Adventure Tales, Volume 6

by John Gregory Betancourt

  “We’ll head for there now,” he said, in conclusion. “With my horse lame, I couldn’t get on, but I can go in the buckboard. You and I can lie down and cover up, Sis, and probably the greasers won’t trouble Lawrence. He’ll jerk us out of this, and take us to the Ragged Ridge trail, and we’ll get a posse out after these fellows and clean things up.”

  Slivers nodded assent. Privately, he concluded that Lefty Sage had some friend back in the hills—probably had some hiding-out place there.

  “It’s really dangerous here, then?” asked the girl anxiously.

  “It is,” said her brother. “I reckon you’re going to see bullets fly, Sis—but we’ll do our best to pull you through, so buck up and face the music. Slivers, let’s go out and get things in shape.”

  The horses had been led into the lean-to behind the shack, without being unhitched. Lawrence had looked at the bronc belonging to Lefty Sage, and judged the latter’s diagnosis correct; the animal might cover some ground, but how much was a dubious matter.

  “I reckon we’re ready,” said Lawrence, after leading out the team and backing in the buckboard under shelter. “Think you and she can hang on?”

  “I reckon,” said Lefty. “Here’s a pile of sacks and rubbish. Oh, Sis! Come on.”

  Fairly well covered from observation by the trees about the house, brother and sister took their places, and Lawrence covered them with sacking.

  “I’m going to hit hell for leather,” said he, as he climbed to his seat. “If you folks feel like you’re going to fall out, holler! Otherwise, we hit the high spots. Gidap!”

  He laid on the whip, and headed his team out at a sharp trot for the road.

  As he came clear of the trees, he scanned the landscape but could see no sign of danger. His rifle was under his feet, ready. Any of the boulders that strewed the valley might hold concealed enemies, however—the only chance was to get through while they thought him alone and before they noticed the back end of his outfit.

  He lifted his whip—but it never came down.

  The off horse reared straight up, screamed, came down in a heap. The other simply dropped and sprawled out. Two rifles cracked, and not far away either.

  Before the buckboard went over, Lawrence had his rifle in hand and saw whence those two shots came. He struck the ground, rolled clear of the tangle, came to his feet with his rifle up. He shot rapidly, fast as he could pump the bolt and aim. To this third shot a man rose from a clump of rocks to the right and pitched forward.

  “Get back, you fool!” came the sharp voice of Lefty Sage.

  Lawrence glanced around. He saw the girl, unhurt, running for the trees. Lefty was just throwing up his gun; the sharp reports of the forty-five came rapidly. Into the background scurried the figure of a running man, dodging from cover to cover.

  “Two of ’em,” said Lefty calmly. “One got away.”

  “Well, get in out o’ the rain,” said Lawrence, and they turned for shelter.

  Distant rifles gave voice, and dust spurted, but the enemy were too far off to effect any hits. The hills and valley looked innocent as before; only the twisted, smashed buckboard and the two dead horses there in the sunlight told of what had happened.

  The three gathered in the ranch shack. Lefty Sage was bruised, but the girl was unhurt. The situation was clear enough to all of them. Lefty rolled a smoke calmly.

  “Well, they got us penned up,” he said. “There’s still that hoss o’ mine; but he ain’t up to takin’ the three of us aboard and going into a race for it.”

  “What do you think will happen?” asked his sister quietly. The eyes of the two men met, and then Lawrence shrugged.

  “Might as well tell her the truth—she can stand it,” he said. “Why, what’ll happen is that they’ll work around here to-night and clean up. That’s certain. They’ll prob’ly burn out this place, once they reach the trees.”

  “Couldn’t I take your horse,” and the girl turned to her brother eagerly, “and go to town for help? I’m not as heavy as a man, and might make it.”

  “Nothing doing,” said Lawrence quickly. “It’d be your only chance at a pinch—but that gang would murder a woman quick as not. They’d never let you by.”

  “I could go right now, while they’re still away off,” she exclaimed. “There were only two of them close up.”

  “No,” said Lefty Sage. “Nothing doing; Sis! That hoss of mine could outrun anything on four legs if he was sound, and I’d let you chance it in a minute; but he might not go a mile like he is now.”

