The Western Megapack - 25 Classic Western Stories

by Various Writers

  “It’s Hernandez,” Elena said. “El Capitan— our ranch boss.”

  The old man reined in, doffed his hat and bowed to the girl. More respect and admiration were in his silent greeting, Reardon realized, than an Anglo-American could have expressed with a thousand words. The rocky face seemed to soften. The glittering eyes lost their fierce look. “You found him,” Hernandez said, and looked at Ed Reardon. “I see nothing of Dixon Forbes in you, Juan.”

  “Oh, but I do, Capitan!” Elena explained.

  Hernandez smiled, and suddenly he didn’t look old.

  “I think,” he said, in Spanish now, to Elena, “he is all that you hoped. My eyes tell me that, and they have looked upon many men—good and bad.”

  He put on his sombrero and turned away, lifted his horse to a lope.

  Reardon stared after him. “We didn’t fool that one,” he said.

  “But he accepted you!”

  “Maybe,” Reardon told Elena. “But wouldn’t gamble on it.”

  Within the adobe wall was a wide patio where a gardener worked among carefully tended flower beds. An ancient cottonwood tree shaded a stonewalled well. Across this pleasant spot was the porticoed veranda of the casa. An old man sat in a comfortable chair in one of the arches, where the warm sun touched him. He was not old in Hernandez’s way; there was feebleness here, not rawhide toughness. Don Luis’s eyes were closed. He was covered with a blanket despite the warmth of the day. A woman-servant hovered farther back on the veranda, watching over him.

  “He sleeps so much of the time now,” Elena told Reardon. Then she spoke to her grandfather in Spanish, waking him.

  Until now, as Elena said, “He’s come! Juan’s home, at last!” Reardon had not fully understood that the girl meant to deceive her grandfather. The others, yes, but not Don Luis. The truth was, Reardon was a little shocked. Then he realized that the deception hardly mattered.

  Don Luis had difficulty in concentrating. For a long moment, it seemed that he did not even recognize the girl who was now kneeling beside him—and looking at him with eyes full of affection and sadness. The old grandee clung to life by a slender thread. His face, which once must have been a strong and handsome face, was a haggard mask. The formation of the bones could be traced beneath the waxy skin. His dark eyes were dull, bewildered. “Juan...?” he murmured. It occurred to Ed Reardon that Don Luis was but a rapidly fading symbol of the past, nothing more.

  At last understanding came, and the old man said, in his own tongue, “One waits, and one is rewarded. Come close, Juan, so that I can see you. My eyes grow dim.”

  Reardon moved closer.

  He was sure that Don Luis would know him for an imposter.

  The dull eyes studied him, the empty voice said. “A handsome one, like Dixon Forbes. But you do not resemble him. Nor are you a Monteros in appearance. But I can see the strength of you.” He looked at the girl. “What say you, Elena? What do you think of your brother?”

  “He will help us, Don Luis.”

  “Si? Then I will rest....”

  Don Luis lay his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. There was a faint smile upon his colorless lips. Elena sighed. She rose and tucked the blanket closer about her grandfather, then turned to Reardon with a smile.

  “I’ll show you to your room, and then we’ll have breakfast,” she said.

  EARDON followed her into the house, to a Rbedroom which she said would be his. He put down his valise, then faced her with a frown. “Look; was it necessary to make him believe 11

  that I’m Juan?”

  “There’s good in it, not harm. He is happy now.”

  “Somehow, I don’t like it.”

  “I love him,” Elena said. “I’d do nothing to hurt him. I think he’s willed himself to live until you—until Juan—came home. And now . . . Well, he’ll not be with us much longer.”

  “You’re sure getting me in deep.”

  “You’re not afraid.”

  “How do you know?”

  Elena smiled. “I saw how you fought this morning when the odds were against you,” she said.

  Reardon hardly heard her words. He was wondering what it would be like to hold such a girl in his arms.

  They went through the sprawling house to an enormous kitchen where the cooking was done at a huge fireplace and the baking in a great stone oven. A middle-aged woman served them breakfast, and while they were eating, the boy who had taken their horses earlier appeared at the outside door. He held his sombrero on his chest, smiled, and said, “Senorita—”

  “What is it Mateo?”

