Pete nudged Brevoort. "I reckon we better drift," he whispered.
"How's that, Pete?"
"The girl there in the picture. Mebby you think I'm loco, but there's somethin' always happens every time I see her."
"You got a hunch, eh?"
"I sure got one."
"Then we play it." And Brevoort rose. They blinked their way to the entrance, pushed through the crowd at the doorway, and started toward their room. "I didn't want to say anything in there," Brevoort explained. "You can't tell who's sittin' behind you. But what was you gettin' at, anyhow?"
"You recollect my tellin' you about that trouble at Showdown? And the girl was my friend? Well, I never said nothin' to you about it, but I git to thinkin' of her and I can kind of see her face like she was tryin' to tell me somethin', every doggone time somethin's goin' to go wrong. First off, I said to myself I was loco and it only happened that way. But the second time—which was when we rode to the Ortez ranch—I seen her again. Then when we was driftin' along by that cactus over to Sanborn I come right clost to tellin' you that I seen her—not like I kin see you, but kind of inside—and I knowed that somethin' was a-comin' wrong. Then, first thing I know—and I sure wasn't thinkin' of her nohow—there is her face in that picture. I tell you, Ed, figuring out your trail is all right, and sure wise—but I'm gettin' so I feel like playin' a hunch every time."
"Well, a drink will fix you up. Then we'll mosey over to the room. Our stuff'll be there all right."
"'T ain't the money I'm thinkin' about. It's you and me."
"Forget it!" Brevoort slapped Pete on the shoulder. "Come on in here and have something."
"I'll go you one more—and then I quit," said Pete. For Pete began to realize that Brevoort's manner was slowly changing. Outwardly he was the same slow-speaking Texan, but his voice had taken on a curious inflection of recklessness which Pete attributed to the few but generous drinks of whiskey the Texan had taken. And Pete knew what whiskey could do to a man. He had learned enough about that when with the horse-trader. Moreover, Pete considered it a sort of weakness—to indulge in liquor when either in danger or about to face it. He had no moral scruples whatever. He simply viewed it from a utilitarian angle. A man with the fine edge of his wits benumbed by whiskey was apt to blunder. And Pete knew only to well that they would have need for all of their wits and caution to get safely out of El Paso. And to blunder now meant perhaps a fight with the police—for Pete knew that Brevoort would never suffer arrest without making a fight—imprisonment, and perhaps hanging. He knew little of Brevoort's past record, but he knew that his own would bulk big against him. Brevoort had taken another drink after they had tacitly agreed to quit. Brevoort was the older man, and Pete had rather relied on his judgment. Now he felt that Brevoort's companionship would eventually become a menace to their safety.
"Let's get back to the room, Ed," he suggested as they came out of the saloon.
"Hell, we ain't seen one end of the town yet."
"I'm goin' back," declared Pete.
"Got another hunch?"—and Brevoort laughed.
"Nope. I'm jest figurin' this cold. A good gambler don't drink when be's playin'. And we're sure gamblin'—big."
"Reckon you're right, pardner. Well, we ain't far from our blankets. Come on."
The proprietor of the rooming-house was surprised to see them return so soon and so unauspiciously. He counted out Brevoort's money and gave it back to him.
"Which calls for a round before we hit the hay," said Brevoort.
The room upstairs was hot and stuffy. Brevoort raised the window, rolled a cigarette and smoked, gazing down on the street, which had become noisier toward midnight. Pete emptied the pitcher and stowed the wet sacks of gold in his saddle-pockets.
"Told you everything was all right," said Brevoort, turning to watch Pete as he placed the saddlebags at the head of the bed.
"All right, so far," concurred Pete.
"Say, pardner, you losin' your nerve? You act so dam' serious. Hell, we ain't dead yet!"
"No, I ain't losin' my nerve. But I'm tellin' you I been plumb scared ever since I seen that picture. I don't feel right, Ed."
"I ain't feelin' so happy myself," muttered Brevoort, turning toward the window.
Pete, sitting on the edge of the bed, noticed that Brevoort's face was tense and unnatural. Presently Brevoort tossed his cigarette out of the window and turned to Pete. "I been thinkin' it out," he began slowly. "That hunch of yours kind of got me goin'. The best thing we kin do is to get out of this town quick. We got to split—no way round that. We're all right so far, but by to-morrow they'll be watchin' every train and every hotel, and doggin' every stranger to see what he's doin'. What you want to do is to take them sacks, wrap 'em up in paper, put ole E. H. Hodges's name on it—he's president of the Stockmen's Security Bank here, and a ole pal of The Spider's—and pack it over to the express company and git a receipt. They'll sure git that money to the bank. And then you want to fan it. If you jest was to walk out of town, no'th, you could catch a train for Alamogordo, mebby, and then git a hoss and work over toward the Organ Range, which is sure open country—and cattle. You can't go back the way we come—and they'll be watchin' the border south."
