The Collected Westerns of William MacLeod Raine: 21 Novels in One Volume

by Unknown

  Ramon Culvera was the first to recover. From his automatic revolver he flung a bullet into the straight, erect figure facing him. The others crowded forward and fired into the body as it began to sink. The Texan gave a sobbing sigh. Before his knees reached the ground he was dead.

  The suddenness of the tragedy, its unexpectedness, held the crowd with suspended breath. What was to follow? Was this the beginning of a massacre? Each man looked at his neighbor. Another moment might bring forth anything.

  With a bound Ramon vaulted to the saddle of a horse standing near. His sword made a half-circle of steel as it swept through the air. From where he sat he could be seen by all.

  "Brothers of the Legion, patriots all, let none become excited. I have killed with my own hand the traitor who shot our beloved leader. Gabriel Pasquale is dead, but our country lives. Viva Mexico!"

  The answer came from thousands of brown, upturned faces. "Viva Mexico! Viva Culvera!"

  The young officer swung the sword around his head. His eyes flashed. "Gracias. Friends, I solemnly pledge my life to the great cause of the people. Our hero is dead. We mourn him and devote ourselves anew to the principles for which he fought. Never shall I lay down this sword until I have won for you the rights of a free nation. I promise you land for all, wealth for all, freedom from tyranny. Down with all the foes of the poor."

  Again the shouts rang out, this time louder and clearer. Already these simple, childlike peons were answering the call of their new master. Old Pasquale, who for years had held their lives in the hollow of his hand, lay crumpled on the ground almost forgotten. A new star was shining in their firmament.

  "We shall march to Mexico, down the usurper, and distribute the stolen wealth of him and his pampered minions among the people to whom it belongs. Every Mexican shall have a house, land, cattle. He shall be the slave of none. His children shall be fed. We shall have peace and plenty. I, Ramon Culvera, swear it. Mexico for the Mexicans."

  Culvera was an orator. His resonant voice stirred the emotions of this ragged mob that under the leadership of Pasquale had been hammered into an army efficient enough to defeat well-armed regulars. The men pressed closer to listen. Their primitive faces reflected the excitement the speaker stirred in them. They interrupted with shouts and cheers.

  Others among the officers had ambitions for leadership, but they knew now that Ramon had made the moment his and forestalled them. He had won the army over to him.

  He spoke briefly, but he took pains to see that no other speaker followed him. The plaudits for "General Culvera" rang like sweet music in his ears. They told him that he had at a bound passed the officers who ranked him and was already in effect chief of the Army of the North.

  Briefly he gave directions for the care of the body of the dead general and for the safety of the American prisoners pending a disposition of their cases. Before dismissing the army, he called an immediate conference of the officers.

  Resolved to strike while the iron was hot, Culvera took charge of the meeting of officers and proposed at once the election of a general to succeed Pasquale. His associates were taken by surprise. They looked out of the windows and saw pacing up and down the armed sentries Ramon had set. They heard still an occasional distant cheer for the new leader. Given time, they might have organized an opposition. But Culvera drove them to instant decision. They faced the imperious will of a man who would stick at nothing to satisfy his ambition.

  Moreover, Ramon was popular. He was of a good family, democratic in manner, never arrogant on the surface to his equals. It had been his object to make friends against the possibility of just such a contingency. Most of the officers liked, even though they did not fully trust him. They recognized that he had the necessary confidence in himself for success and also the touch of dramatic genius that may make of a soldier a public idol.

  For which reasons they submitted to his domination and elected him successor of Pasquale as commander of the Legion of the North. Whereupon Ramon unburdened himself of another fiery oration of patriotism full of impossible pledges.

  The newly chosen general sent an orderly out to proclaim the day a holiday and to see that mescal was served to all the men in honor of the event. After which the conference discussed the fate of the American prisoners.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  AT SUNSET

  Steve, in solitary confinement, with only his throbbing leg for company, was under no illusions as to what his punishment would be. Pasquale had been killed by an American who had been seen talking with Yeager five minutes before he had shot the general. The charge against him would probably be conspiracy, but it did not much matter what the excuse was. His life would be snuffed out certainly.

  There were several reasons why Culvera should sacrifice him and not one why he should be spared. Ramon had a personal grudge against him, and the new commander was not a man to forget to pay debts of this kind. Moreover, the easiest way to still any whispered doubts of his own loyalty to Pasquale was to show sharp severity in punishing those charged with being implicated in his death.

  Yeager accepted it as settled that he was doomed.

  But what about his friends? What of Threewit and Farrar? And, above all, what of Ruth? Would Culvera think it necessary to extend his vengeance to them? Or would prudence stay his hand after he had executed the chief offender?

  Culvera was a good politician. The chances were that he would not risk stirring up a hornet's nest by shooting a man as well known in the United States as Threewit. Since Farrar was in the same case, he would probably stand or fall by the Lunar director. As for Ruth--her life would be safe enough. There was no doubt of that. But--what of her future?

