by Jon E. Lewis
The Mexican cursed under his breath.
“Where are your rangers?” he went on.
“They got back from the Brazos last night with news of your raid,” said Vaughn glibly. “And this morning they joined the cowboys who were trailing the horses you stole.”
Vaughn realized then that somewhere there had been a mix-up in Quinela’s plans. The one concerning the kidnapping of Roseta Uvaldo and Vaughn’s taking the trail had worked out well. But Juan’s dark, corded face, his volley of unintelligible maledictions directed at his men betrayed a hitch somewhere. Again Vaughn felt the urge to draw and fight it out. What crazy fiery-headed fools these tattered marauders were! Juan had lowered his gun to heap abuse on Garcia. That luckless individual turned green of face. Some of the others still held leveled rifles on Vaughn, but they were looking at their leader and his lieutenant. Vaughn saw a fair chance to get away, and his gun hand itched. A heavy-booming Colt – Juan and Garcia dead – a couple of shots at those other outlaws – that would have stampeded them. But Vaughn as yet had caught no glimpse of Roseta. He put the grim, cold impulse behind him.
The harangue went on, ending only when Garcia had been cursed into sullen agreement.
“I’ll take them to Quinela,” cried Juan shrilly, and began shouting orders.
Vaughn’s gun belt was removed. His hands were tied behind his back. He was forced upon one of the Mexican’s horses and his feet were roped to the stirrups. Juan appropriated his gun belt, which he put on with the Mexican’s love of vainglory, and then mounted Star. The horse did not like the exchange of riders, and there followed immediate evidence of the cruel iron hand of the outlaw. Vaughn’s blood leaped, and he veiled his eyes lest someone see his savage urge to kill. When he raised his head, two of the squat, motley-garbed, and wide-sombreroed Mexicans were riding by, and the second led a horse upon which sat Roseta Uvaldo.
She was bound to the saddle, but her hands were free. She turned her face to Vaughn. With what concern and longing did he gaze at it! Vaughn needed only to see it flash white toward him, to meet the look of gratitude in her dark eyes, to realize that Roseta was still unharmed. She held her small proud head high. Her spirit was unbroken. For the rest, what mattered the dusty disheveled hair, the mud-spattered and dust-covered vaquero riding garb she wore? Vaughn flashed her a look that brought the blood to her pale cheeks.
Juan prodded Vaughn in the back. “Ride, gringo.” Then he gave Garcia a last harsh command. As Vaughn’s horse followed that of Roseta and her two guards into the brook, there rose a clattering, jabbering melee among the Mexicans left behind. It ended in a receding roar of pounding hoofs.
The brook was shallow and ran swiftly over gravel and rocks. Vaughn saw at once that Juan meant to hide his trail. An hour after the cavalcade would have passed a given point here, no obvious trace would show. The swift water would have cleared as well as have filled the hoof tracks with sand.
“Juan, you were wise to desert your gang of horse thieves,” said Vaughn coolly. “There’s a hard-ridin’ outfit on their trail. And some, if not all of them, will be dead before sundown.”
“Quien sabe? But it’s sure Texas Medill will be walking choya on bare-skinned feet mañana,” replied the Mexican bandit chief.
Vaughn pondered. Quinela’s rendezvous, then, was not many hours distant. Travel such as this, up a rocky gorge, was necessarily slow. Probably this brook would not afford more than a few miles of going. Then Juan would head out on to the desert and try in other ways to hide his tracks. As far as Vaughn was concerned, whether he hid them or not made no difference. The cowboys and rangers in pursuit were but fabrications of Vaughn’s to deceive the Mexicans. He knew how to work on their primitive feelings. But Vaughn poignantly realized the peril of the situation and the brevity of the time left him.
“Juan, you’ve got my gun,” said Vaughn, his keen mind working. “You say I’ll be dead in less than twenty-four hours. What’s it worth to untie my hands so I can ride in comfort?”
“Señor, if you have money on you it will be mine anyway,” replied the Mexican.
“I haven’t any money with me. But I’ve got my checkbook that shows a balance of some thousands of dollars in an El Paso bank,” replied Vaughn, and he turned round.
The bandit showed his gleaming white teeth in derision. “What’s that to me?”
