by Zane Grey
Dave was glad that he had swallowed “Young Ed’s” incivility, not only for his own sake, but for the sake of Alaire.
After all, he argued, it was barely possible that Ed had spoken the truth. There were many sorrel horses; the evidence of those rain-washed hoof-prints was far from conclusive; even the fact that Urbina belonged to the Tad Lewis outfit was no more than a suspicious circumstance. And yet, earnestly as he strove to convince himself of these possibilities, the Ranger could not down the conviction that the rancher had lied and that he himself was on the right track.
It was late when he arrived at his destination, but Lewis’s house was dark, and it required some effort to awaken the owner. When Tad at last appeared, clad in undershirt and trousers, he greeted the Ranger with a leveled Winchester; but when Dave had made known his identity he invited him in, though with surly reluctance.
Lewis was a sandy-complexioned man of about forty, with colorless brows and a mean, shifty eye. Formerly a cowboy, he had by the exercise of some natural ability acquired a good property—and a bad reputation. Just how or why he had prospered was a mystery which his neighbors never tired of discussing.
Tad, it seemed, resented any interruption of his rest, and showed the fact plainly.
Yes, he employed a fellow named Urbina. What was wanted of him?
Law explained briefly.
“Why, he’s one of my best men!” laughed the rancher. “He wouldn’t steal nothing.”
“Well, I had to shoot another good man of yours,” Dave said, quietly.
Lewis fell back a step. “Which one? Who?” he inquired, quickly.
“Pino Garza.” Dave told of the meeting at the branding-fire and its outcome. He was aware, meanwhile, that Lewis’s family were listening, for behind a half-open bedroom door he could hear an excited whispering.
“Killed him the first shot, eh?” Tad was dumfounded. “Now I never thought Pino was that bad. But you never can tell about these Greasers, can you? They’ll all steal if they get a chance. I let Pino go, ’bout a week back; but he’s been hangin’ around, aimin’ to visit some of his relatives up in the brush country. It was probably one of them old Guzman saw. Anyhow, it couldn’t of been Adolfo Urbina; he was over to Las Palmas all the afternoon.”
“Did you send him there?”
“Sure. Ed Austin can tell you.”
“Where is Urbina now?”
“I reckon he’s asleep somewhere. We’ll dig him up and talk to him, if you say so.”
“Good.”
Tad’s willingness to cooperate with the officer, now that he understood the situation, was in marked contrast to the behavior of Austin. In fact, his offer to help was almost too willingly given to suit Dave, who expected him to protest at being dragged out on such a night. No protest came, however; Lewis slipped into his boots and slicker, explaining meanwhile:
“I’m sorry this play came up, for I don’t want folks to think I got a gang of thieves workin’ for me.”
But Adolfo Urbina was nowhere to be found. No one had seen him since about seven o’clock, nor could it be discovered where he was spending the night. Dave remembered that it had been about seven when he left Las Palmas, and ascertained, indirectly, that Tad had a telephone. On his way from Austin’s Law had stopped at a rancho for a bite to eat, but he could forgive himself for the delay if, as he surmised, Urbina had been warned by wire of his coming.
“That’s too bad, ain’t it?” Lewis said. “But he’ll be around again in the morning, and I’ll get him for you. You leave it to me.”
There was plainly nothing to do but accept this offer since it could avail nothing to wait here for Urbina’s return. Unless the fellow gave himself up, he probably could not be found, now that the alarm was given, without a considerable search—in view of which Dave finally remounted his borrowed horse and rode away in the direction of Jonesville.
It was after daylight when he dismounted stiffly at Blaze’s gate. He was wet to the skin and bespattered with mud; he had been almost constantly in the saddle for twenty-four hours, and Don Ricardo’s cow-pony was almost exhausted.
Blaze and Paloma, of course, were tremendously interested in his story.
“Say, now, that’s quick work,” the latter exclaimed, heartily. “You’re some thief-buster, Dave, and if you’ll just stay around here little calves can grow up with some comfort.”
