Lance related the story of the night’s happenings. About the time he had finished Cal Braun stuck his face through the doorway. “Breakfast’s on, folks. Better come get it before I throw it away.”
“It’s this way, Lanky,” Lance was saying, “if we can find Horatio and make him see what a fake Fletcher is I figure we can bust up this game. Once he sees the snake it should convince him that Fletcher is just using the Yaquentes for some motive of his own—though I don’t know just yet what it is.”
The two were loping their ponies along the trail that led to Muletero. It wasn’t more than an hour past breakfast. The sun was climbing rapidly above the rim of the eastern mountains. Brush and cholla and prickly pear flanked either side of the dimly defined roadway they were following.
Lanky nodded moodily. “I don’t know just how much luck we’ll have. I can take you down through that Yaquente village, but if we have any luck finding this Yaquente friend of yours I can’t say. You say his name sounds like Horatio?”
“Horatio.” Lance tried to pronounce the name as nearly like he had heard it as possible.
“Oh”—Lanky’s frown cleared—“you mean Huareztjio. That’s quite a common name among Yaquentes. Well, we’ll see what happens when he looks into this burlap sack—if we find him.” Lanky motioned toward the bulky burlap sack he carried on his saddle. From the sack came an occasional movement.
The horses pounded on. The houses of Muletero came into view. The town proved to be a typical Mexican settlement with adobe huts placed helter-skelter along either side of a dusty roadway. There were a couple of shops and a cantina. A few chickens and dirty-nosed, nearly naked children moved in the dusty roadway. In the shadows between buildings sat a number of seraped Mexicans who paid no partic u lar attention to the Americanos riding through their village.
The dust settled behind as the two riders moved swiftly through the town, then turned right along a descending, rock-cluttered way that led for half a mile down into a canyon running between high granite walls.
Lanky said, “There’s your village. Now to see if we can locate this hombre named Huareztjio.”
Lance looked ahead and saw a string of shabby huts built along each side of the canyon. Some were of adobe and rock construction. A few had corrugated iron roofs; the skins of animals were stretched across the roof beams of other dwellings. A pair of goats was tethered before one house. There weren’t many Yaquentes in sight. A few men, in their loose cotton clothing, were seen here and there. Several women, bearing firewood on their backs and wearing flopping, shapeless print dresses, scuffed through the dust in their bare feet. Their faces were brown and wrinkled; their straight black hair was gathered in an odd double knot at the backs of their heads. There were a large number of mangy-looking curs running about; these, at the sight of the riders, immediately set up a shrill yapping and barking.
“If you value your legs,” Lanky advised, “don’t get down from your horse. Them dogs just love calf meat.”
The riders pulled rein at the first house before which they saw a Yaquente man sitting. The Indian glared at them but relaxed somewhat when Lanky spoke in the Yaquente tongue. After a moment of listening the Indian shook his head, rose and turned into his house.
“Nothing to be got from that hombre,” Lanky told Lance.
They walked the horses until they came to the next man. This one was sprawled in the shadow of a big adobe oven built in the form of a half-sphere. The horses stopped. The Indian eyed them listlessly from his position on the earth. Lanky spoke to him but received no answer. Lanky said disgustedly, “C’mon, that Injun is still hopped up on peyote. You notice, Lance, all these Yaquentes is wearing guns?”
“I noticed it,” Lance said grimly.
They went on through the village, Lanky asking questions here and there while the pack of mangy curs yelped at the horses’ heels. Now and then Lanky found an Indian who would talk, but even those who talked denied they knew anyone named Huareztjio. Finally they had arrived at the end of the village street with no success. “Damn pack of liars,” Lanky grumbled. “Right now your Horatio knows we’re looking for him. But we can’t make ’em talk. Oh yes, Horatio knows by this time. The Indians have a grapevine system that carries the news along faster than we moved. From now on it’s up to Huareztjio. If he wants to see you he will. Otherwise we’re out of luck.”
They turned the horses and started back, Lance feeling extremely disappointed at the failure. They were more than halfway through the village when a Yaquente emerged from the house before which the pair of goats was tethered.
“There’s Horatio now,” Lance exclaimed.