  Ramon was a known libertine. No scruples would restrain him if he thought the game was a safe quarry. And Steve knew with a sinking heart that he could offer to any official inquiry of the United States Government a plausible story of an abandoned woman who had come to camp to sell her charms to the highest bidder. It would be easy to show that she had ridden down with a man suspected of being a rustler and known to be a bad character, that she had jilted him for Pasquale who was already married and a good deal more than twice her age, and that after the death of Gabriel she had turned at once to his successor. To twist the facts in support of such an interpretation of her conduct would require only a little distortion here and there. The truth, twisted, makes the most damnable lies.

  Without any heroics Holcomb had given his life to save her because she was an American woman. Yeager counted himself a dead man in the same cause. What wrung his heart now, and set him limping up and down his cell regardless of the pain from his wounded leg, was the fear that the price had been paid in vain. Little Ruth! Little Ruth! His heart went out to her in an agony of despair.

  While he clung rigid to the window bars of his prison the rusty lock in the door creaked. The sergeant with the cruel little eyes entered with three men.

  "Ho, ho! The general wants the Gringo to cut out his heart and liver. Come! Let us not keep him waiting. He is sharpening the knife and it may lose the edge."

  A horse was waiting outside and the prisoner was assisted to the saddle. One man led the horse by the bridle and on either side of Yeager rode a second and a third. All of them were armed. The new general was taking no chances of an escape.

  At sight of the American the young Mexican at the head of the long table where Pasquale had held his councils showed a flash of fine teeth in a glittering smile.

  "Welcome, Señor Yeager. How is the wounded leg?"

  Steve nodded casually. "It's talking to me, general, but I reckon it's good enough to do all the walking I'll ask of it," he answered quietly.

  Culvera turned with a laugh to Ochampa. "He is what the Gringoes call game. Is it not so, major?"

  Ochampa, his wounded leg on a chair, grunted.

  "Turn about is fair play. How is your leg, major?" asked Steve.

  The major glared at him. "Is it that I must put up with the insolence of this scoundrel, genera
l?" he demanded.

  "Not for long," replied Culvera suavely. "Pedro Cabenza, or Yeager, or whatever you call yourself, you have been tried for rebellion, insubordination, and conspiracy to kill General Pasquale. You have been sentenced to be shot at sunset. The order of the military court will be carried out as decreed."

  The cowpuncher took it without the twitching of a muscle in the brown face. He knew there was no use of an appeal for mercy and he made none.

  "So I've been tried and convicted without even being present. Fine business. I reckon you've got an explanation handy when Uncle Sam comes asking whyfor you murdered an American citizen."

  Culvera lifted in mock surprise his eyebrows. "An American citizen! Surely not. I execute Pedro Cabenza, a peon, enlisted in the Army of the North, because he plotted with the foes of the Republic and helped prisoners escape, and because he conspired to assassinate our glorious chief, General Pasquale." Ramon put his forearm on the table and leaned forward with an ironic smile. "But your point is well made, Pedro. Lies spread on the wings of the wind. I shall forestall any slanderous untruths by having a photograph taken of you before the execution, and another of your body afterward. I thank you for the suggestion."

  Though it told against him the American knew this was a bull's-eye hit. A photograph of him in his rags, with his serape and his ventilated sombrero, face as brown as a berry, would be sufficient proof to exonerate Culvera of the charge of having shot an American. Steve had made up too well for the part. At worst Culvera could plead a regrettable mistake.

  "You make out a good case against Pedro Cabenza, general," admitted the condemned man evenly. "Good enough. We'll put him in the discard. I suppose you won't deny that Threewit and Farrar and Miss Seymour are Americans."

  With a confidential grin Ramon nodded. "You've put your finger on the pulse of my difficulty. You see, I talk to you frankly because I have the best of reasons for knowing you will never betray me. No doubt you recall your proverb about dead men telling tales. Just so. Well, I don't know what the devil to do with your friends Farrar and Threewit. I have nothing against them, but if I send them home they will talk. Would it be best, do you think, to arrange an accident for them while on the way back to Arizona?"

  "Not at all. I'll make a written confession, and they can sign it as witnesses, that I plotted against Pasquale and was implicated in his murder. That will let you out nicely, general. Then you can send them home, and the young lady in their care. So you will even scores with me quite safely to yourself."

  The Mexican commander looked steadily out of the window at a dog scratching himself in the street. "I don't recall mentioning the young lady. Her future is arranged."

  The temples of the cowpuncher throbbed. He pretended to misunderstand the meaning of the other man. "Of course. I understand that you can do nothing else but send her home. The one thing that would bring our army across the line on the jump would be for you to hurt a hair of this girl's head. You could kill a dozen men and get away with it quicker than you could to insult one little girl. But, of course, you know that."

  The fingers of Culvera drummed absently on the table. "I think the señorita and I will be able to adjust the matter without any help from you. If you have any last messages for her I'll be glad to carry them, since I expect to see her this evening."

  Steve had disdained to beg for himself, but now he begged for the girl he loved.

  "You're a man, Ramon Culvera. Nobody ever claimed there is any yellow in you. Your father was a gentleman and so is his son. You fight with men and not with timid girls. You wouldn't do this girl dirt because she is alone and has no friends near. Think of your own sisters, man."

