by Zane Grey
Alaire tried to speak quietly. “I should never forgive myself if you came to harm here at my ranch.”
Longorio sighed. “And I hoped for a warmer welcome—especially since I have done you another favor. You saw that hombre who came with me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you would never guess that it is your José Sanchez, whom I prevailed upon to return to your employ. But it is no other; and he comes to beg your forgiveness for leaving. He was distracted at the news of his cousin’s murder, and came to me—”
“His cousin was not murdered.”
“Exactly! I told him so when I had learned the facts. A poor fellow this Panfilo—evidently a very bad man, indeed—but José admired him and was harboring thoughts of revenge. I said to him: ‘José, my boy, it is better to do nothing than to act wrongly. Since it was God’s will that your cousin came to a bad end, why follow in his footsteps? You will not make a good soldier. Go back to your beautiful employer, be loyal to her, and think no more about this unhappy affair.’ It required some argument, I assure you, but—he is here. He comes to ask your forgiveness and to resume his position of trust.”
“I am glad to have him back if he feels that way. I have nothing whatever to forgive him.”
“Then he will be happy, and I have served you. That is the end of the matter.” With a graceful gesture Longorio dismissed the subject. “Is it to be my pleasure,” he next inquired, “to meet Señor Austin, your husband?”
“I am afraid not.”
“Too bad. I had hoped to know him and convince him that we Federales are not such a bad people as he seems to think. We ought to be friends, he and I. Every loyal Mexican, in these troublesome times, desires the goodwill and friendship of such important personages as Señor Austin. This animosity is a sad thing.”
Under this flow of talk Paloma stirred uneasily, and at the first opportunity burst out: “It’s far from safe for you to remain here, General Longorio. This neighborhood is terribly excited over the death of Ricardo Guzman, and if any one learned—”
“So! Then this Guzman is dead?” Longorio inquired, with interest.
“Isn’t he?” blurted Paloma.
“Not so far as I can learn. Only to-day I made official report that nothing whatever could be discovered about him. Certainly he is nowhere in Romero, and it is my personal belief that the poor fellow was either drowned in the river or made way with for his money. Probably the truth will never be known. It is a distressing event, but I assure you my soldiers do not kill American citizens. It is our boast that Federal territory is safe; one can come or go at will in any part of Mexico that is under Potosista control. I sincerely hope that we have heard the last of this Guzman affair.”
Longorio had come to spend the evening, and his keen pleasure in Alaire Austin’s company made him so indifferent to his personal safety that nothing short of a rude dismissal would have served to terminate his visit. Neither Alaire nor her companion, however, had the least idea how keenly he resented the presence of Paloma Jones. Ed Austin’s absence he had half expected, and he had wildly hoped for an evening, an hour, a few moments, alone with the object of his desires. José’s disclosures, earlier in the day, had opened the general’s eyes; they had likewise inflamed him with jealousy and with passion, and accordingly he had come prepared to force his attentions with irresistible fervor should the slightest opportunity offer. To find Alaire securely chaperoned, therefore, and to be compelled to press his ardent advances in the presence of a third party, was like gall to him; the fact that he made the most of his advantages, even at the cost of scandalizing Paloma, spoke volumes for his determination.
It was a remarkable wooing; on the one hand this half-savage man, gnawed by jealousy, heedless of the illicit nature of his passion, yet held within the bounds of decorum by some fag-end of respectability; and on the other hand, a woman, bored, resentful, and tortured at the moment by fear about what was happening at the river-bank.
Alaire, too, had a further cause for worry. Of late Ed Austin had grown insultingly suspicious. More than once he had spoken of Dave Law in a way to make his wife’s face crimson, and he had wilfully misconstrued her recital of Longorio’s attentions. Fearing, therefore, that in spite of Paloma Jones’s presence Ed would resent the general’s call, Alaire strained her ears for the sound of his coming.