"Where is that express outfit, anyhow?"
"You know that street where we seen the show? Well, if you keep right on you'll come to the Square and the express company is right on the corner."
"All right, Ed. But what you goin' to do?"
"I'm goin' to git a soogun to-morrow mornin', roll my stuff and head for the border, afoot. I'm a ranch-hand lookin' for work. I know where I kin get acrost the river. Then I aim to hit for the dry spot, bush out, and cross the line where they won't be lookin' for a man afoot, nohow."
"Why don't you git to movin' right now?" Brevoort smiled curiously. "They's two reasons, pardner; one is that I don't want to git stood up by a somebody wantin' to know where I'm goin' at night with my war-bag—and I sure aim to take my chaps and boots and spurs and stuff along, for I'm like to need 'em. Then you ain't out of town yet."
"Which is why you're stickin' around."
"If we only had a couple of hosses, Pete. It's sure hell bein' afoot, ain't it?"
"It sure is. Say, Ed, we got to split, anyhow. Why don't you git to goin'? It ain't like you was quittin' me cold."
"You're a mighty white kid, Pete. And I'm goin' to tell you right now that you got a heap more sense and nerve than me, at any turn of the game. You been goin' round to-night on cold nerve and I been travelin' on whiskey. And I come so clost to gittin' drunk that I ain't sure I ain't yet. It was liquor first started me ridin' the high trail."
Brevoort had seated himself on the bed beside Pete. As the big Texan rolled a cigarette, Pete saw that his hands trembled. For the first time that evening Pete noticed that his companion was under a high tension. He could hardly believe that Brevoort's nerve was really shaken.
The street below had grown quieter. From below came the sound of a door being closed. Brevoort started, cursed, and glanced at Pete. "Closin' up for the night," he said. Pete quickly shifted his gaze to the open window. He did not want Brevoort to know that he had noticed the start, or those hands that trembled.
They rose early, had breakfast at the restaurant across the street, and returned to the room, Brevoort with a sogun in which he rolled and corded his effects and Pete with some brown paper in which he wrapped the sacks of gold. Brevoort borrowed a pencil from the proprietor and addressed the package.
"But how's the bank goin' to know who it's from?" queried Pete,
"That's right. I'll put The Spider's name here in the corner. Say, do you know we're takin' a whole lot of trouble for a man that wouldn't lift a hand to keep us from bein' sent up?" And Brevoort weighed the package thoughtfully. "By rights we ought to hang onto this dough. We earned it."
"I sure don't want any of it, Ed. I'm through with this game."
"I reckon you're right. Well, next off, you git it to that express
office. I'll wait till you git back."
"What's the use of my comin' back, anyhow?" queried Pete. "We paid for our room last night."
"Ain't you goin' to take your stuff along? You can pack it same as mine. Then when you git to a ranch you are hooked up to ride."
"Guess you're right, Ed. Well, so-long."
"See you later."
Brevoort, who seemed to have recovered his nerve, added, "I aim to light out jest as quick as you git back."
Pete was so intent on his errand that he did not see Conductor Stokes, who stood in the doorway of the El Paso House, talking to a man who had a rowdy rolled under his arm, wore overalls, and carried a dinner-pail. The conductor glanced sharply at Pete as he passed, then turned abruptly, and stepped to a man who stood talking to the clerk at the desk.
"I jest saw one of 'em," said the conductor. "I never forget a face. He was rigged out in town-clothes—but it was him—all right."
"You sure, Len?"
"Pretty darned sure."
"Well, we can find out. You set down over there in the window and be reading a paper. I'll go out and follow him. If he comes back this way, you take a good look at him and give me the high sign if it's one of 'em. And if it is, he'll be connectin' up with the other one, sooner or later. I'll jest keep my eye on him, anyway. You say he had on a dark suit and is dark-complexioned and young?"
"Yes—that one. The other was bigger and taller and had light hair and gray eyes. Both of 'em were in their range clothes on number three."
"All right." And the plain-clothes man hastened out and up the street until he had "spotted" Pete, just entering the doorway of the express office.
Pete came out presently, glanced about casually, and started back for the room. Half a block behind him followed the plain-clothes man, who glanced in as he passed the hotel. The conductor nodded. The plain-clothes man hastened on down the street. He saw Pete turn a corner several blocks south. When the detective arrived at the corner Pete was just entering the door of the little clothing-store next to the restaurant. Presently Pete came out and crossed to the saloon. The detective sauntered down the opposite walk and entering the restaurant telephoned to headquarters. Then he called for coffee and sat watching the saloon across the way.
Brevoort, who had been sitting on the bed gazing down at the street, saw Pete turn the corner and enter the store. He also saw the plain-clothes man enter the restaurant and thought nothing of it until presently he saw another man enter the place. These two were talking together at the table near the front window. Brevoort grew suspicious. The latest arrival had not ordered anything to eat, nor had he greeted the other as men do when they meet. And they did not seem quite the type of men to dine in such a place. Pete, cording his belongings in the new sogun, heard Brevoort muttering something, and turned his head.