“That’s him, eh? And he owns goats. Must be he’s a sort of chief of the tribe. All right, we’ll give him a try.”
The horses were pulled up when they reached Huareztjio’s dwelling. Lance smiled. “Howdy, Horatio.”
The Indian eyed him warily, no sign of recognition in his beady eyes. “What want?” he grunted. “Better go ’way—queeck!”
Lanky spoke a few words of Yaquente greeting. The Indian eyed him in stony silence. Lance and Lanky didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Lance said, “Better give him the whole story, Lanky. Tell him we saw what happened in the temple last night. Tell him what a fake Fletcher is. Tell him Fletcher is bad clear through and that he’s just using the Yaquentes for his own purposes. Then show him that feathered snake with its mouth sewed shut. That should convince Horatio if nothing else does.”
Lanky started to speak. Now and then he was forced to use a word of Spanish or En glish but he was getting the idea across to Huareztjio. For a time the Indian listened in stony silence. Abruptly his eyes flashed, and an angry look passed across his flat brown features. Lance couldn’t decide whether he was angry because of Fletcher’s duplicity or because the scene in the temple had been spied on the previous night. Abruptly the stolid mask reappeared on the Yaquente’s face.
Suddenly with a quick dramatic movement Lanky seized the burlap sack on his saddle, opened it and spilled the contents onto the earth at the Indian’s feet. The feathered snake writhed, coiled, then straightened out to attempt escape. Huareztjio jumped back in alarm, then approached the reptile. Cautiously he stooped and seized the diamondback in both hands. His sharp, beady eyes took in the cruelly sewed mouth and the fake ridge of feathers along its back. The expression about the Yaquente’s lips tightened, then suddenly he opened them in a wild, eerie cry that echoed along the village street.
The call brought an instant response. From every house along the way Yaquente heads appeared. Indians came leaping from all directions.
“What do we do now?” Lance asked.
“We ride like hell!” Lanky snapped. “They may not like the idea of us being in their temple last night when your Horatio explains matters. Me, I’m not aiming to stay and learn what their attitude is. C’mon!”
Wheeling their ponies, they jabbed in spurs and went dashing out of the Yaquente village.
XXII
Action in Muletero
Once Lance glanced back over his shoulders. There weren’t any Yaquentes following him, though back in the canyon village he could see the street filled with a packed mass of gesticulating white-clad forms. At the end of a quarter of a mile, when they were drawing near to Muletero, Lanky signaled for Lance to slow down.
They pulled the ponies to a walk. Lanky said, “Maybe we’re lucky. Maybe their intentions would have been all right. Me, I wasn’t taking any chances.”
“I got your idea,” Lance said dryly, “but I’d sure like to know what those Yaquentes will do next. I’d figured to stay long enough to learn from Horatio where Fletcher was.”
“Everything seems to be up to your Horatio from now on,” Lanky replied. “We’ll just have to wait until he makes the next move.”
“You mean,” Lance asked, “that maybe we can go back and talk to Horatio later? Tomorrow, say?”
“You can if you like,” Lanky drawled, “and I’ll go with yo
u—providing we got a troop of U. S. cavalry to lead the way.”
“Otherwise,” Lance said, “you’re staying away?”
“I’m staying away,” Lanky said promptly. “We’ve tipped our hand to those Indians. They know we’re in on their secret. How they’ll take it I don’t know, and I’m going to take good care of my carcass until I find out.”
They were approaching Muletero now. The hot morning sun reflected a brilliant white glare from the plastered adobe houses. They turned their horses into the hoof-chopped roadway that ran through the town. Muletero looked about as it had when they’d passed through an hour or so earlier. There may have been a few more Mexicans in sight hugging the shadows. Even the naked children who’d been playing in the dusty road earlier had retreated to the backs of the houses where more shade was to be found. Lance and Lanky were drawing abreast of the town cantina now.
Lanky said, “If I thought they had any cold beer in that joint I’d stop and wash out some dust.”
“They’d have tequila and beer,” Lance observed, “but I’m betting plenty it wouldn’t be cold.”
“Then we won’t stop,” Lanky said. They rode on.