It was late when Austin arrived. Visitors at Las Palmas were unusual at any time; hence the sound of strange voices in the brightly lighted living-room at such an hour surprised him. He came tramping in, booted and spurred, a belligerent look of inquiry upon his bloated features. But when he had met his wife’s guests his surprise turned to black displeasure. His own sympathies in the Mexican struggle were so notorious that Longorio’s presence seemed to him to have but one possible significance. Why Paloma Jones was here he could not imagine.
Thus far Alaire’s caller had succeeded in ignoring Miss Jones, and now, with equal self-assurance, he refused to recognize Ed’s hostility. He remained at ease, and appeared to welcome this chance of meeting Austin. Yet it soon became evident that his opinion of his host was far from flattering; beneath his politeness he began to show an amused contempt, which Alaire perceived, even though her husband did not. Luis Longorio was the sort of man who enjoys a strained situation, and one who shows to the best advantage under adverse conditions. Accordingly, Ed’s arrival, instead of hastening his departure, merely served to prolong his stay.
It was growing very late now, and Paloma was frantic. Profiting by her first opportunity, she whispered to Alaire “For God’s sake, send him away.”
Alaire’s eyes were dark with excitement, “Yes,” said she. “Talk to him, and give me a chance to have a word alone with Ed.”
The opportunity came when Austin went into the dining-room for a drink. Alaire excused herself to follow him. When they were out of sight and hearing her husband turned upon her with an ugly frown.
“What’s that Greaser doing here?” he asked, roughly.
“He called to pay his respects. You must get him away.”
“I must?” Ed glowered at her. “Why don’t you? You got him here in my absence. Now that I’m home you want me to get rid of him, eh? What’s the idea?”
“Don’t be silly. I didn’t know he was coming and—he must be crazy to risk such a thing.”
“Crazy?” Ed’s lip curled. “He isn’t crazy. I suppose he couldn’t stay away any longer. By God, Alaire—”
Alaire checked this outburst with a sharp exclamation: “Don’t make a scene! Don’t you understand he holds over fifty thousand dollars’ worth of La Feria cattle? Don’t you understand we can’t antagonize him?”
“Is that what he came to see you about?”
“Yes.” She bit her lip. “I’ll explain everything, but—you must help me send him back, right away.” Glancing at the clock, Alaire saw that it was drawing on toward midnight; with quick decision she seized her husband by the arm, explaining feverishly: “There is something big going on to-night, Ed! Longorio brought a guard of soldiers with him and left them at our pump-house. Well, it so happens that Blaze Jones and Mr. Law have gone to the Romero cemetery to get Ricardo Guzman’s body.”
“What?” Austin’s red face paled, his eyes bulged.
“Yes. That’s why Paloma is here. They crossed at our pumping-station, and they’ll be back at any time, now. If they encounter Longorio’s men—You understand?”
“God Almighty!” Austin burst forth. “Ricardo Guzman’s body!” He wet his lips and swallowed with difficulty. “Why—do they want the body?”
“To prove that he is really dead and—to prove who killed him.” Noting the effect of these words, Alaire cried, sharply, “What’s the matter, Ed?”
But Austin momentarily was beyond speech. The decanter from which he was trying to pour himself a drink played a mu
sical tattoo upon his glass; his face had become ashen and pasty.
“Have they got the body? Do they know who shot him?” he asked, dully.
“No, no!” Alaire was trembling with impatience. “Don’t you understand? They are over there now, and they’ll be back about midnight. If Longorio had come alone, or if he had left his men at Sangre de Cristo, everything would be all right. But those soldiers at Morales’s house will be up and awake. Why, it couldn’t have happened worse!”
“How many men has he got?” Austin nodded in the direction of the front room.
“I don’t know. Probably four or five. What ails you?”
“That—won’t do. They won’t—fight on this side of the river. They—they’d hold them off.”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
Something in her husband’s inexplicable agitation, something in the hunted, desperate way in which his eyes were running over the room, alarmed Alaire.
