The Western Romance MEGAPACK ®: 20 Classic Tales

by Zane Grey

  Dave rose and strolled restlessly about the hotel. A half-hour passed and Longorio did not reappear; an hour dragged by, and then Dave took occasion to go to his room. A glance through the open parlor door showed the foreigner in closest conversation with Mrs. Austin. They were laughing; they were alone; even Dolores was nowhere to be seen.

  When Dave returned to his big rocking-chair he found it uncomfortable; he watched the clock anxiously; he chewed several cigars viciously before realizing that he was jealous—yes, madly, unreasonably jealous.

  So! His divinity was not as unapproachable as he had imagined. Doubtless Longorio was mad over her, which explained the fellow’s willingness to help her exact reparation from his government. Fine doings for a respectable married woman! It was wrong, scandalous, detestable!

  After a time Dave rose impatiently. What had come over him, anyhow? He must be crazy to torture himself in this fashion. What went on up-stairs certainly was none of his business, and he had better far amuse himself. In accordance with this excellent reasoning, he went to a picture-show. But he could not become interested. The flat images on the screen failed to divert him, and the only faces he saw were those of Luis Longorio and the lone mistress of Las Palmas.

  Had Dave only known the truth, he would have gained a grim comfort from it, for Alaire Austin was not enjoying herself this evening. Her caller stayed on interminably and she became restive under the flow of his conversation. For some reason or other Longorio was not the romantic figure he had been; in his citizen’s clothes he was only a dandified Mexican gallant like any number of others. The color was gone from the picture; this quixotic guerrilla hero, this elegant Ruy Blas, was nothing more than a tall, olive-skinned foreigner whose ardor was distasteful. Longorio was tiresome.

  XIV

  JOSE SANCHEZ SWEARS AN OATH

  On this same evening a scene of no little significance was taking place at Las Palmas. Ed Austin was entertaining callers, and these were none other than Tad Lewis and Adolfo Urbina.

  The progress of events during the last few days had shaped this conference, for, as Dave had forecast during his conversation with Judge Ellsworth, the local prosecuting attorney saw in the Guzman cattle case an opportunity to distinguish himself, and was taking action accordingly. He had gathered considerable evidence against Urbina, and was exerting himself to the utmost for an indictment. He had openly declared that the testimony of Ricardo Guzman and his other witnesses would convict the suspect, and the fact that his politics were opposed to Ed Austin’s complicated matters still further. It was the unwelcome news of all this which had brought Tad Lewis and his Mexican helper to Las Palmas under cover of darkness. Having gone over the circumstances in detail, Lewis concluded:

  “We’re depending on you, Ed. You got to stand pat.”

  But Austin was lukewarm. He had experienced a change of heart, and the cause appeared when he read aloud a letter that day received from Judge Ellsworth, in which the judge told of his meeting with Dave Law, and the Ranger’s reasons for doubting Ed’s word.

  “I’ve got to take water,” “Young Ed” told his visitors, “or I’ll get myself into trouble.” Then querulously he demanded of Adolfo: “Why in hell did you come here, anyhow? Why didn’t you keep to the chaparral?”

  Adolfo shrugged. “I thought you were my friend.”

  “Sure!” Tad agreed. “Urbina’s been a friend to you, now you got to stick to him. We got to hang together, all of us. My evidence wouldn’t carry no weight; but there ain’t a jury in South Texas that would question yours. Adolfo done the right thing.”

  “I don’t see it,” Ed declared, petulantly. “What’s the use of getting me into trouble? There’s the river; they can’t follow you across.”

  But Urbina shook his head.

  “You know he can’t cross,” Tad explained. “His people would shoot him if he ever went to Mexico.”

  “Well, he’ll be caught if he stays here. You daren’t send that damned Ranger on another blind trail. If Adolfo can’t go south he’ll have to go north.”

  “Not on your life,” affirmed Lewis. “If he runs it’ll prove his guilt and look bad for me. I’m the one they’re after, and I don’t stand any too good, as you know. You got to go through with this, Ed.”