When Dave rode to Jonesville, after breakfast, he found that the body of his victim had been brought in during the night, and that the town was already buzzing with news of the encounter. During the forenoon Don Ricardo and his sons arrived, bringing additional information, which they promptly imparted to the Ranger. The Guzmans were people of action. All three of them had spent the night on horseback, and Pedro had made a discovery. On the day previous Garza had been seen riding in company with a man astride a sorrel pony, and this man had been recognized as Adolfo Urbina. Pedro’s witness would swear to it.
Their distance from Las Palmas at the time when they had been seen together proved, beyond question, that unless Urbina had flown he could not have arrived at the place in question by noon, the hour Ed Austin had fixed.
This significant bit of information, however, Dave advised the Guzmans not to make public for the time being.
Toward midday Tad Lewis and three of his men arrived with the news that Urbina had left for Pueblo before they could intercept him.
“He’s got a girl up there, and he’s gone to get married,” Tad explained. “I’m sure sorry we missed him.”
Dave smiled grimly at the speaker.
“Are you sure he didn’t cross to the other side?” he asked.
Lewis retorted warmly: “Adolfo’s an all-right hombre, and I’ll back him. So’ll Ed Austin, I guess me an’ Ed are responsible, ain’t we?” Some skeptical expression in his hearer’s face prompted him to inquire, brusquely, “Don’t you believe what I’m telling you about his goin’ to Pueblo?”
“I guess he’s gone—somewhere.”
Tad uttered an angry exclamation. “Looks to me like you’d made up your mind to saddle this thing onto him whether he done it or not. Well, he’s a poor Mexican, but I won’t stand to see him railroaded, and neither will ‘Young Ed.’”
“No?”
“You heard me! Ed will alibi him complete.”
Law answered, sharply: “You tell Ed Austin to go slow with his alibis. And you take this for what it’s worth to you: I’m going to get all the cattle-rustlers in this county—all of them, understand?”
Lewis flushed redly and sputtered: “If you make this stick with Adolfo, nobody’ll be safe. I reckon Urbina’s word is as good as old Ricardo’s. Everybody knows what he is.”
Later when Dave met the Guzmans, Ricardo told him, excitedly, “That horse Tad Lewis is riding is the one I saw yesterday.”
“Are you sure?”
“Listen, señor. Men in cities remember the faces they see; I have lived all my life among horses, and to me they are like men. I seldom forget.”
“Very well. Tad says Urbina has gone to Pueblo to get married, so I’m going to follow him, and I shall be there when he arrives.”
“Bueno! Another matter”—Ricardo hesitated—“your bonita—the pretty mare. She is buried deep.”
“I’m glad,” said Dave. “I think I shall sleep better for knowing that.”
Since the recent rain had rendered the black valley roads impassable for automobiles, Dave decided to go to Pueblo by rail, even though it was a roundabout way, and that afternoon found him jolting over the leisurely miles between Jonesville and the main line. He was looking forward to a good night’s sleep when he arrived at the junction; but on boarding the north-bound through train he encountered Judge Ellsworth, who had just heard of the Garza killing, and of course was eager for details. The two sat
in the observation-car talking until a late hour.
Knowing the judge for a man of honor and discretion. Dave unburdened himself with the utmost freedom regarding his suspicions of Ed Austin.
Ellsworth nodded. “Yes, Ed has thrown in with the Rebel junta in San Antone, and Tad Lewis is the man they use to run arms and supplies in this neighborhood. That’s why he and Ed are so friendly. Urbina is probably your cattle thief, but he has a hold over Ed, and so he rode to Las Palmas when he was pursued, knowing that no jury would convict him over Austin’s testimony.”
“Do you think Ed would perjure himself?” Dave asked.
“He has gone clean to the bad lately; there’s no telling what he’ll do. I’d hate to see you crowd him, Dave.”
“They call you the best lawyer in this county because you settle so many cases out of court.” The judge smiled at this. “Well, here’s a chance for you to do the county a good turn and keep Ed Austin out of trouble.”
