The Ridin' Kid from Powder River

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE DEVIL-WIND

  As Pete lay planning his departure--he wondered if Boca would think tofind him a canteen and food for his long ride--the stars, hithertoclear-edged and brilliant, became blurred as though an almost invisiblemist had drifted between them and the earth. He rubbed his eyes. Yes,there was no mistake about it. He was wide awake, and the sky waschanging. That which had seemed a mist now appeared more like a finedust, that swept across the heavens and dimmed the desert sky. Itoccurred to him that he was at the bottom of a fairly deep canon andthat that impalpable dust meant wind, A little later he heard it,--atfirst a faint, far-away sound like the whisper of many voices; then asoft, steady hiss as when wind-driven sand runs over sand. A hot windsprang up suddenly and swept with a rush down the night-walled canon.It was the devil-wind of the desert, the wind that curls the leaf andshrivels the vine, even in the hours when there is no sun. When thedevil-wind drives, men lie naked beneath the sky in sleepless misery.Horses and cattle stand with heads lowered and flanks drawn in,suffering an invisible torture from which there is no escape. The dawnbrings no relief--no freshening of the air. The heat drives on--threedays--say those who know the southern desert--and no man rides thetrails, but seeks what shade may be, and lies torpid and silent--or ifhe speaks, it is to curse the land.

  Pete knew that this devil-wind would make old Flores restless. Hestepped round to the doorway and asked for water. From the darknesswithin the adobe came Flores's voice and the sound of a match againstwood. The Mexican appeared with a candle.

  "My head feels queer," stated Pete, as an excuse for disturbing Flores."I can't find the olla--and I'm dead for a drink."

  "Then we shall drink this," said Flores, fetching a jug of wine frombeneath the bench.

  "Not for mine! I'm dizzy enough, without that."

  "It is the devil-wind. One may get drunk and forget. One may thensleep. And if one sleeps, it is not so bad."

  Pete shook his head, but tasted the wine that Flores poured for him.If the old man would only get drunk enough to go to sleep . . . TheMexican's oily, pock-marked face glistened in the flickeringcandle-light. He drank and smacked his lips. "If one is to die of theheat--one might as well die drunk," he laughed. "Drink, senor!"

  Pete sipped the wine and watched the other as he filled and emptied hisglass again. "It is the good wine," said Flores. The candle-lightcast a huge, distorted shadow of the Mexican's head and shoulders onthe farther wall. The faint drone of the hot wind came to them fromthe plains above. The candle-flame fluttered. Flores reached down forthe jug and set it on the table. "All night we shall drink of the goodwine, for no man may sleep.",

  "I'm with you," said Pete. "Only I ain't so swift."

  "No man may sleep," reiterated Flores, again emptying his tumbler.

  "How about the women-folks?" queried Pete.

  Flores waved his hand in a gesture indicative of supreme indifferenceto what the "women-folks" did. He noticed that Pete was not drinkingand insisted that he drink and refill his glass. Pete downed the rawred wine and presently complained of feeling sleepy. Flores grinned."I do not sleep," he asserted--"not until this is gone"--and he struckthe jug with his knuckles. Pete felt that he was in for a longsession, and inwardly cursed his luck. Flores's eyes brightened and hegrew talkative. He spoke of his youth in Old Mexico; of the cattle andthe women of that land. Pete feigned a heaviness that he did not feel.Presently Flores's talk grew disconnected; his eye became dull and hisswarthy face was mottled with yellow. The sweat, which had rolled downhis cheeks and dripped from his nose, now seemed to coagulate in tiny,oily globules. He put down a half-empty tumbler and stared at Pete."No man sleeps," he mumbled, as his lids drooped. Slowly his chin sankto his chest and he slumped forward against the table. Pete started toget up. Flores raised his head. "Drink--senor!" he murmured, andslumped forward, knocking the tumbler over. A dark red line streakedthe table and dripped to the floor.

  Something moved in the kitchen doorway. Pete glanced up to see Bocastaring at him. He gestured toward her father. She noddedindifferently and beckoned Pete to follow her.

  "I knew that you would think me a lie if I did not come," she told him,as they stood near the old corral--Pete's impatience to be goneevident, as he shouldered his saddle. "But you will not ride tonight.You would die."

  "It's some hot--but I aim to go through."

  "But no--not to-night! For three days will it be like this! It isterrible! And you have been ill."

  She pressed close to him and touched his arm. "Have I not been yourfriend?"

  "You sure have! But honest, Boca, I got a hunch that it's time to fanit. 'T ain't that I'm sore at your old man now--or want to leaveyou--but I got a hunch somethin' is goin' to happen."

  "You think only of that Malvey. You do not think of me," complainedBoca.

  "I'm sure thinkin' of you every minute. It ain't Malvey that'sbotherin' me now."

  "Then why do you not rest--and wait?"

  "Because restin' and waitin' is worse than takin" a chanct. I got togo."

  "You must go?"

  Pete nodded.

  "But what if I will not find a horse for you?"

  "Then I reckon you been foolin' me right along."

  "That is not so!" Boca's hand dropped to her side and she turned fromhim.

  "'Course it ain't! And say, Boca, I'll make it through all right. AllI want is a good hoss--and a canteen and some grub."

  "I have made ready the food and have a canteen for you--in my room."

  "Then let's go hunt up that cayuse."

  "It is that you will die--" she began; but Pete, irritated by argumentand the burning wind that droned through the canon, put an end to itall by dropping the saddle and taking her swiftly in his arms. Hekissed her--rather perfunctorily. "My little pardner!" he whispered.