The horses had passed the cantina at an easy walk, when Chiricahua Herrick emerged from the doorway of the building. He stiffened suddenly at sight of Lance and Lanky riding through the town. An angry scowl contorted Herrick’s face. His hand swept swiftly toward his holster. The gun came up, spitting flame and leaden death. At the same instant Herrick yelled, “Bert! Anvil! Come a-runnin’!”
Lance’s pony jumped suddenly even before Lance caught the report of the bullet. Then he noticed blood on his pony’s left ear. The flying slug had just removed the tip. Lance whirled in his saddle even as his pony went to bucking, drew his gun and thumbed one swift shot. He saw a spurt of plaster and dust leap from the cantina wall at Herrick’s back.
From the interior of the cantina Bert Ridge and Anvil Wheeler appeared, guns in hand. Lance heard Lanky swear, then from Lanky’s six-shooter there came a heavy booming report. Wheeler grabbed at one of the uprights of the cantina porch to keep from going down.
Lance’s horse was bucking madly by this time. Lance threw one leg across its back and dropped to the dusty roadway. A bullet fanned his cheek as he struck the earth. Again he fired and had the satisfaction of seeing Herrick stumble in mid-stride as he plunged toward the center of the road. Lance’s pony went leaping and sun-fishing crazily off to one side.
Again Lanky fired. Bullets from Bert Ridge’s gun were kicking up dust near Lanky’s feet. Ridge suddenly gave a wild scream and pitched forward on his face. Herrick was still approaching Lance, limping slightly and cursing as he moved. His gun was swinging in a wide arc to bear on Lance.
Lanky swung his gun toward Herrick, fired, missed. Herrick fired once at Lanky, then turned back to Lance. Anvil Wheeler, supporting himself with one hand gripping the cantina upright, fired two swift shots at Lanky.
Lance’s forty-five barrel tilted slightly. Smoke and fire mushroomed from the muzzle. Wheeler wilted suddenly, turned half around and stumbled to the earth. Bracing himself on one hand, he again shifted his aim toward Lanky.
Herrick was bearing in, planning to get close before he drew his bead on Lance. Lance waited coolly, then fired just a split instant before Herrick started to pull trigger.
Herrick’s shot flew high in the air as he clutched at his breast, then he staggered back to a sitting position on the earth, the gun falling from his weakening grasp.
Even as Lance fired he heard Lanky’s forty-five roar savagely. Wheeler groaned and slumped flat in the roadway.
Powder smoke drifted in the bright, dusty air. Lance’s pony had bucked itself out by this time and stood docilely at one side of the road. Three men were down in the roadway, two of them motionless. Only Chiricahua Herrick showed any sign of life, though he was on his back now rolling from side to side in agony. Wild, excited Mexican yells sounded through the town, though none of the Mexicans put in an appearance.
The dust was commencing to settle. Lance swung toward Lanky. “You all right, pard?”
“Not a one touched me,” Lanky said grimly. “Reckon I’m lucky. You?”
“Not even a scratch. Some of those slugs were coming close though.”
“You’re not telling me about ’em?” Lanky drawled. “Things was plenty hot for a minute. It looks like two of them hombres is finished.”
“I’m figuring the third, Herrick, won’t last long,” Lance said tersely. “Slip into that cantina, will you, and see if there’s any more of this breed looking for trouble?”
Lanky started across the road. Lance walked to Chiricahua Herrick who was quiet by this time. He knelt by Herrick’s side. Herrick’s eyes were open, but he hadn’t much longer to live. He forced a wan, defiant grin as his fading gaze focused on Lance.
“Some hombres have all the luck,” he muttered. “I muffed … my chance. Fletcher … will have … better luck….”
“Herrick,” Lance broke in, “Fletcher’s game is just about up. We know about his plans for a revolution. Where is Fletcher now?”
Something of surprise entered the dying man’s glazing eyes. “Know about … revolution, eh? You won’t stop it … though. Even if you … get Fletcher. Somebody … bigger ’n Fletcher … running things——”
“Who?” Lance interrupted quickly.
Herrick smiled through his pain. “Think I’m … going to tell you? I ain’t … no damned snitch. Go ’way. I’m tired. Want to sleep … long sleep——” His eyes closed.
“Herrick”—Lance spoke sharply to cut through the man’s rapidly fading consciousness—“where is Fletcher now?”