“Some thousands in gold, Juan. You can get it easily. News of my death will not get across the border very soon. I’ll give you a check and a letter, which you can take to El Paso, or send by messenger.”
“How much gold, Señor?” Juan asked.
“Over three thousand.”
“Señor, you would bribe me into a trap. No. Juan loves the glitter and clink of your American gold, but he is no fool.”
“Nothing of the sort. I’m trying to buy a little comfort in my last hours. And possibly a little kindness to the señorita there. It’s worth a chance. You can send a messenger. What do you care if he shouldn’t come back? You don’t lose anythin’.”
“No gringo can be trusted, much less Texas Medill of the rangers,” replied the Mexican.
“Sure. But take a look at my checkbook. You know figures when you see them.”
Juan rode abreast of Vaughn, impelled by curiosity. His beady eyes glittered.
“Inside vest pocket,” directed Vaughn. “Don’t drop the pencil.”
The Mexican procured the checkbook and opened it. “Señor, I know your bank,” he said, vain of his ability to read, which to judge by his laborious task was limited.
“Ahuh. Well, how much balance have I left?” asked Vaughn.
“Three thousand, four hundred.”
“Good. Now, Juan, you may as well get that money. I’ve nobody to leave it to. I’ll buy a little comfort for myself – and kindness to the señorita.”
“How much kindness, señor?” asked the Mexican craftily.
“That you keep your men from handlin’ her rough – and soon as the ransom is paid send her back safe.”
“Señor, the first I have seen to. The second is not mine to grant. Quinela will demand ransom – yes – but never will he send the señorita back.”
“But I – thought—”
“Quinela was wronged by Uvaldo.”
Vaughn whistled at this astounding revelation. He had divined correctly the fear Uvaldo had revealed. The situation then for Roseta was vastly more critical. Death would be merciful compared to the fate the half-breed peon Quinela would deal her. Vaughn cudgeled his brains in desperation. Why had he not shot it out with these yellow desperadoes? But rage could not further Roseta’s cause.
Meanwhile the horses splashed and clattered over the rocks in single file up the narrowing gorge. The steep walls were giving way to brushy slopes that let the hot sun down. Roseta looked back at Vaughn with appeal and trust – and something more in her dark eyes that tortured him.
Vaughn did not have the courage to meet her gaze, except for the fleeting moment. It was only natural that his spirits should be at a low ebb. Never in his long ranger service had he encountered such a desperate situation. More than once he had faced what seemed inevitable death, where there had seemed to be not the slightest chance to escape. Vaughn was not of a temper to give up completely. He would watch for a break till the very last second. For Roseta, however, he endured agonies. He had looked at the mutilated bodies of more than one girl victim of these bandits.
When at length the gully narrowed to a mere crack in the hill, and the water failed, Juan ordered his guards to climb a steep brush slope. There was no sign of any trail. If this brook, which they had waded to its source, led away from the road to Rock Ford, it would take days before rangers or cowboys could possibly run across it. Juan was a fox.
The slope was not easy to climb. Both Mexicans got off their horses to lead Roseta’s. If Vaughn had not been tied on his saddle he would have fallen off. Eventually they reached the top, to enter a thick growth of mesquite and cactus. And before long they broke out into a trai
l, running, as near as Vaughn could make out, at right angles to the road and river trail. Probably it did not cross either one. Certainly the Mexicans trotted east along it as if they had little to fear from anyone traveling it.
Presently a peon came in sight astride a mustang, and leading a burro. He got by the two guards, though they crowded him into the brush. But Juan halted him, and got off Star to see what was in the pack on the burro. With an exclamation of great satisfaction he pulled out what appeared to Vaughn to be a jug or demijohn covered with wickerwork. Juan pulled out the stopper and smelled the contents.
“Canyu!” he said, and his white teeth gleamed. He took a drink, then smacked his lips. When the guards, who had stopped to watch, made a move to dismount he cursed them vociferously. Sullenly they slid back into their saddles. Juan stuffed the demijohn into the right saddlebag of Vaughn’s saddle. Here the peon protested in a mixed dialect that Vaughn could not translate. But the meaning was obvious. Juan kicked the ragged peon’s sandaled foot, and ordered him on, with a significant touch of Vaughn’s big gun, which he wore so pompously. The peon lost no time riding off. Juan remounted, and directed the cavalcade to move forward.
