Chapter VI
_Arizona_
Waring, who had known the man in Sonora, called him by name. The other'ssmile faded, and his eyes narrowed. Waring thrust up his hands andjokingly offered to toss up a coin to decide the issue. He knew his man;knew that at the first false move the rural would kill him. He rose andturned sideways that the other might take his gun. "You win the throw,"he said. The Mexican jerked Waring's gun from the holster and cocked it.Then he whistled.
From below came the faint clatter of hoofs. The rural seemed puzzledthat his call should have been answered so promptly. He knew that hiscompanions had gone for their horses, picketed some distance from thepocket. He had volunteered to surprise the gunman single-handed.
Waring, gazing beyond the rural, saw the head of a horse top the rise.In the saddle sat Ramon, hatless, his black hair flung back from hisforehead, a gun in his hand. Waring drew a deep breath. Would Ramonbungle it by calling out, or would he have nerve enough to make an endof it on the instant?
Although Waring was unarmed, the rural dared not turn. The gringo hadbeen known to slip out of as tight a place despite the threat of a gunalmost against his chest. With a despondent shrug, Waring lowered hisarms.
"You win the throw," he said hopelessly.
Still the Mexican dared not take his eyes from Waring. He would waituntil his companions appeared.
A few yards behind the rural, Ramon reined up. Slowly he lowered themuzzle of his gun. The rural called the name of one of his fellows. Theanswer came in a blunt crash, which rippled its harsh echoes across thesounding hills. The rural flung up his arms and pitched forward, rollingto Waring's feet. The gunman leaped up, and, snatching his carbine fromthe rock, swung round and took his six-gun from the rural's limpfingers. Plunging to the brush beyond the pocket, he swung to the saddleand shot down the slope. Behind him he could hear Ramon's horsescattering the loose rock of the hillside. A bullet struck ahead of himand whined across the silence. A shrill call told him that the pursuershad discovered the body of their fellow.
Dex, with ears laid back, took the ragged grade in great, uneven leapsthat shortened to a regular stride as they gained the level of thevalley. Glancing back, Waring saw Ramon but a few yards behind. Hesignaled to him to ride closer. Together they swung down the valley,dodging the low brush--and leaping rocks at top speed.
Finally Waring reined in. "We'll make for that ridge,"--and heindicated the range west. Under cover of the brush they angled acrossthe valley and began the ascent of the range which hid the westerndesert.
Halfway up, Waring dismounted. "Lead my horse on up," he told Ramon."I'll argue it out with 'em here."
"Senor, I have killed a man!" gasped Ramon.
Waring flung the reins to his companion. "All right! This isn't afiesta, hombre; this is business."
Ramon turned and put his horse up the slope, Dex following. Waringcurled behind a rock and swept the valley with his glass. The heads ofseveral rurales were visible in the brush. They had halted and werelooking for tracks. Finally one of them raised his arm and pointedtoward the hill. They had caught sight of Ramon on the slope above.Presently three riders appeared at the foot of the grade. It was a longshot from where Waring lay. He centered on the leading rural, allowedfor a chance of overshooting, and pressed the trigger. The carbinesnarled. An echo ripped the shimmering heat. A horse reared and plungedup the valley, the saddle empty.
Waring rose, and plodded up the slope.
"Three would have trailed us. Two will ride back to the railroad andreport. I wonder how many of them are bushed along the trail betweenhere and Nogales?"
In the American custom-house at Nogales sat a lean, lank man gazing outof a window facing the south. His chair was tilted back, and his largefeet were crossed on the desk in front of him. He was in hisshirt-sleeves, and he puffed indolently at a cigar and blew smoke-ringstoward the ceiling. Incidentally his name was known throughout thecountry and beyond its southern borders. But if this distinctionaffected him in any way it was not evident. He seemed submerged in alassitude which he neither invited nor struggled against.
A group of riders appeared down the road. The lean man brushed a cloudof smoke away and gazed at them with indifference. They drew nearer. Hesaw that they were Mexicans--rurales. Without turning his head, hecalled to an invisible somebody in the next room.
"Jack, drift over to the cantina and get a drink."
A chair clumped to the floor, and a stocky, dark-faced man appeared,rubbing his eyes. "On who?" he queried, grinning.
"On old man Diaz," replied the lean man.
"All right, Pat. But mebby his credit ain't good on our side of theline."
The lean man said nothing. He continued to gaze out of the window. Thewhite road ran south and south into the very haze of the beyond. Hisassistant picked up a hat and strolled out. A few doors down the streetstood several excellent saddle animals tied to the hitching-rail infront of the cantina. He didn't need to be told that they were thepicked horses of the rurales, and that for some strange reason hissuperior had sent him to find out just why these same rurales were intown.