"I'm watchin' a couple of fellas acrost the street," explained Brevoort. "Keep back out of sight a minute."
Pete, on his knees, watched Brevoort's face. "Anything wrong, Ed?" he queried presently.
"I dunno. Jest step round behind me. Kin you see that eatin'-place?"
"Yes."
"Did you see either of them guys when you was out on the street?"
"Why, no. Hold on a minute! That one with the gray clothes was standin' on the corner by the express office when I come out. I recollec' now. He was smokin' a cigar."
"Yes. And he thrun it away when he went in there. I seen him at the telephone there on the desk—and pretty soon along comes his friend. Looks kind of queer that he was up at the Square when you was, and then trails down here where we be."
"You think mebby—"
"I dunno. If it is we better drift out at the back afore any of 'em gits round there."
"And leave our stuff, eh?"
"Yes. We got to move quick. They 're sizin' up this buildin' right now. Don't show yourself. Wait! One of 'em is comin' out and he's headed over here."
Brevoort drew back, and stepping to the door opened it and strode swiftly down the dim hall to a window at its farther end. Below the window was a shed, and beyond the farther edge of the shed-roof was an alley. He hastened back to the room and closed and locked the door. "You loco?" he growled. Pete had drawn a chair to the window and was sitting there, looking out as casually as though there was no danger whatever.
"I thought you made your get-away," said Pete, turning. "I was jest keepin' that hombre interested in watchin' me. Thought if he seen somebody here he wouldn't make no quick move to follow you."
"So you figured I quit you, eh? And you go and set in that winda so they'd think we was in the room here? And you done it to give me a chanct? Well, you got me wrong. I stick."
"Then I reckon somebody's goin' to git hurt," said Pete, "for I'm goin' to stick too."
Brevoort shook his head. "The first guy most like come over to ask the boss who's up here in this room. The boss tells him about us. Now, them coyotes sure would like it a heap better to git us out on the street—from behind—than to run up against us holed up here, for they figure somebody'll git hurt. Now you slip down that hall, easy, and drop onto the shed under the winda and fan it down the alley back there. You got a chanct. I sized up the layout."
"Nothin' doin'. Why don't you try it yourself?"
"'Cause they'll git one of us, anyhow, and it'll be the fella that stays."
"Then I'll flip a dollar to see which stays," said Pete.
Before Brevoort could speak, Pete drew a dollar from his pocket and flipped it toward his companion. It fell between them. "I say heads," said Pete. And he glanced at the coin, which showed tails. "The dollar says you go, Ed. You want to git a-movin'!"
Brevoort hesitated; Pete rose and urged him toward the door. "So-long, Ed. If you'd 'a' stayed we'd both got shot up. I'll set in the winda so they'll think we 're both here."
"I'll try her," said Brevoort. "But I'd 'a' stayed—only I knowed you wouldn't go. So-long, pardner." He pulled his gun and softly unlocked the door. There was no one in the hall—and no one on the narrow stairway to the right. He tiptoed to the window, climbed out, and let himself down to the shed-roof. From the roof he dropped to the alley, glanced round, and then ran.
Pete locked the door and went back to his chair in front of the window. He watched the man in the restaurant, who had risen and waved his hand, evidently acknowledging a signal from some one. It was the man Pete had seen near the express office—there was no doubt about that. Pete noticed that he was broad of shoulder, stocky, and wore a heavy gold watch-chain. He disappeared within the doorway below. Presently Pete heard some one coming up the uncarpeted stairway—some one who walked with the tread of a heavy person endeavoring to go silently. A brief interval in which Pete could hear his own heart thumping, and some one else ascended the stairway. The boards in the hallway creaked. Some one rapped on the door.
"I guess this is the finish," said Pete to himself. Had he been apprehended in the open, in a crowd on the street, he would not have made a fight. He had told himself that. But to be run to earth this way—trapped in a mean and squalid room, away from the sunlight and no slightest chance to get away… He surmised that these men knew that the men that they hunted would not hesitate to kill. Evidently they did not know that Brevoort was gone. How could he hold them that Brevoort might have more time? He hesitated. Should he speak, or keep silent?
He thought it better to answer the summons. "What do you want?" he called.
"We want to talk to your partner," said a voice.
"He's sleepin'," called Pete. "He was out 'most all night."
"Well, we'll talk with you then."
"Go ahead. I'm listenin'."
"Suppose you open the door."
"And jest suppose I don't? My pardner ain't like to be friendly if he's woke up sudden."
Pete could hear the murmuring of voices as if in consultation. Then, "All right. We'll come back later."
"Who'll I say wants to see him?" asked Pete.
The Ridin Kid from Powder River Page 24