  “I won’t do it,” Austin asserted, stubbornly. “I won’t be dragged into the thing. You’ve no business rustling stock, anyhow. You don’t have to.”

  Urbina exhaled a lungful of cigarette smoke and inquired, “You won’t help me, eh?”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Very well! If I go to prison you shall go, too. I shall tell all I know and we shall be companions, you and I.”

  Austin’s temper rose at the threat. “Bah!” he cried, contemptuously. “There’s nothing against me except running arms, and the embargo is off now. It’s a joke, anyhow. Nobody was ever convicted, even when the embargo was in effect. Why, the government winks at anybody who helps the Rebels.”

  “Oh, that is nothing!” Urbina agreed; “but you would not wish to be called a cattle thief, eh?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “You knew that the stealing went on.”

  “Huh! I should say I did. Haven’t I lost a lot of horses?”

  Lewis interposed, impatiently: “Say! Suppose Adolfo tells what he knows about them horses? Suppose he tells how you framed it to have your own stock run across, on shares, so’s you could get more money to go hifalutin’ around San Antone without your wife knowing it? I reckon you wouldn’t care to have that get out.”

  “You can’t prove it,” growled “Young Ed.”

  “Oh! I reckon it can be proved all right,” confidently asserted Lewis.

  “Nobody’d believe such a thing.”

  “Folks are ready to believe ’most anything about you. Your wife would believe it. Ain’t Las Palmas in her name, and don’t she give you so much a month to spend? If them ain’t facts, you lied to me.”

  “Yes!” Urbina supplemented. “I can swear to all that. And I can swear also that you knew about those calves the other day.”

  “What!” Ed started.

  “Why not? We were together; your own people saw us. Well, then, if you would steal your wife’s horses, why would you not steal your neighbor’s cattle? The relatives of poor Pino Garza—God rest his soul!—will bear me out. I have arranged for that. Suppose I tell the jury that there were three of us in that pasture of yours, instead of two? What then? I would be lonely in prison without a good compadre to bear me company.” Urbina grinned in evil triumph.

  “This is the damnedest outrage I ever heard of,” gasped “Young Ed.” “It’s a fairy story—”

  “Prove it,” chuckled Lewis. “The prosecuting attorney’d eat it up, Ed. It sounds kind of crazy, but you can’t ask Adolfo to take to the brush and live like a javelin just for your sake, when you could square him with a word.”

  There was a moment or two of silence, during which the visitors watched the face of the man whose weakness they both knew. At last Ed Austin ventured to say, apologetically:

  “I’m willing to do almost anything to help Adolfo, but—they’ll make a liar of me if I take the stand. Isn’t there some other way out?”

  “I don’t know of any,” said Lewis.

  “Money’ll square anything,” Ed urged, hopefully, whereupon Urbina waved his cigarette and nodded.

  “This Ricardo Guzman is the cause of it all. He is a bad man.”

  “No doubt of that,” Lewis agreed. “He’s got more enemies than I have. If he was out of the way there wouldn’t be nothin’ to this case, and the country’d be a heap better off, too.”

  “What about that other witness?” Ed queried.

  “If Ricardo were gone—if something should happen to him”—Urbina’s wicked face darkened—“there would b
e no other witness. I would see to that.”

  The color receded from Ed Austin’s purple cheeks, and he rose abruptly. “This is getting too strong for me,” he cried. “I won’t listen to this sort of talk. I won’t be implicated in any such doings.”

  “Nobody’s goin’ to implicate you,” Tad told him. “Adolfo wants to keep you out of trouble. There’s plenty of people on both sides of the river that don’t like Guzman any better’n we do. Me an’ Adolfo was talkin’ it over on the way up.”