“How?”
“The prosecuting attorney is a new man, and he wants to make a reputation by breaking up the Lewis gang.”
“Well?”
“He intends to cinch Urbina, on Ricardo’s and my testimony. You’re a friend of Austin’s; you’d better tip him to set his watch ahead a few hours and save himself a lot of trouble. The prosecuting attorney don’t like Ed any too well. Understand?”
The judge pondered this suggestion for a moment. “‘Young Ed’ is a queer fellow. Once in a while he gets his neck bowed.”
“So do I,” Law declared, quietly. “He treated me like a hobo—sent me to the kitchen for a hand-out. That sticks. If I hadn’t tamed down considerably these late years, I’d have—wound him up, right there.”
From beneath his drooping lids Ellsworth regarded the Ranger curiously. “You have a bad temper, haven’t you?”
“Rotten!”
“I know. You were a violent boy. I’ve often wondered how you were getting along. How do you feel when you’re—that way?”
It was the younger man’s turn to hesitate. “Well, I don’t feel anything when I’m mad,” he confessed. “I’m plumb crazy, I guess. But I feel plenty bad afterwards.”
There was a flicker of the judge’s eyelids.
Dave went on musingly: “I dare say it’s inherited. They tell me my father was the same. He was—a killer.”
“Yes. He was all of that.”
“Say! Was he my father?”
Ellsworth started. “What do you mean?”
Dave lifted an abstracted gaze from the Pullman carpet. “I hardly know what I mean, Judge. But you’ve had hunches, haven’t you? Didn’t you ever know that something you thought was true wasn’t true at all? Well, I never felt as if I had Frank Law’s blood in me.”
“This is interesting!” Ellsworth stirred and leaned forward. “Whatever made you doubt it, Dave?”
“Um-m. Nothing definite. That’s what’s so unsatisfactory. But, for instance, my mother was Mexican—-”
“Spanish.”
“All right. Am I Spanish? Have I any Spanish blood in me?”
“She didn’t look Spanish. She was light-complexioned, for one thing. We both know plenty of people with a Latin strain in them who look like Anglo-Saxons. Isn’t there anything else?”
“Nothing I can lay my finger on, except some kid fancies and—that hunch I spoke about.”
Ellsworth sat back with a deep breath. “You were educated in the North, and your boyhood was spent at school and college, away from everything Mexican.”
“That probably accounts for it,” Law agreed; then his face lit with a slow smile. “By the way, don’t tell Mrs. Austin that I’m a sort of college person. She thinks I’m a red-neck, and she sends me books.”
Ellsworth laughed silently. “Your talk is to blame, Dave. Has she sent you The Swiss Family Robinson?”
“No. Mostly good, sad romances with an uplift—stories full of lances at rest, and Willie-boys in tin sweaters. Life must have been mighty interesting in olden days, there was so much loving and killing going on. The good women were always beautiful, too, and the villains never had a redeeming trait. It’s a shame how human nature has got mixed up since then, isn’t it? There isn’t a ‘my-lady’ in all those books who could bust a cow-pony or run a ranch like Las Palmas. Say, Judge, how’d you like to have to live with a perfect lady?”
“Don’t try your damned hog-Latin on me,” chided the lawyer. “Alaire Austin’s romance is sadder than any of those novels.”
Dave nodded. “But she doesn’t cry about it.” Then he asked, gravely: “Why didn’t she pick a real fellow, who’d kneel and kiss the hem of her dress and make a man of himself? That’s what she wants—love and sacrifice, and lots of both. If I were Ed Austin I’d wear her glove in my bosom and treat her like those queens in the stories. Incense and adoration and—-”
“What’s the matter with you?” queried the judge.
“I guess I’m lonesome.”
“Are you smitten with that girl?”
Dave laughed. “Maybe! Who wouldn’t be? Why doesn’t she divorce that bum—she could do it easy enough—and then marry a chap who could run Las Palmas for her?”
“A man about six feet three or four,” acidly suggested the judge.
“That’s the picture I have in mind.”