  “El Capitan sent me. He wants to talk to Don Juan. He’s waiting at the corrals.”

  “Thank you, Mateo,” Elena said, and looked at Reardon. “Hernandez will want to discuss things with you,” she told him. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Act as though you’re the master of the hacienda. He’ll expect you to give the orders Don Luis can no longer give.”

  Reardon nodded, uncertainly.

  Hernandez was hunkered down in the shade of a barn, a cigarito drooping from his thin lips. He lifted a hand in greeting. Reardon hunkered down beside him, took out makings. When his cigarette was lighted, he said, “What’s to be done, Hernandez?”

  “It’s not for me to say, Senor.”

  “It is when you’re asked.”

  “I’m only a ranch boss.”

  “You’re an old hand. You’ve had experience in these things.”

  Hernandez’s expression didn’t alter, but Reardon sensed that he was pleased by being asked for his opinion. He said, “The squatters are west of Venturilla Creek. They should be driven out, amigo. The ones to the east, we do not bother about. They are on DIX range.”

  “How many squatters are there?”

  Hernandez held up both hands, fingers widespread.

  “How many vaqueros do we have?”

  “More than enough.”

  “Good. We’ll jump those squatters at sundown.”

  “Si,” Hernandez murmured, and his eyes began to glitter.

  He tossed his cigarette away, rose, strode to his horse, mounted and rode out across the range. Reardon watched him until he disappeared, sharply aware that the man hadn’t once called him “Juan.”

  The boy, Mateo, appeared and Reardon asked him for a mount. Mateo saddled Monteros horse for him, a rangy roan, and Reardon struck out across the range. It was two hours later when he returned to headquarters, and then a horse and buggy stood by the patio gate. Mateo appeared to take his horse, and Reardon asked the boy about the rig.

  “Senor Arturo Monteros came in it,” Mateo said.

  Reardon frowned. He wondered if Arturo Monteros was here because the Venturilla crowd had discovered that they’d made a mistake in taking Ed Reardon for Juan Forbes. He went toward the patio gate reluctantly.

  Elena was on the veranda with Monteros. The two faced each other in anger. Monteros was a bulky man of about fifty-five, sallow of complexion, and he didn’t resemble his uncle, Don Luis, in the slightest.

  Elena saw Reardon approaching, and relief showed on her face. She said huskily, “Juan, Arturo wants you to go away. He says that Matt Hagar has put a bounty on your life, that Hagar has offered five hundred dollars to the man who kills you!”

  Monteros nodded jerkily. “It’s true. Juan. I warn you, as a Monteros.” He was nervous. He mopped sweat from his face with a handkerchief. It was a pudgy face. The man was well dressed, and he had the appearance of a prosperous merchant. “Half the men within a hundred miles of here will look for a chance to ambush you, Juan. You must go away.”

  “And ride straight into an ambush when I leave Monteros range,” Reardon said. “No dice. Hagar didn’t look to me like a man who has five hundred dollars to throw away. But John Morrell probably could afford it—to get rid of me.”

  “I assure you, Juan....”

  Reardon bared his teeth in a mirthless grin.

  “You say the right words, friend, but they ring as count
erfeit as a lead peso. Morrell is the man behind that bounty offer, and Morrell sent you here to try and scare me off. You wasted your time. Drive back and tell your partner that you couldn’t scare me off.”

  “Juan, believe me,” said Monteros. “I regret my dealings with Morrell. I hoped to benefit, but I’ve been victimized. I’m treated like a peon!”

  “Then quit him, man.” Monteros looked desperate. “What? And lose everything?” he asked. He shook his head. “No, I can’t. But I have warned you. I’ve not betrayed my own flesh and blood. More, I can’t do.”

  He turned and made his way through the patio, still mopping his face.

  Elena grasped Reardon’s arm. “Ed, I’m frightened!”