Vaughn turned as his horse started, and again he encountered Roseta’s dark intent eyes. They seemed telepathic this time, as well as filled with unutterable promise. She had read Vaughn’s thought. If there were anything that had dominance in the Mexican’s nature it was the cactus liquor, canyu. Ordinarily he was volatile, unstable as water, flint one moment and wax the next. But with the burn of canyu in his throat he had the substance of mist.
Vaughn felt the lift and pound of his heavy heart. He had prayed for the luck of the ranger, and lo! a peon had ridden up, packing canyu.
4
Canyu was a distillation made from the maguey cactus, a plant similar to the century plant. The peon brewed it. But in lieu of the brew, natives often cut into the heart of a plant and sucked the juice. Vaughn had once seen a Mexican sprawled in the middle of a huge maguey, his head buried deep in the heart of it and his legs hanging limp. Upon examination he appeared to be drunk, but it developed that he was dead.
This liquor was potential fire. The lack of it made the peons surly: the possession of it made them gay. One drink changed their mental and physical world. Juan whistled after the first drink: after the second he began to sing “La Paloma.” His two guards cast greedy, mean looks backward.
Almost at once the fairly brisk pace of travel that had been maintained slowed perceptibly. Vaughn began to feel more sanguine. He believed that he might be able to break the thongs that bound his wrists. As he had prayed for his ranger luck so he now prayed for anything to delay these Mexicans on the trail.
The leader Juan either wanted the canyu for himself or was too crafty to share it with his two men; probably both. With all three of them, the center of attention had ceased to be in Uvaldo’s girl and the hated gringo ranger. It lay in that demijohn in Star’s saddlebag. If a devil lurked in this white liquor for them, there was likewise for the prisoners a watching angel.
The afternoon was not far enough advanced for the sun to begin losing its heat. Shade along the trail was most inviting and welcome, but it was scarce. Huge pipelike masses of organ cactus began to vary the monotonous scenery. Vaughn saw deer, rabbits, road runners, and butcherbirds. The country was uninhabited and this trail an unfrequented one which certainly must branch into one of the several main traveled trails. Vaughn hoped the end of it still lay many miles off.
The way led into a shady rocky glen. As of one accord the horses halted, without, so far as Vaughn could see, any move or word from their riders. This was proof that the two guards in the lead had ceased to ride with the sole idea in mind of keeping to a steady gait. Vaughn drew a deep breath, as if to control his nervous feeling of suspense. No man could foretell the variety of effects of canyu on another, but certain it must be that something would happen soon.
Juan had mellowed considerably. A subtle change had occurred in his disposition, though he was still the watchful leader. Vaughn felt that he was now in even more peril from this Mexican than before the advent of the canyu. This, however, would not last long. He could only bide his time, watch and think. His luck had begun to take over. He divined it, trusted it with mounting hope.
The two guards turned their horses across the trail, blocking Roseta’s horse, while Vaughn’s came up alongside. If he could have stretched out his hand he could have touched Roseta. Many a time he had been thrilled and bewildered in her presence, not to say stricken speechless, but he had never felt as he did now. Roseta contrived to touch his bound foot with her stirrup, and the deliberate move made Vaughn tremble. Still he did not yet look directly down at her.
The actions of the three Mexicans were as clear to Vaughn as crystal. If he had seen one fight among Mexicans over canyu, he had seen a hundred. First the older of the two guards leisurely got off his horse. His wide straw sombrero hid his face, except for a peaked, yellow chin, scantily covered with black whiskers. His clothes hung in rags, and a cartridge belt was slung loosely over his left shoulder. He had left his rifle in its saddle sheath, and his only weapon was a bone-handled machete stuck in a scabbard attached to his belt.
“Juan, we are thirsty and have no water,” he said. And his comrade, sitting sideways in his saddle, nodded in agreement.
“Gonzalez, one drink and no more,” returned Juan, and lifted out the demijohn.