“You think you could run Las Palmas?”
“I wouldn’t mind trying.”
“Really?”
“Foolish question number three.”
“You must never marry,” firmly declared the older man. “You’d make a bad husband, Dave.”
“She ought to know how to get along with a bad husband, by this time.”
Both men had been but half serious. Ellsworth knew his companion’s words carried no disrespect; nevertheless, he said, gravely:
“If you ever think of marrying I want you to come to me. Promise?”
“I’ll do it—on the way back from church.”
“No. On the way to church. I’ll have something to tell you.”
“Tell me now,” urged Law.
“There’s nothing to tell, yet.”
“I’ll have no old ruffians kissing my brand-new bride,” Dave averred.
The judge’s face broadened in a smile. “Thank Heaven ‘Young Ed’ has the insides of a steel range, and so my pet client is safe from your mercenary schemes for some years. Just the same, if you ever do think of marrying—remember—I want you to come to me—and I’ll cure you.”
XII
LONGORIO MAKES BOLD
Upon her arrival at La Feria Alaire discovered that the Federal depredations had been even greater than she had feared. Not only had the soldiers taken a great many head of cattle, but they had practically cleared the ranch of horses, leaving scarcely enough with which to carry on the work.
Alaire’s hacienda comprised a hundred thousand acres or more—lacking a thorough survey, she had never determined exactly how much land she really owned—and the property fronted upon a stream of water. In any other country it would have been a garden of riches, but agriculture was well-nigh impossible in northern Mexico. For several years now the instability of the government had precluded any plan of development, and, in consequence, the fields were out of cultivation and cattle grazed over the moist bottom lands, belly deep in grass. The entire ranch had been given over to pasture, and even now, after Alaire had sold off much of her stock because of the war, the task of accurately counting what remained required a longer time than she had expected, and her visit lengthened.
However, life in the roomy, fortress-like adobe house was pleasant enough. Dolores saw to her mistress’s wants, and the regular inhabitants of La Feria were always extravagantly glad to make their employer welcome. They were a simple, mirth-loving, indust
rious people, little concerned over the war, so long as they were unmolested, but obviously relieved to see Alaire because of their recent fright at the incursion of Longorio’s troops.
In the work that now went forward José Sanchez took a prominent part. For once in his life he was a person of recognized importance. Not only was he the right hand of the owner of La Feria, but the favor of that redoubtable general, the hero of a hundred tales, rested upon his shoulders like a mantle. José’s extravagant praises of the Federal commander, together with the daily presence of the military guard, forcibly brought home to the ranch-dwellers the fact that war was actually going on, and that Luis Longorio was indeed a man of flesh and blood, and no myth. This realization caused a ripple of excitement to stir the peons’ placid lives.
And yet in the midst of his satisfaction Sanchez confessed to one trouble. He had expected to find his cousin, Panfilo, here, and the fact that nothing whatever had been heard from him filled him with great uneasiness. Of course he came to Alaire, who told him of seeing Panfilo at the water-hole on the day after her husband had discharged him; but that information gave José little comfort, since it proved nothing as to his cousin’s present whereabouts. Alaire thought best not to tell him the full circumstances of that affair. Believing that Panfilo would turn up at La Feria in due time, she gave little heed to José’s dark threats of vengeance for any injury to his relative.
The horse-breaker’s concern increased as the days passed, and to the lieutenant and members of the guard he repeated his threats. Truly, he declared, if any evil had fallen upon his beloved cousin Panfilo, he, José, would exact a terrible reckoning, a revenge befitting a man of his character and a friend of Luis Longorio.
These soldiers, by the way, were something of a trial to Alaire, for they were ever in her way. She could not ride a mile over her own pastures without the whole martial squad following at her heels. Protest was unavailing; the lieutenant was mulishly stubborn. He had been ordered to keep the señora in sight at all times, so he said, and that ended the matter as far as he was concerned. His life and the lives of his six followers depended entirely upon her safety and happiness, for General Longorio was a man of his word.
