CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE CAPTURE
Although he had left the room so suddenly, Senor Johnson did not atonce open the gate of the adobe wall. His demeanour was gay, for hewas a Westerner, but his heart was black. Hardly did he see beyond theconvexity of his eyeballs.
The pony, warmed up by its little run, pawed the ground, impatient tobe off. It was a fine animal, clean-built, deep-chested, one of themustang stock descended from the Arabs brought over by Pizarro. Sangwatched fearfully from the slant of the kitchen window. Jed Parker,even, listened for the beat of the horse's hoofs.
But Senor Johnson stood stock-still, his brain absolutely numb andempty. His hand brushed against something which fell, to the ground.He brought his dull gaze to bear on it. The object proved to be ablack, wrinkled spheroid, baked hard as iron in the sunshine ofEstrella's toys, a potato squeezed to dryness by the constricting powerof the rawhide. In a row along the fence were others. To SenorJohnson it seemed that thus his heart was being squeezed in the fire ofsuffering.
But the slight movement of the falling object roused him. He swungopen the gate. The pony bowed his head delightedly. He was not tired,but his reins depended straight to the ground, and it was a point ofhonour with him to stand. At the saddle horn, in its sling, hung theriata, the "rope" without which no cowman ever stirs abroad, but whichSenor Johnson had rarely used of late. Senor Johnson threw the reinsover, seized the pony's mane in his left hand, held the pommel with hisright, and so swung easily aboard, the pony's jump helping him to thesaddle. Wheel tracks led down the trail. He followed them.
Truth to tell, Senor Johnson had very little idea of what he was goingto do. His action was entirely instinctive. The wheel tracks held tothe southwest so he held to the southwest, too.
The pony hit his stride. The miles slipped by. After seven of themthe animal slowed to a walk. Senor Johnson allowed him to get hiswind, then spurred him on again. He did not even take the ordinaryprecautions of a pursuer. He did not even glance to the horizon insearch.
About supper-time he came to the first ranch house. There he took abite to eat and exchanged his horse for another, a favourite of his,named Button. The two men asked no questions.
"See Mrs. Johnson go through?" asked the Senor from the saddle.
"Yes, about three o'clock. Brent Palmer driving her. Bound forWillets to visit the preacher's wife, she said. Ought to catch up atthe Circle I. That's where they'd all spend the night, of course. Solong."
Senor Johnson knew now the couple would follow the straight road. Theywould fear no pursuit. He himself was supposed not to return for aweek, and the story of visiting the minister's wife was not onlyplausible, it was natural. Jed had upset calculations, because Jed wasshrewd, and had eyes in his head. Buck Johnson's first mental numbnesswas wearing away; he was beginning to think.
The night was very still and very dark, the stars very bright in theircandle-like glow. The man, loping steadily on through the darkness,recalled that other night, equally still, equally dark, equally starry,when he had driven out from his accustomed life into the unknown with awoman by his side, the sight of whom asleep had made him feel "almostholy." He uttered a short laugh.
The pony was a good one, well equal to twice the distance he would becalled upon to cover this night. Senor Johnson managed him well. Bylong experience and a natural instinct he knew just how hard to pushhis mount, just how to keep inside the point where too rapid exhaustionof vitality begins.
Toward the hour of sunrise he drew rein to look about him. The desert,till now wrapped in the thousand little noises that make night silence,drew breath in preparation for the awe of the daily wonder. It layacross the world heavy as a sea of lead, and as lifeless; deeplyunconscious, like an exhausted sleeper. The sky bent above, the starspaling. Far away the mountains seemed to wait. And then,imperceptibly, those in the east became blacker and sharper, whilethose in the west became faintly lucent and lost the distinctness oftheir outline. The change was nothing, yet everything. And suddenly adesert bird sprang into the air and began to sing.
Senor Johnson caught the wonder of it. The wonder of it seemed to himwasted, useless, cruel in its effect. He sighed impatiently, and drewhis hand across his eyes.
The desert became grey with the first light before the glory. In theillusory revealment of it Senor Johnson's sharp frontiersman's eyesmade out an object moving away from him in the middle distance. In amoment the object rose for a second against the sky line, thendisappeared. He knew it to be the buckboard, and that the vehicle hadjust plunged into the dry bed of an arroyo.
Immediately life surged through him like an electric shock. Heunfastened the riata from its sling, shook loose the noose, and movedforward in the direction in which he had last seen the buckboard.
At the top of the steep little bank he stopped behind the mesquite,straining his eyes; luck had been good to him. The buckboard hadpulled up, and Brent Palmer was at the moment beginning a little fire,evidently to make the morning coffee.
Senor Johnson struck spurs to his horse and half slid, half fell,clattering, down the steep clay bank almost on top of the couple below.
Estrella screamed. Brent Palmer jerked out an oath, and reached forhis gun. The loop of the riata fell wide over him, immediately to bejerked tight, binding his arms tight to his side.
The bronco-buster, swept from his feet by the pony's rapid turn,nevertheless struggled desperately to wrench himself loose. Button,intelligent at all rope work, walked steadily backward, step by step,taking up the slack, keeping the rope tight as he had done hundreds oftimes before when a steer had struggled as this man was struggling now.His master leaped from the saddle and ran forward. Button continued towalk slowly back. The riata remained taut. The noose held.
Brent Palmer fought savagely, even then. He kicked, he rolled over andover, he wrenched violently at his pinioned arms, he twisted hispowerful young body from Senor Johnson's grasp again and again. But itwas no use. In less than a minute he was bound hard and fast. Buttonpromptly slackened the rope. The dust settled. The noise of thecombat died. Again could be heard the single desert bird singingagainst the dawn.
Arizona Nights Page 31