  “Well, you can talk it over some more, but I’m going for a drink,” Ed declared, and left the room, nervously mopping his face. He knew only too well the character of his two visitors; he had learned much about Tad Lewis during the past few months, and, as for the Mexican, he thought the fellow capable of any crime. At this moment Ed bitterly regretted his acquaintance with these neighbors, for both men knew more about his affairs than he cared to have made public. He was angry and resentful at Tad for taking sides against him, and more than a little fearful of Adolfo’s enmity if he refused assistance. The owner of Las Palmas still retained a shred of self-respect, a remnant of pride in his name; he did not consider himself a bad man. He was determined now to escape from this situation without loss of credit, no matter what the price—if escape were possible—and he vowed earnestly to himself that hereafter he would take ample pains never to become similarly involved.

  Austin remained out of the room for some time; when he returned his visitors appeared to have reached some determination.

  “I reckon we can fix things if you’ll help,” Lewis announced.

  “And that’s just what I won’t do,” Ed impatiently declared. “Do you think I’m going to be tangled up in a—murder? I’ve got nothing against Don Ricardo.”

  “Who said anything about murder? Things ain’t like they was when your father owned Las Palmas; he done his share of killin’, but nowadays there’s too dam’ much law layin’ around loose. All you’ve got to do is give me about a thousand dollars.”

  “What for?” Ed asked, suspiciously.

  “So’s we can handle ourselves. It’s up to you to do something, ain’t it?”

  Austin demurred. “I haven’t that much that I can lay hands on,” he said, sullenly. “I’m broke. And, anyhow, I don’t see what good it’ll do.”

  “You better dig it up, somehow, just for your own sake.”

  The two men eyed each other for a moment; then Austin mumbled something about his willingness to try, and left the room for a second time. The money which Alaire kept on hand for current expenses was locked in her safe, but he knew the combination.

  It was with an air of resignation, with a childish, half-hearted protest, that he counted out the desired amount into Lewis’s hand, salving his conscience with the statement: “I’m doing this to help Adolfo out of his trouble, understand? I hope it’ll enable you to square things.”

  “Maybe it will and maybe it won’t,” sneered Lewis. “Anyhow, I ain’t scared of tryin’. I got the guts to make a battle, even if you haven’t.”

  Ed Austin was greatly relieved when his unwelcome callers rode away; as he composed himself for sleep, an hour later, he refrained from analyzing too deeply the motives behind this forced loan, and refused to speculate too long upon the purpose to which it might be put. The whole occurrence was unfortunate. Ed Austin sincerely hoped he had heard the last of it.

  José Sanchez made use of the delay at Pueblo to institute further inquiries regarding his missing cousin, but nowhere could he find the slightest trace. Panfilo had set out to ride to this point and thence to La Feria, but the last seen of him had been at the water-hole, one day’s ride from the home ranch. At that point the earth had opened and swallowed him. If he were alive why had he not written to his sweetheart, Rosa?

  José swore an oath that he would learn the truth if it required his whole lifetime, and, if it should turn out that his sainted relative had indeed met with foul play—well! José told his friends they could judge, by looking at him, the sort of man he was. He proudly displayed Longorio’s revolver, and called it his cousin’s little avenger. The weapon had slain many; it had a duty still to perform, so he said.

  José intended to confide his purpose to Mrs. Austin, but when it came time to start for Las Palmas there was a fourth passenger in the automobile, and he was obliged to hold his tongue for the moment.

  A motor trip along the lower Rio Grande would prove a novel and not altogether agreeable experience to the average automobilist, for there are few improved roads and the rest offer many difficulties, not the least of which are frequent fords, some deep, some shallow. So it was that Alaire considered it necessary to make an early start.

  In spite of the unhealthy fancies that Dave Law had taken to bed with him, he arose this morning in fine spirits and with a determination to put in a happy day. Alaire, too, was in good humor and expressed her relief at escaping from everything Mexican.

  “I haven’t seen a newspaper for ages, and I don’t know what is going on at Jonesville or anywhere else,” she confided.

  Dave told her of the latest developments in the Mexican situation, the slow but certain increase of tension between the two governments, and then of home happenings. When she asked him about his own doings, he informed her of the affair which had brought him to Pueblo.