Ed utterly disregarded her question. Catching sight of the telephone, which stood upon a stand in the far corner of the room, he ran to it and, snatching the receiver, violently oscillated the hook.
“Don’t do that!” Alaire cried, following him. “Wait! It mustn’t get out.”
“Hello! Give me the Lewis ranch—quick—I’ve forgotten the number.” With his free hand Ed held his wife at a distance, muttering harshly: “Get away now! I know what I’m doing. Get away—damn you!” He flung Alaire from him as she tried to snatch the instrument out of his hands.
“What do you want of Lewis?” she panted.
“None of your business. You keep away or I’ll hurt you.”
“Ed!” she cried, “Are you out of your mind? You mustn’t—”
Their voices were raised now, heedless of the two people In the adjoining room.
“Keep your hands off, I tell you. Hello! Is that you, Tad?” Again Austin thrust his wife violently aside. “Listen! I’ve just learned that Dave Law and old man Jones have crossed over to dig up Ricardo’s body. Yes, to-night! They’re over there now—be back inside of an hour.”
Alaire leaned weakly against the table, her frightened eyes fixed upon the speaker. Even yet she could not fully grasp the meaning of her husband’s behavior and tried to put aside those fears that were distracting her. Perhaps, after all, she told herself, Ed was taking his own way to—
“Yes! They aim to discover how he was killed and all about it. Sure! I suppose they found out where he was buried. They crossed at my pumping-plant, and they’ll be back with the body to-night, if they haven’t already—” The speaker’s voice broke, his hand was shaking so that he could scarcely retain his hold upon the telephone. “How the hell do I know?” he chattered. “It’s up to you. You’ve got a machine—”
“Ed!” cried the wife. She went toward him on weak, unsteady feet, but she halted as the voice of Longorio cut in sharply:
“What’s this I hear? Ricardo Guzman’s body?” Husband and wife turned. The open double-door to the living-room framed the tall figure of the Mexican general.
XIX
RANGERS
Longorio stared first at the huddled, perspiring man beside the telephone and then at the frightened woman. “Is that the truth?” he demanded, harshly.
“Yes,” Austin answered. “They are bringing the body to this side. You know what that means.”
“Did you know this?” The general turned upon Alaire. Of the four he was the least excited.
From the background Paloma quavered: “You told us Ricardo was not dead, so—it is all right. There is no—harm done.”
A brief silence ensued, then Longorio shrugged. “Who knows? Let us hope that he suffered no harm on Mexican soil. That would be serious, indeed; yes, very serious, for I have given my word to your government. This—David Law—” he pronounced the name carefully, but with a strange, foreign accent—“he is a reckless person to defy the border regulations. It is a grave matter to invade foreign territory on such a mission.” Longorio again bent his brilliant eyes upon Alaire. “I see that you are concerned for his safety. You would not desire him to come to trouble, eh? He has done you favors; he is your friend, as I am. Well”—a mirthless smile exposed his splendid white teeth—“we must think of that. Now I will bid you good night.”
“Where are you going?” demanded Miss Jones.
“To the river, and then to Romero. I may be needed, for those men of mine are stupid fellows and there is danger of a misunderstanding. In the dark anything may happen. I should like to meet this David Law; he is a man of my own kind.” Turning to “Young Ed,” he said: “There is reason for haste, and a horse moves slowly. Would you do me the favor, if you have an automobile—”
“No! I won’t!” Ed declared. “I don’t want to see the Rio Grande to-night. I won’t be involved—”
“But you are already involved. Come! There is no time to waste, and I have something to say to you. You will drive me to the river, and my horse will remain here until I return for him.”
There was no mistaking the command in Longorio’s tone; the master of Las Palmas rose as if under compulsion. He took his hat, and the two men left the room.
“Oh, my God!” Paloma gasped. “They’ll be in time, and so will the Lewis gang.”