  Boca, although sixteen and mature in a sense, was in reality littlemore than a child. When Pete chose to assert himself, he had much thestronger will. She felt that all pleading would be useless. "You havethe reata?" she queried, and turning led him past the corral and alongthe fence until they came to the stream. A few hundred yards down thestream she turned, and cautioning him to follow closely, entered a sortof lateral canon--a veritable box at whose farther end was Flores'scache of horses, kept in this hidden pasture for any immediate need.Pete heard the quick trampling of hoofs and the snort of startledhorses.

  "We will drive them on into the corral," said Boca.

  Pete could see but dimly, but he sensed the situation at once. Thecanon was a box, narrowing to a natural enclosure with the open endfenced. He had seen such places--called "traps" by men who made abusiness of catching wild horses.

  Several dim shapes bunched in the small enclosure, plunging andcircling as Pete found and closed the bars.

  "The yellow horse is of the desert--and very strong," said Boca.

  "They all look alike to me," laughed Pete. "It's mighty dark, rightnow." He slipped through the bars and shook out his rope. The horsescrowded away from him as he followed. A shape reared and backed. Peteflipped the noose and set his heels as the rope snapped taut. He heldbarely enough slack to make the snubbing-post, but finally took a turnround it and fought the horse up. "Blamed if he ain't the buckskin,"panted Pete.

  The sweat dripped from his face as he bridled and saddled the half-wildanimal. It was doubly hard work in the dark. Then he came to thecorral bars where Boca stood. "I'm all hooked up, Boca."

  "Then I shall go back for the cantina and the food."

  "I'll go right along with you. I'll wait at the other corral."

  Pete followed her and sat a nervous horse until she reappeared, withthe canteen and package of food. The hot wind purred and whisperedround them. Above, the stars struggled dimly through the haze. Petereached down and took her hand. She had barely touched his fingerswhen the horse shied and reared.

  "If Malvey he kill you--I shall kill him!" she wh
ispered fiercely.

  "I'm comin' back," said Pete.

  A shadow flung across the night; and Boca. was standing gazing intothe black wall through which the shadow had plunged. Far up the trailshe could hear quick hoofbeats, and presently above the drone of thewind came a faint musical "Adios! Adios!"

  She dared not call back to him for fear of waking her father, in spiteof the fact that she knew he was drugged beyond all feeling and sound.And she had her own good reason for caution. When Flores discoveredhis best horse gone, there would be no evidence that would entangle heror her mother in wordy argument with him for having helped the youngvaquero to leave--and against the direct commands of The Spider, whohad sent word to Flores through Malvey that Pete was to remain at therancho till sent for.

  At the top of the canon trail Pete reined in and tried to get hisbearings. But the horse, fighting the bit, seemed to have a clear ideaof going somewhere and in the general direction of Showdown. "Youought to know the trail to Showdown," said Pete. "And you ain't tryin'to git back home, so go to it! I'll be right with you."

  The heavy, hot wind seethed round him and he bent his head, tying hisbandanna across his nose and mouth. The buckskin bored into the night,his unshod hoofs pattering softly on the desert trail. His first "finefrenzy" done, he settled to a swinging trot that ate into the milesceaselessly. Twice during the ride Pete raised the canteen andmoistened his burning throat. Slowly he grew numb to the heat and thebite of the whipping sand, and rode as one in a horrible dream. He hadbeen a fool to ride from comparative safety into this blind furnace ofburning wind. Why had he done so? And again and again he askedhimself this question, wondering if he were going mad. It had beenyears and years since he had left the Flores rancho. There was a girlthere--Boca Dulzura--or had he dreamed of such a girl? Pete felt theback of his head. "No, it wa'n't a dream," he told himself.

  A ghastly dawn burned into Showdown, baring the town's ugliness as itcrept from 'dobe to 'dobe as though in search of some living thing totorture with slow fire. The street was a wind-swept emptiness, smoothwith fine sand. Pete rode to the hitching-rail. The Spider's placewas dumb to his knocking. He staggered round to the western side ofthe saloon and squatted on his heels. "Water that pony after a while,"he muttered. Strange flashes of light danced before his eyes. Hishead pained dully and he ached all over for lack of sleep. A suddentrampling brought him to his feet. He turned the corner of the saloonjust in time to see the buckskin lunge back. The reins snapped like athread. The pony shook its head and trotted away, circling. Petefollowed, hoping that the tangle of dragging rein might stop him.

  Half-dazed, Pete followed doggedly, but the horse started to run. Petestaggered back to the hitching-rail, untied the end of the broken reinand tossed it across the street. He did not know why he did this; hesimply did it mechanically.

  He was again afoot, weak and exhausted from his night's ride. "Ireckon that ole Mexican woman--was right," he muttered. "But I got onepardner yet, anyhow," and his hand slid to his holster. "You and meag'in' the whole dam' town! God, it's hot."

  He slumped to the corner of the saloon and squatted, leaning againstthe wall. He thought of Boca. He could hear her speak his namedistinctly. A shadow drifted across his blurred vision. He glancedup. The Spider, naked to the waist, stood looking down at him, leanlygrotesque in the dawn light.

  "You 're going strong!" said The Spider.

  "I want Malvey," whispered Pete.

  The Spider's lips twitched. "You'll get some coffee and beans first.Any man that's got enough sand to foot it from Flores here--can camp onme _any_ time--coming or going."

  "I'm workin' this case myself," stated Pete sullenly.

  "You play your own hand," said The Spider. And for once he meant it.He could scarcely believe that Young Pete had made it across the deserton foot--yet there was no horse in sight. If Young Pete could forcehimself to such a pace and survive he would become a mighty useful tool.

  "Did Malvey play you?" queried The Spider.

  "You ought to know."

  "He said you were sick--down at Flores's rancho."

  "Then he's here!" And Pete's dulling eyes brightened. "Well, I ain'tas sick as he's goin' to be, Spider."