Adios Kid. It was comin' to him,"went on yet another.
"How many shots?"
"Three or four, I counted."
"Three heavy an' one light. Thet light one was the Kid's.38. Listen!There's the Kid hollerin' now. He ain't cashed, anyway."
At this juncture most of the outlaws began to file back into the room.Duane thought he had seen and heard enough in Benson's den for one nightand he started slowly down the walk. Presently Euchre caught up withhim.
"Nobody hurt much, which's shore some strange," he said. "The Kid--youngFuller thet I was tellin' you about--he was drinkin' an' losin'. Losthis nut, too, callin' Bud Marsh thet way. Bud's as straight at cards asany of 'em. Somebody grabbed Bud, who shot into the roof. An' Fuller'sarm was knocked up. He only hit a greaser."