With eager cry the man tipped it to his lips. And he gulped steadily until Juan jerked it away. Then the other Mexican tumbled off his horse and eagerly besought Juan for a drink, if only one precious drop. Juan complied, but this time he did not let go of the demijohn.
Vaughn felt a touch – a gentle pressure on his knee. Roseta had laid her gloved hand there. Then he had to avert his gaze from the Mexicans.
“Oh, Vaughn, I knew you would come to save me,” she whispered. “But they have caught you . . . For God’s sake, do something.”
“Roseta, I reckon I can’t do much, at this sitting,” replied Vaughn, smiling down at her. “Are you – all right?”
“Yes, except I’m tired and my legs ache. I was frightened badly before you happened along. But now – it’s terrible . . . Vaughn, they are taking us to Quinela. He is a monster. My father told me so . . . If you can’t save me you must kill me.”
“I shall save you, Roseta,” he whispered low, committing himself on the altar of the luck that had never failed him. The glance she gave him then made his blood run throbbing through his veins. And he thanked the fates, since he loved her and had been given this incredible opportunity, that it had fallen to his lot to become a ranger.
Her eyes held his and there was no doubt about the warm pressure of her hand on his knee. But even during this sweet stolen moment, Vaughn had tried to attend to the argument between the three Mexicans. He heard their mingled voices, all high-pitched and angry. In another moment they would be leaping at each others’ throats like dogs. Vaughn was endeavoring to think of some encouraging word for Roseta, but the ranger was replaced for the moment by the man who was revealing his heart in a long look into the small pale face, with its red, quivering lips and great dark eyes uplifted, filled with blind faith.
The sound of struggling, the trample of hoofs, a shrill cry of “Santa Maria!” and a sudden blow preceded the startling crash of a gun.
As Vaughn’s horse plunged he saw Roseta’s mount rear into the brush with its rider screaming, and Star lunged out of a cloud of blue smoke. A moment later Vaughn found himself tearing down the trail. He was helpless, but he squeezed the scared horse with his knees and kept calling, “Whoa there – whoa boy!”
Not for a hundred rods or more did the animal slow up. It relieved Vaughn to hear a clatter of hoofs behind him, and he turned to see Juan tearing after him in pursuit. Presently he turned out into the brush, and getting ahead of Vaughn, turned into the trail again to stop the ranger’s horse. Juan proceeded to beat the horse over the head
until it almost unseated Vaughn.
“Hold on, man,” shouted Vaughn. “It wasn’t his fault or mine. Why don’t you untie my hands – if you want your nag held in?”
Juan jerked the heaving horse out of the brush and onto the trail, finally leading him back toward the scene of the shooting. But before they reached it Vaughn saw one of the guards coming with Roseta and a riderless horse. Juan grunted his satisfaction, and let them pass without a word.
Roseta seemed less disturbed and shaken than Vaughn had feared she would be. Her dilated eyes, as she passed, said as plainly as any words could have done that they now had one less enemy to contend with.
The journey was resumed. Vaughn drew a deep breath and endeavored to arrange his thoughts. The sun was still only halfway down toward the western horizon. There were hours of daylight yet! And he had an ally more deadly than bullets, more subtle than any man’s wit, sharper than the tooth of a serpent.
Perhaps a quarter of an hour later, Vaughn, turning his head ever so slightly, saw, out of the corner of his eye, Juan take another drink of canyu. And it was a good stiff one. Vaughn thrilled as he contained himself. Presently Juan’s latest act would be as if it had never been. Canyu was an annihilation of the past.
“Juan, I’ll fall off this horse pronto,” began Vaughn.
“Very good, señor. Fall off,” replied Juan amiably.
“But my feet are tied to the stirrups. This horse of yours is skittish. He’ll bolt and drag my brains out. If you want to take me alive to Quinela, so that he may have a fiesta while I walk choya, you’d better not let me fall off.”
“S. Ranger, if you fall you fall. How can I prevent it?”
“I am so damned uncomfortable with my hands tied back this way. I cain’t sit straight. I’m cramped. Be a good fellow, Juan, and untie my hands.”
“S. Texas Medill, if you are uncomfortable now, what will you be when you tread the fiery cactus on your naked feet?”
“But that will be short. No man lives such torture long, does he, Juan?”