  Of course all three of his companions were breathlessly interested in the story of Pino Garza’s death; Dolores and José did not allow a word to escape them.

  “So they cut our fence and ran the calves into our pasture to brand!” Alaire said. “It’s time somebody like you came to Jonesville, Mr. Law.”

  “Caramba! It required bravery to ride alone into that rincon,” José declared. “I knew Pino Garza well, and he could shoot like the devil.”

  “You said your horse saved your life,” Mrs. Austin went on. “How do you mean?” When Dave had explained, she cried, quickly, “You weren’t riding—Bessie Belle?”

  “Yes. She’s buried where she dropped.”

  “Oh-h!” Alaire’s exclamation was eloquent of pity, and Law smiled crookedly.

  “I’ve been right lonesome since she went away. ’Most every day I find myself stealing sugar for her, the way I used to do. See!” He fumbled in the pocket of his coat and produced some broken lumps. “Probably you don’t understand how a man gets to love his horse. Now we used to talk to each other, just like two people. Of course, I did most of the talking, but she understood. Why, ma’am, I’ve awakened in the night to find her standing over me and my cheek wet where she’d kissed it. She’d leave the nicest grass just to come and visit with me.”

  Alaire turned a quick glance upon the speaker to find his face set and his eyes miserable. Impulsively she laid her hand upon his arm, saying:

  “I know how you must feel. Do you know what has always been my dearest wish? To be able to talk with animals; and to have them trust me. Just think what fun it would be to talk with the wild things and make friends of them. Oh, when I was a little girl I used to dream about it!”

  Law nodded his vigorous appreciation of such a desire. “Dogs and horses sabe more than we give them credit for. I’ve learned a few bird words, too. You remember those quail at the water-hole?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Dave smiled absent-mindedly. “There’s a wonderful book about birds—one of the keenest satires ever written, I reckon. It’s about a near-sighted old Frenchman who was cast away on a penguin island. He saw the big birds walking around and thought they were human beings.”

  “How did you happen to read Anatole France?” Alaire asked, with a sharp stare of surprise.

  The Ranger stirred, but he did not meet her eyes. “Well,” said he, “I read ’most anything I can get. A feller meets up with strange books just like he meets up with strange people.”

  “Not books like—
that.” There was a brief silence. “Mr. Law, every now and then you say something that makes me think you’re a—rank impostor.”

  “Pshaw!” said he. “I know cowboys that read twice as good as I do.”

  “You went to school in the East, didn’t you?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Where?” The man hesitated, at which she insisted, “Where?”

  Dave reluctantly turned upon her a pair of eyes in the depths of which there lurked the faintest twinkle. “Cornell,” said he.

  Alaire gasped. After a while she remarked, stiffly, “You have a peculiar sense of humor.”

  “Now don’t be offended,” he begged of her. “I’m a good deal like a chameleon; I unconsciously change my color to suit my surroundings. When we first met I saw that you took me for one thing, and since then I’ve tried not to show you your mistake.”

  “Why did you let me send you those silly books? Now that you have begun to tell the truth, keep it up. How many of them had you read?”

  “We-ll, I hadn’t read any of them—lately.”

  “How disagreeable of you to put it that way!” The car leaped forward as if spurred by Alaire’s mortification. “I wondered how you knew about the French Revolution. ‘That Bastilly was some calaboose, wasn’t it’?” She quoted his own words scornfully. “I dare say you’ve had a fine laugh at my expense?”

  “No!” gravely denied the man.

  They had come to an arroyo containing a considerable stream of muddy water, and Law was forced to get out to plug the carburetor and stop the oil-intakes to the crankcase. This done, Alaire ran the machine through on the self-starter. When José’s “Carambas!” and Dolores’s shrieks had subsided, and they were again under way, Mrs. Austin, it seemed, had regained her good humor.

  “You will receive no more of my favorite authors,” she told Dave, spitefully. “I’ll keep them to read myself.”