  Ochampa moved restlessly in his chair. "We had better send the girl home. She will bring us trouble else."

  His superior officer flashed a quick look at him. "That is a bridge we shall cross when we come to it. Meanwhile I say adios, Señor Yeager. Shall I send you the padre?"

  "Thanks, no! But remember this. You stake your whole future on the treatment you give Miss Seymour. If you don't play fair with her, you lose."

  Ramon clapped his hands three times. A soldier entered the room.

  "Take the Gringo back to his prison," ordered Culvera.

  "The order stands, general? At sunset?" asked the man.

  "It stands," assented Ramon; and turned to Ochampa: "Have you agreed on a price for that bunch of cattle with the Flying D rustlers, major?"

  CHAPTER XXVII

  CULVERA RECONSIDERS

  Spurred by Daisy Ellington, the star of the border Lunar Company had kept the wires hot with messages to "the old man" in New York. To do him justice the president of the company rose to the occasion as soon as it was impressed upon his mind that Threewit and the others were in serious danger. He telegraphed for Lennox to meet him in Washington and hurried to the Capitol himself to lay the case before the senior Senator from New York, a statesman who happened to be under political obligations to him.

  The Arizona congressional delegation was called into conference and an appointment made to meet the President of the United States. As soon as Lennox reached the city, he was hurried to the White House, where he told the story before the President and the Secretary of State.

  The case called for prompt action. Instructions were wired to Captain Girard, stationed with his company at Bisbee, Arizona, to act as a special envoy from the President to General Pasquale.

  Girard, with a corporal, two saddle-horses, and a pack-horse, entrained at once. Four hours later he was dropped at a tank station, from which point he and the corporal struck straight into the barren desert. The glare of the afternoon sun was slanting down upon them when they started. Their shadows grew longer as they rode. The sun, a ball of fire, dropped below the distant horizon edge and left a sky of wonder to drive a painter to despair.

  The gold and crimson and purple softened as the minutes passed. The distant ridges were no longer flamed with edgings of fire. A deep purple predominated and was lightened presently to a velvet violet haze. Then the stars came out, close and cold and innumerable.

  Still Girard rode, taking advantage of the cool breath of night. Toward morning he stopped at a sand-wash where three or four dusty cottonwoods relieved the vegetation of mesquite, palo verde, and cacti. Among the rocks a spring rose hesitant to the surface and struggled faintly for life against the palpitating heat and thirsty drought of the desert.

  The corporal hobbled the horses. The men stretched themselves in the sand and fell into deep sleep. It was noon when they awoke. They ate, lounged in such shade as the cottonwoods offered from the quivering heat, and waited till mid-afternoon. Having saddled and repacked, they struck again across the dreary roll of sandhills and washes. When Noche Buena lay at their feet the sun was low in the sky.

  Into the dusty main street of the village the two men rode at a walk. A sentinel with a rifle stopped them. Girard explained that he wanted to see Pasquale.

  "He is dead--shot by a Gringo who has gone to hell already. And another Gringo will be shot when the sun falls below the hills, and perhaps another to-morrow. Who knows? You, too, may pay for the death of the Liberator," jeered the sentry.

  "Pasquale dead--and shot by an American?" asked the captain in surprise.

  "As I have said. But General Culvera killed the dog in his tracks. Ho, Manuel! Call an officer. A Gringo wants to see the general," he shouted to a barefoot trooper crouched in the shade of an adobe house.

  Girard explained to the officer that he was a messenger from the President of the United States. He and the corporal were searched and their arms removed.

  The Mexican officer apologized. "Since Pasquale was murdered, we take no chances," he explained. "You understand I do not at all doubt you are what you say. But we search all strangers to make sure."

  After Culvera had glanced over the credentials of Girard, he was all suavity. "I offer you a hundred welcomes; first for yourself, as an officer of the army of our sister Republic, and second as
an envoy from your President, for whom I have a most profound respect. But not a word of your mission until we have dined. You will want first of all a bath after your long dusty trip. May I offer you my own quarters for the present till arrangements can be made?"

  Captain Girard bowed. "You are very kind, general. Believe me, I appreciate your courtesy. But first I must raise one point. I have been told that an American is to be executed at sunset, which is almost immediately. You will understand that as a representative of the United States it is necessary that I should investigate the facts."

  Swiftly Culvera considered. If the American officer had arrived an hour later, Yeager would have been safely out of the way. How had he discovered already that an American was to be shot? Was it worth while denying it? But what if Girard insisted on seeing the execution? What if he asked to see Yeager? Ramon's glance swept the obstinate face of the captain. He decided it better to acknowledge the truth.

  "It is to me a matter of profound regret," he sighed. "The man enlisted in our army as a spy, disguised as a peon. He is guilty of the murder of one of our men in a gambling-house. He attempted to kill General Pasquale a short time ago. He was undoubtedly in league with the man Holcomb, the assassin of our great general. He shot Major Ochampa, but fortunately the major is recovering. The man is a border ruffian of the worst stamp."