  “What else is there to do?”

  “Trust to us.” Lawrence squinted at the sun. “Afternoon ain’t more’n half gone. Feller, let’s you and me go lay out in the warm sun and sort of scratch up the ground and see if we can pick off anyone, We might keep ’em from closing in, anyhow. They’re all up around back of here, I reckon.”

  “Good idea,” Lefty nodded. “My rifle’s in the lean-to. I’ll take the east edge of the trees, you cover the other side. So long, Sis—be a good girl, and don’t be scared. We’ll pull out of this all right.”

  As he kissed her, she clung to him a long moment. Lawrence took his rifle and went out. Long before he was in position, he heard the crack of Lefty’s rifle. Then, after a time, rifles spoke from the hillsides and to his amazement he made out Lefty Sage working down to the spot where the team lay dead. His rifle covered the advance, however, and presently he saw Lefty dash to his feet and leap forward, stoop over the body of the dead Mexican and then drop from sight as bullets spurted. Lawrence could not figure it out at all, as Lefty almost at once worked back again, but gave his attention to the enemy.

  These, who had tried closing in, found themselves nipped by the two rifles. Lawrence calculated there were a dozen or more of them; Valquez, then, had brought along his entire band of border bandits. With night they would easily work in—perhaps; but night had not yet come, and now they suffered. Lawrence was certain that he downed two of them, perhaps a third—hard to be sure.

  At all events, they moved back, almost out of range, and seemed to be grouping for a consultation, leaving out only two or three marksmen. It was at this juncture that Lawrence caught a sudden wild, wrathful, jubilant yell from Lefty Sage and twisted about.

  From the trees was coming Lefty’s cayuse, and in the saddle was Bessie Lawrence.

  The first thought of Slivers was that she had come with her brother’s consent, but Lefty’s shouted yells to come back disabused him of this notion. The girl sighted him, waved her hand, and then leaned over and put her bronc at full speed. She could ride—no doubt of that! And for the moment, she was going like a whirlwind.

  Lawrence jerked up, scanned the hillsides sharply. Men were running—Lefty Sage was firing at them as they ran. But Slivers looked for something else, and presently saw it; a mounted man, urging his horse downward, heading for the road to cut off the girl. He settled down, elevated his sights, began firing slowly, steadily. Barely within range, if he could make it.…At the fourth shot, the rider went down. The horse had been hit.

  Bessie Lawrence was gone, a little spume of dust settling in the road in her wake. No other Mexicans tried to follow; whether there were other guards out, like Valquez, was impossible to say. She did not know the way to town, she was unlikely to meet anyone on the trails—well, Mr. Lawrence snorted to himself and headed back for a confab with Lefty.

  “A fool trick,” commented Lefty Sage, with profane emphasis. “Anyhow, she’s out of this mess, and that’s something.”

  “It’s a whole lot,” agreed Mr. Lawrence complacently. “And if the hoss don’t bog down—”

  “Don’t you think I know my own hoss?” snapped Lefty. “That hoss won’t go two mile. If a miracle happens and she does get through ’em, she won’t reach town until midnight or after. And that ain’t going to do us much good.”

  “Well, I’m satisfied to take the deal as she lays,” said Lawrence. “Let’s go eat what’s left of the grub and have a drink o
r two, and then go and kill some more greasers.”

  “You’re on,” and Lefty Sage grinned.

  V

  “What were you doing down by that dead greaser?” demanded Slivers. The two men were polishing up what was left of the luncheon. Sunset was at hand, the swift sunset of the Southwest.

  “Branding him,” and Lefty Sage grinned. Lawrence stared.

  “Branding him?”

  “Bit o’ sagebrush.”

  “Oh!” Lawrence grunted. “Your doggoned fool advertisement, huh? Lefty Sage, sure. Say, is Valquez heading this bunch?”

  The outlaw shrugged. “Search me. He’s only one. I got a private war on with quite a few—Tio Hernandez is one of ’em.”

  Slivers Lawrence grunted again, this time with understanding.