  He looked at her with another mirthless grin. “Why? You knew that you were practically signing my death warrant by asking me to pose as Juan Forbes,” He saw that he hurt her. “Sorry,” he said. “But they can’t get me here, those bounty hunters Arturo talked about. In fact, I’d say that the Venturilla crowd is worried. For some reason they’re not sure of their ground. Juan Forbes is what worries them, and I’d like to know why. Do you suppose Arturo and Morrell are afraid that Juan—and they’re really convinced that I’m Juan—can produce the lost land grant paper?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Somehow we’ve got to find out.”

  “Ed, if Arturo and Morrell sent Jess Hagar to kill Juan and he came back and told them that he had killed Juan, why are they convinced that you’re Juan?”

  “They figure Hagar lied to them,” Reardon said. “Maybe they think that Hagar did shoot Juan, but just wounded him, and that Juan, after he recovered, came to hunt down Hagar. When I walked in on Hagar, he recognized me for Juan’s friend. I killed him before he could tell his crowd just who I am.” He paused, then added, “Hernandez and I are going to clear out those squatters tonight.”

  “I—I almost wish you wouldn’t,” Elena said.

  Her hand was still on his arm. She stood very close. Reardon had only to reach out.... He was rough about it. He held her to him and kissed her upon the mouth. Elena gasped, went rigid. She got her hands against his chest—and pushed with all her might. She broke free, shrank back, a hand held to her mouth as to a sore spot.

  Reardon was suddenly angry, with her and with himself.

  He said flatly, “Well, now you know why I stayed here.”

  She turned and fled into the house, and Reardon was angrier still. He’d let her know what his price was for risking his life, a part of his price, and in return he knew that she would welsh when the time came to pay up.

  IV

  La Costilla, Hernandez called it. The Rib. It was a low ridge in the grass flats and ran east and west across Monteros range, dividing it into two parts. The south range lay below the two dozen riders at sundown, and Reardon looked down upon the squatter-held land.

  Venturilla Creek was a narrow, winding ribbon off to the east. A line of crude shacks, each a half mile apart, had been built parallel to the stream. The first shack stood near the spot where the Venturilla flowed from the ridge. Reardon counted six of them. A rise hid the others, but Hernandez said that there were four more. Half a mile west of the squatter shacks was a barbwire drift fence, and Reardon asked about it. “The squatters put it up, Senor,” the old vaquero said. “No doubt they will move it farther west if we permit it.”

  Reardon nodded.

  By no stretch of the imagination could those shacks, built so close together, be considered ranchhouses. Nor could the strip of land between the creek and the fence be taken for adequate range. There were cattle grazing there, in small scattered bunches—”about a thousand head,” Hernandez told Reardon. The truth was easily read. The squatters were merely gunmen posted there to hold stolen Monteros range, and, as Hernandez said, if they were allowed to remain, orders would soon come for them to seize a much larger portion of the south range.

  Reardon looked at Hernandez, at the score and more of vaqueros waiting behind them. He said, “We’ll go in there and drive what cattle we come to ahead of us. We’ll throw the stock across the creek, and we’ll burn the shacks one by one. Let’s get at it.”

  They rode down from La Costilla, and came into the strip behind the drift fence. A man appeared in the doorway of the nearest shack and, after a moment’s hesitation, drew his gun and fired a shot into the air. The squatter at the next shack picked up and echoed the signal, and one after another, the shots racketed along the line of shacks. As soon as each squatter fired his signal shot, he took to his horse and rode to join up with his neighbors.

  The vaqueros spread out, gathering cattle, and soon were driving perhaps four hundred head before them. Reardon rode with Hernandez to one side of the point of the driven heard, and now four squatter-gunmen were grouped before the second of the string of shacks. They were directly in the path of the cattle. Two more were riding up to join those four, and no doubt the rest of the group were on their way.

  Reardon was surprised by their boldness. He would have expected them to flee from a fight with such odds. But now he saw why they were so bold. A bunch of riders—ten of them—suddenly appeared from a clump of cottonwoods on the east side of the Venturilla. They came splashing across the stream, some with rifles across their saddles and the others with sixguns ready in their hands. It would be a fight, all right. These men had their orders. They were now to earn their pay.

  Reardon said, “Tell your boys to stampede those cattle, amigo.”