He entered the cantina and called for a drink. The lithe, dark riders ofthe south, grouped round a table in one corner of the room, glanced up,answered his general nod of salutation indifferently, and turned to talkamong themselves. Catering to authority, the Mexican proprietorproffered a second drink to the Americano. The assistant collector toyedwith his glass, and began a lazy conversation about the weather. Theproprietor, his fat, oily face in his hands and his elbows on the bar,grunted monosyllables, occasionally nodding as the Americano forced hisacknowledgment of a highly obvious platitude.
And the assistant collector, listening for a chance word that wouldexplain the presence of armed Mexico on American soil, knew that theproprietor was also listening for that same word that might explaintheir unprecedented visit. Presently the assistant collector of customsbegan a tirade against Nogales, its climate, institutions, and citizenscollectively and singly. The proprietor awoke to argument. Their talkgrew loud. The assistant collector thumped the bar with his fist, andceased talking suddenly. A subdued buzz came from the corner where therurales sat, and he caught the name "Waring."
"And the whole town ain't worth the matches to burn it up," hecontinued. "If it wasn't for Pat, I'd quit right now." And he emptiedhis glass and strode from the room.
Back in the office, he flung his hat on the table and rumpled his hair."Those coyotes," he said casually, "are after some one called Waring.Pablo's whiskey is rotten."
The collector's long legs unfolded, and he sat up, yawning. "Jim Waringisn't in town," he said as though to himself.
"Pat, you give me a pain," said the assistant, grinning.
"Got one myself," said the collector unsmilingly. "Cucumbers."
"You're the sweetest liar for a thousand miles either side of the line.There isn't even the picture of a cucumber in this sun-blasted town."
"Isn't, eh? Look here!" And the lank man pulled open a drawer in thedesk. The collector fumbled among some papers and drew out a bulky seedcatalogue, illustrated in glowing tints.
"Oh, I'll buy," laughed the assistant. "I reckon if I asked for apicture of this man Waring that's wanted by those nickel-plated coyotes,you'd fish it up and never sweat a hair."
"I could," said the collector, closing the drawer.
"Here, smoke one of mine for a change. About that picture. I met JimWaring in Las Cruces. He was a kid then, but a comer. Had kind oflight, curly hair. His face was as smooth as a girl's. He wasn't whatyou'd call a dude, but his clothes always looked good on him. Wimminkind of liked him, but he never paid much attention to them. He workedfor me as deputy a spell, and I never hired a better man. But hewouldn't stay with one job long. When Las Cruces got quiet he pulled hisfreight. Next I heard of him he was married and living in Sonora. Itdidn't take Diaz long to find out that he could use him. Waring was awizard with a gun--and he had the nerve back of it. But Waring quitDiaz, for Jim wasn't
that kind of a killer. I guess he found plenty ofwork down there. He never was one to lay around living on his reputationand waiting for nothing to happen. He kept his reputation sprouting newshoots right along--and that ain't all joke, neither."
"Speakin' in general, could he beat you to it with a gun, Pat?"
"Speaking in general--I reckon he could."
"Them rurales are kind of careless--ridin' over the line and notstoppin' by to make a little explanation."
The lank man nodded. "There's a time coming when they'll do more thanthat. That old man down south is losing his grip. I don't say this forgeneral information. And if Jim Waring happens to ride into town, justtell him who you are and pinch him for smuggling; unless I see himfirst."
"What did I ever do to you?"
Pat laughed silently. "Oh, he ain't a fool. It's only a fool that'llthrow away a chance to play safe."
"You got me interested in that Waring hombre. I'll sure nail him likeyou said; but if he goes for his gun I don't want you plantin' nocucumber seed on my restin'-place. Guess I'll finish those reports."
The lank man yawned, and, rising, strode to the window. The assistantsauntered to the inner office and drew up to his desk. "Pablo's whiskeyis rotten!" he called over his shoulder. The lank collector smiled.
The talk about Waring and Las Cruces had stirred slumbering memories;memories of night rides in New Mexico, of the cattle war, of blazingnoons on the high mesas and black nights in huddled adobe towns; LasCruces, Albuquerque, Caliente, Santa Fe--and weary ponies at thehitching-rails.
Once, on an afternoon like this, he had ridden into town with a prisonerbeside him, a youth whose lightning-swift hand had snuffed out a scoreof lives to avenge the killing of a friend. The collector recalled thaton that day he had ridden his favorite horse, a deep-chested buckskin,slender legged, and swift, with a strain of thoroughbred.