“Quick! Ed will take his runabout—we’ll follow in my car.” Alaire fled to make herself ready. A few moments later she looked out from her window and saw the headlights of Ed’s runabout flash down the driveway to the road; then she and Paloma rushed to the garage where the touring-car stood.
“They’ll never expect us to follow them”—Alaire tried to speak hopefully—“and we’ll drive without lights. Maybe we’ll get there in time, after all.” As the machine rolled out through the gate she elaborated the half-formed plan that had come to her: “The brush is thick along the river; we can leave the car hidden and steal up to the pump-house. When we hear the boat coming maybe we can call out in time to warn your father.”
“The moon is rising,” Paloma half sobbed. “They’ll be sure to see us. Do you think we’re ahead of Tad Lewis?”
“Oh yes. He hasn’t had time to get here yet, but—he’ll come fast when he starts. This is the only plan I can think of.”
Alaire drove as swiftly as she dared, following the blurred streak of gray that was the road, and taking the bumps with utter recklessness. Already the yellow rim of the moon was peering over the horizon to her right, and by its light she found the road that turned abruptly toward the Rio Grande, a mile or more distant. The black mud from the last heavy rain had hardened; the ruts in this side road were deep, and the car leaped and plunged, flinging its occupants from side to side. Ahead loomed the dark ridge of the river thickets, a dense rampart of mesquite, ebony, and coma, with here and there a taller alamo or hackberry thrusting itself skyward. But even before they were sheltered from the moonlight Paloma saw the lights of another automobile approaching along the main-traveled highway behind them—the lights, evidently, of Tad Lewis’s machine. A moment later Alaire’s car drove into the black shadows, but, fearing to switch on her headlights, she felt her way cautiously between the walls of foliage until at her right another opening showed, like a narrow arroyo, diverging from the one they followed. Into this she swerved, regardless of the fact that it was half grown up with brush. Thorny branches swept the sides of the machine; rank, dew-soaked grass rose to the height of the tonneau. The car came to a jolting pause, then the motor ceased its purring, and the two women sat motionless, listening for the rattle of the on-coming machine. It had been a short, swift, exciting ride. “Young Ed’s” runabout could not be many minutes ahead of them.
Alaire knew the Tad Lewis car, an old-style, cheap affair, which advertised its mechanical imperfections by a loud clashing of gears and a noisy complaint of loose parts; therefore, when the leafy cañon walls behind h
er hiding-place were brilliantly illuminated and a car stole silently past at low speed, she seized Paloma by the arm and whispered:
“That’s not Lewis.”
“Who is it? It can’t be Ed.”
“No, he and Longorio are ahead of us. It’s another motor entirely.”
The women got out, then breasted the high grass and brambles between their hiding-place and the pump-house road. As soon as they were back in the trail they made all possible speed, speculating meanwhile upon the mystery of the unknown car. Emerging into the clearing which surrounded the power-plant, they discovered the machine in question standing dark and deserted in the shadows. Evidently the driver, whoever he was, well knew what he was about, and had not blundered upon this place by accident. A hundred yards away they could now see the ghostly Rio Grande, its saffron surface faintly silvered by the low moon; lights gleamed from the windows of Morales’s house. In the distance the vague outlines of the Mexican shore were resolving themselves, and far beyond winked the evidence that some belated citizens of Romero were still awake.
Paloma had brought with her the long-barreled Winchester rifle, and this she clutched nervously as she and Alaire stood whispering. Conditions were favorable for an approach to the pump-house itself, for two ridges of earth, perhaps eight feet high, thrown up like parallel furrows from a giant plow, marked the beginning of the irrigation ditch, and in the shadow of these the women worked their way forward, unobserved. They had nearly reached their goal when out into the clearing behind them, with metallic rattle and clang, burst another automobile, and Paloma whispered, excitedly:
“There’s the Lewis outfit at last.”
In the Lewis car were several men. They descended hurriedly, and when one of them ran around the front of the car to turn off its lights both women saw that he carried a rifle. Evidently Tad Lewis had come prepared for desperate measures.