  Hernandez turned back to give the order. The vaqueros relished the idea. They began to yell and shoot off their guns. Spooked, the cattle began to run. All in an instant the critters were crazed by fear, and became a wildly stampeding mass. The vacqueros rode after them, keeping up the din. A juggernaut of longhorned beasts bore down upon the Venturilla riders.

  There was no way to fight a stampede, and Reardon saw confusion sweep the ranks of the waiting gunmen. They hadn’t expected this ruse, and Reardon marvelled at their stupidity. It would have been the one thing he would have anticipated. He looped his tied reins over the saddle horn, lifted Marshal Newlin’s rifle from its boot. He was ready when the first shots racketed.

  He missed his first shot, but with his second toppled a Venturilla rider. He made another drop his smoking gun and reel in the saddle. The vaqueros were now shooting at the squatter crowd, and the roar of gunshots was louder than the thunder of the stampeding herd. The foremost cattle now neared the enemy riders. Horses spooked, shrieked in terror. Men shouted, cursed. Then the Venturilla crowd was in flight, fleeing across the creek ahead of the cattle. The first part of the herd streamed past the shack, but the bulk of it jammed in against the flimsy building. It toppled over and disappeared beneath the mass of cattle.

  Some of the Venturilla riders retreated on across DIX range, but a few swung off to one side of the cattle and started a wild shooting. Reardon dismounted for more accurate shooting. Hernandez and his riders followed Reardon’s example, and for a few minutes shots racketed savagely. Finally the Venturilla gunmen sickened of it and rode off. A heavy quiet came to the south range.

  Reardon told Hernandez, “Have your vaqueros put the shacks to the torch, amigo. Then they can clear out the rest of the cattle and tear down the fence. They can move those dead men over onto DIX range, too. Any of our men hurt?”

  “Two wounded, Senor. But it is nothing. Scratches.”

  “Good,” said Reardon. “It was a cheap job, after all. Have the vaqueros keep guard along the west side of the creek, and shoot anybody that tries to cross. Half a dozen men should be enough.”

  Hernandez’s eyes were agleam.

  He grinned, and said, “It reminds one of the old days,” and rode over to his men to give them their orders. When he returned, he asked, “What is next, Senor?” He saw that Reardon was thoughtful.

  “We can’t win this fight by force alone, Hernandez,” Reardon said. “We’ll have to outsmart the Venturilla crowd as well. There’s a man I’m curious ab
out. Don Luis’s lawyer, de Baca, Know him?”

  “Si. Senor Ramon de Baca,” “You and I will pay him a visit, eh?” said Reardon.

  They rode north together, and behind them a ruddy glow spread across the darkening sky. The first of the shacks had been fired.

  * * * *

  The shortest route to Devil’s Gate and the road to San Alejandro lay past Monteros Rancho headquarters, and there young Mateo intercepted Reardon and Hernandez. “Hola, El Capitan!” the boy called. “Dona Elena wants to see you and Don Juan!”

  They swung toward the casa, Reardon somewhat reluctantly, and Elena came to the gateway to meet them. “She wants to see you, hombre,” Hernandez told Reardon. It was true, though how the old “man had known Reardon could not guess. He dismounted and crossed to the girl. She wore a billowy skirted dress of some dark material—green, Reardon thought— and had a lace mantilla about her head and drawn about her throat. Reardon wished for light to see her by, dressed like this— as a woman should dress. But now he sensed her mood. It was not friendly. “I want you to go away,” she said bluntly.

  “Why, Elena?”

  “Let’s say that I do not want you killed.”

  “Let’s say it’s because I showed you how I feel about you—what I want out of this trouble,” he said, as bluntly as she. “It’s too late for you to back out, Elena. You made a bargain. I’m holding you to it.”

  The girl looked at him for a long moment in silence, then lifted her voice, “Hernandez, you will take this man away. Take him west to Solano and put him on the stage, with his passage paid to Denver.” Her voice broke, then was shaky with emotion. “He is not Juan Forbes. He is an imposter.”

  Hernandez rode closer. “That I know, Senorita,” he said calmly, and Reardon stared at him. “I knew that he was not your brother. It was something I felt.” He shook his head. “But he stays.”