Beyond the little square of window through which he gazed lay the samekind of a road--dusty, sun-white, edged with low brush. And down theroad, pace for pace with his thoughts, strode a buckskin horse, riddenby a man road-weary, gray with dust. Beside him rode a youth, his headbowed and his hands clasped on the saddle-horn as though manacled.
"Jack!"
The assistant shoved back his chair and came to the window.
"There's the rest of your picture," said the collector.
As the assistant gazed at the riders, the collector stepped to his deskand buckled on a gun.
"Want to meet Waring?" he queried.
"I'm on for the next dance, Pat."
The collector stepped out. Waring reined up. A stray breeze flutteredthe flag above the custom-house. Waring gravely lifted his sombrero.
"You're under arrest," said the collector.
Waring gestured toward Ramon.
"You, too," nodded Pat. "Get the kid and his horse out of sight," hetold the assistant.
Ramon, too weary to expostulate, followed the assistant to a corral backof the building.
The collector turned to Waring. "And now, Jim, what's the row?"
"Down the street--and coming," said Waring, as the rurales boiled fromthe cantina.
"We'll meet 'em halfway," said the collector.
And midway between the custom-house and the cantina the two cool-eyed,deliberate men of the North faced the hot-blooded Southern haste thatdemanded Waring as prisoner. The collector, addressing the leader of therurales, suggested that they talk it over in the cantina. "And don'tforget you're on the wrong side of the line," he added.
The Captain of rurales and one of his men dismounted and followed theAmericans into the cantina. The leader of the rurales immediatelyexhibited a warrant for the arrest of Waring, signed by a high officialand sealed with the great seal of Mexico. The collector returned thewarrant to the captain.
"That's all right, amigo, but this man is already under arrest."
"By whose authority?"
"Mine--representing the United States."
"The warrant of the Presidente antedates your action," said the captain.
"Correct, Senor Capitan. But my action, being just about two jumps aheadof your warrant, wins the race, I reckon."
"It is a trick!"
"Si! You must have guessed it."
"I shall report to my Government. And I also demand that you surrenderto me one Ramon Ortego, of Sonora, who aided this man to escape, and whois reported to have killed one of my men and stolen one of my horses."
"He ought to make a darned good rural, if that's so," said thecollector. "But he is under arrest for smuggling. He rode a horseacross the line without declaring valuation."
"Juan," said the captain, "seize the horse of the Americano."
"Juan," echoed Waring softly, "I have heard that Pedro Salazar seizedthe horse of an Americano--in Sonora."
The rural stopped short and turned as though awaiting furtherinstructions from his chief. The collector of customs rose and saunteredto the doorway. Leaning against the lintel, he lighted a cigar andsmoked, gazing at Waring's horse with an appreciative eye. The captainof rurales, seated opposite Waring, rolled a cigarette carefully; toocarefully, thought Waring, for a Mexican who had been daring enough toride across the line with armed men. Outside in the fading sunlight, thehorses of the rurales stamped and fretted. The cantina was strangelysilent. In the doorway stood the collector, smoking and toying with hiswatch-charm.
Presently the assistant collector appeared, glanced in, and grinned."The kid is asleep--in the office," he whispered to the collector.
Waring knew that the flicker of an eyelid, an intonation, a gesture,might precipitate trouble. He also knew that diplomacy was out of thequestion. He glanced round the room, pushed back his chair, and, rising,stepped to the bar. With his back against it, he faced the captain.
"Miguel," he said quietly, "you're too far over the line. Go home!"
The captain rose. "Your Government shall hear of this!"
"Yes. Wire 'em to-night. And where do you get off? You'll get turnedback to the ranks."
"I?"
"Si, Senor Capitan, and because--_you didn't get your man_."
The collector of customs stood with his cigar carefully poised in hisleft hand. The assistant pushed back his hat and rumpled his black hair.
All official significance set aside, Waring and the captain of ruralesfaced each other with the blunt challenge between them: "You didn't getyour man!"
The captain glanced at the two quiet figures in the doorway. Beyond themwere his own men, but between him and his command were two of thefastest guns in the Southwest. He was on alien ground. This gringo hadinsulted him.
Waring waited for the word that burned in the other's eyes.
The collector of customs drew a big silver watch from his waistband."It's about time--to go feed the horses," he said.
With the sound of his voice the tension relaxed. Waring eyed the captainas though waiting for him to depart. "You'll find that horse in thecorral--back of the customs office," he said.
The Mexican swung round and strode out, followed by his man.
The rurales mounted and rode down the street. The three Americansfollowed a few paces behind. Opposite the office, they paused.