Herrick’s eyes opened slightly. “Fletcher … took Ordway and Johnson,” he said drowsily, “rode to … Apache Injun village … fifteen miles to the east. Going to get… more recruits … for revolutionary army ….”
The man was going fast. His eyes had again closed. His breathing was shallow. Lanky’s shadow fell suddenly across Herrick’s body. Lance looked up. Lanky said, “Looks like he won’t last much longer.” He held out a bottle of tequila. “Give him a shot of this. You may learn something.” Lance took the bottle. Lanky went on, “Nothing but a bunch of frightened Mexes in that cantina. They don’t want no part of this scrap. I reckon they’re glad we downed the coyotes. Fletcher and his crew have been making things tough for Muletero. They’ve been living in one of the houses here. Put the rightful owners out. I looked at Wheeler and Ridge. They’re both dead.”
Lance scarcely heard what Lanky was saying, he was so busily engaged in trying to force some of the fiery tequila between Herrick’s lips. Herrick opened his eyes again. “By Gawd!” he murmured, “that’s good, Tolliver. Give me another swig.” Again Lance held the bottle to the man’s lips. Herrick drank with deep satisfaction. A trifle more life came momentarily back to his eyes. “Now—if I had a cigarette.”
Lanky rolled and lighted a cigarette, placed it between Herrick’s lips. Herrick inhaled, then coughed. Blood appeared on his pallid lips. Lance wiped the blood away with the man’s neckerchief and gave him another swallow from the bottle.
Herrick commenced to talk again. “You ain’t a bad hombre, after all, Tolliver. White, I call it. I suppose … Ridge and Anvil is dead. You two … was too fast for us. Mebbe I should go out clean, eh? Tell you what you want to know? You’re … treating me … like a white … man….” Again his eyes closed. He was beyond help from the bottle now. Lance spoke to the dying man, trying to hold him to consciousness.
Lance said, “Who killed Katherine Gregory’s father?”
For a moment there was no reply, then Herrick’s lips moved slightly to frame one word, “Fletcher.” A shudder went through his frame, then he started to speak feebly again. The words were so low Lance could just distinguish them. “Fletcher … mean killer. Gregory wa’n’t … the first. Fletcher killed Kilby that day to keep him from telling you … what he knew. Fired rifle … from hotel window, t
hen ran down back stairs … hid rifle. Met you later … hotel lobby. Made a fool of you that day, Tolliver. It was Fletcher … damn nigh got you and the girl … out in the Pozo Verde hills … that day. Back East … he killed a couple of hombres ….”
“Herrick,” Lance interrupted, “who’s the man back of Fletcher? Tell me quick. You haven’t much more time.”
“I’ll tell … you … whole story … Tolliver. Got to have …’ nother drink… first….”
Lance started to hold the bottle to the man’s lips. Lanky stood near, ready with Herrick’s cigarette in case he called for another drag. Then Lance paused. Herrick’s eyes were wide open now. They were like glass. Blood was welling from his open mouth. Slowly Lance got to his feet. “Lord, how I hate to have to kill a man,” he said grimly.
“Gone?” Lanky asked.
“Gone.” Lance nodded.
A few Mexicans had moved timidly out to the road by this time and were looking in awe struck silence at the bodies of the dead gun fighters. Lance dropped the bottle of tequila to the road. “C’mon, Lanky, we’ll get back to the Three-Cross. These Mexicans will take over the burying end of the business, I reckon.”
Lanky climbed into his saddle. Lance caught up his pony and examined the animal’s wounded ear. Herrick’s bullet had done little more than remove the tip, and the injury had already ceased bleeding. The animal was quiet now. Lance put his left foot in the stirrup and swung up. The two men started for the Three-Cross at an easy lope. Both were thinking deeply of the events of the past hour and wondering grimly what still lay in store for them.
XXIII
Surrender or Fight!
As they neared the Three-Cross Lance noticed a saddled gray horse standing near the gallery of the house. The horse stood, head drooping and weary, as though it had covered a lot of miles in a short time. Lance said, “Damned if that doesn’t look like Ethan Lockwood’s big gray.”
The Battle At Three-Cross Page 20