"Go along with 'em and see that they get the right horse," said thecollector.
The assistant hesitated.
The collector laughed. "Shake hands with Jim Waring, Jack."
When the assistant had gone, the collector turned to Waring. "That'sJack every time. Stubborn as a tight boot, but good leather every time.Know why he wanted to shake hands? Well, that's his way of tellin' youhe thinks you're some smooth for not pullin' a fight when it looked likenothing else was on the bill."
Waring smiled. "I've met you before, haven't I?"
Pat pretended to ignore the question. "Say, stranger," he began withslow emphasis, "you're makin' mighty free and familiar for a prisonerarrested for smuggling. Mebby you're all right personal, but officiallyI got a case against you. What do you know about raising cucu
mbers? Igot a catalogue in the office, and me and Jack has been aiming to raisecucumbers from it for three months. I like 'em. Jack says you can't doit down here without water every day. Now--"
"Where have you planted them, Pat?"
"Oh, hell! They ain't _planted_ yet. We're just figuring. Now, up LasCruces way--"
"Let's go back to the cantina and talk it out. There goes Mexico leadinga horse with an empty saddle. I guess the boy will be all right in theoffice."
"Was the kid mixed up in your getaway?"
"Yes. And he's a good boy."
"Well, he's in dam' bad company. Now, Jack says you got to plant 'em inhills and irrigate. I aim to just drill 'em in and let the A'mighty dothe rest. What do you think?"
"I think you're getting worse as you grow older, Pat. Say, did you everget track of that roan mare you lost up at Las Cruces?"
"Yes, I got her back."
"Speaking of horses, I saw a pinto down in Sonora--"
Just then the assistant joined them, and they sauntered to the cantina.Dex, tied at the rail, turned and gazed at them. Waring took the morralof grain from the saddle, and, slipping Dex's bridle, adjusted it.
The rugged, lean face of the collector beamed. "I wondered if youthought as much of 'em as you used to. I aimed to see if I could makeyou forget to feed that cayuse."
"How about those goats in your own corral?" laughed Waring.
"Kind of a complimentary cuss, ain't he?" queried Pat, turning to hisassistant. "And he don't know a dam' thing about cucumbers."
"You old-timers give me a pain," said the assistant, grinning.
"That's right! Because you can't set down to a meal without both yourhands and feet agoing and one ear laid back, you call us old because wechew slow. But you're right. Jim and I are getting kind of gray aroundthe ears."
"Well, you fellas can fight it out. I came over to say that them ruralesgot their hoss. But one of 'em let it slip, in Mexican, that theyweren't through yet."
"So?" said Pat. "Well, you go ahead and feed the stock. We'll be over tothe house poco tiempo."
Waring and the collector entered the cantina. For a long time they satin silence, gazing at the peculiar half-lights as the sun drew down.Finally the collector turned to Waring.
"Has the game gone stale, Jim?"
Waring nodded. "I'm through. I am going to settle down. I've had myshare of trouble."
"Here, too," said the collector. "I've put by enough to get a littleplace up north--cattle--and take it easy. That's why I stuck it out downhere. Had any word from your folks recent?"
"Not for ten years."
"And that boy trailing with you?"
"Oh, he's just a kid I picked up in Sonora. No, my own boy is straightAmerican, if he's living now."
"You might stop by at Stacey, on the Santa Fe," said the collectorcasually. "There's some folks running a hotel up there that you used toknow."
Waring thanked him with a glance. "We don't need a drink and the sun isdown. Where do you eat?"
"We'll get Jack to rustle some grub. You and the boy can bunk in theoffice. I'll take care of your horse."
"Thanks, Pat. But you spoke of going north. I wouldn't if I were you.They'll get you."
"I had thought of that. But I'm going to take that same chance. I'mplumb sick of the border."
"If they do--" And Waring rose.
The collector's hard-lined face softened for an instant. He thrust outhis bony hand. "I'll leave that to you, Jim."
And that night, because each was a gunman unsurpassed in his grimprofession, they laughed and talked about things trivial, leaving thedeeper currents undisturbed. And the assistant collector, eating withthem in the adobe back of the office, wondered that two such men foundnothing more serious to talk about than the breeding of horses and thegrowing of garden truck.
Late that night the assistant awoke to find that the collector was notin bed. He rose and stalked to the window. Across from the adobe he sawthe grim face of the collector framed in the office window. He wassmoking a cigar and gazing toward the south, his long arm resting on thesill and his chin in his hand.
"Ole fool!" muttered the assistant affectionately. "That there JimWaring must sure be some hombre to make Pat lose any sleep."