  “Well, that explains how come they fired on me with the team,” he said, and grinned. “I got a war o’ my own on with Tio Hernandez—done killed his brother. I expect he recognized me, huh? That’s why he opened up. Valquez done told him my name.”

  “That makes me feel better about draggin’ you into it,” and Lefty Sage chuckled. “Well, old-timer, think we can hold ’em off until dawn? I expect they’ll try rushing us sure.”

  “You hold your side and I’ll hold mine,” said Slivers, as they exchanged a smile of perfect comprehension. They knew well enough there would be no holding when the time came. “Say,” he added, “be honest about—her. Think she’s got a chance?”

  “Not a chance in the world,” said Lefty Sage, his eyes narrowed and ominous. “They’d follow her sure as hell—and that means they’d pick her up. I saw a pair of ’em cut over the hill but couldn’t drop their hosses. All we can do is make ’em pay for her.”

  “All right,” said Slivers curtly.

  Make them pay—that was all they could hope to do! Sunrise would tell the story, right enough. If by some miracle Bessie Lawrence got away and reached town, morning would bring a rescue party; whether it found the two men dead or alive, depended wholly upon them.

  “If they get up guts enough to rush,” thought Slivers Lawrence, as he worked out on one side of the trees and got position among the boulders, “then they sure will get us. If they don’t, we got a chance.”

  * * * *

  So the night began.

  It was a clear, starry night, without a moon, and the attackers had advantage enough but not too much. Lefty Sage did a little shooting, but Slivers lay silent and hidden, refusing to give away his position. He could not see distinctly, but he could hear excellently, and slight sounds carried far on such a night.

  An hour passed, and, another. Slivers knew almost to a T where the Mexicans were converging on his side—at times he could even see their figures flitting among rocks or sage. There was nothing green on the hillside except the piñon trees and clumps of sagebrush. Slivers gradually got the foremost men located, and bided his time. He judged that three of them were working in carefully to close quarters, hoping to reach the shelter of the trees and so cover the rush of the others.

  He got his three located—well within fifty yards of his position. When he heard a guttural word exchanged among them and knew they were about to make a dash, he chuckled to himself and put his rifle to his shoulder. Thinking themselves safe enough on this unguarded side, the three came to their feet and started forward at a run.

  Mr. Lawrence made two out of a possible three, missed the third man with two more bullets, and then rolled aside as rifles spoke from above the bullets pinged off the rocks around. He gained another shelter and lay low. The attack was spoiled, for this time!

  Perhaps half an hour later, he heard a sudden outbreak of voices—wild, jubilant yells that swept up fiercely and then died. There was no more shooting, except an occasional shot from a man posted near the dead team, evidently to serve as a sentry, and prevent the two men escaping. At a call from Lefty, Slivers presently came back to the trees.

  “Hear ’em yelling?” said the outlaw, his voice anxious. “Looks bad, Slivers.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Slivers, with a muttered oath. “I was afraid so my own self. I done got two of ’em—they ain’t tried any more tricks.”

  “If they don’t,” said Lefty Sage, “then, by gosh, she’s done for.”

  And, as the hours passed, they did not. No explanations were needed. The two riders Lefty had seen putting off had overhauled or located the girl on her crippled horse, and had brought her back; this was why the jubilant yells had gone up. Slivers grew hot and cold at the thought of it. Only this, too, would explain why there was no more attack, no further rush. Valquez was waiting for morning now—a crafty, venomous, Indian-blooded half-breed who desired vengeance to the utmost and preferred it by daylight for fuller enjoyment.

  The hours crept past. A little before dawn, Slivers drew his cramped body into shelter of the trees, went to the shack and met Lefty Sage. They enjoyed a cautious cigarette in silence, then Lefty spoke wearily:

  “Better keep watch, I reckon.”

  A drink, and they went back together to the edge of the trees.

  Still nothing happened. Red and gray streaked the sky, deepened into yellow, and just before the sun broke the horizon, Slivers spoke.

  “See him?”

  “Yeah.”

  A man was coming down the farther slopes and crossing to the rise—Valquez himself, bearing a white cloth tied to a stick.

  In the fresh morning light, the Mexican swaggered along with insolent ease, lighting a cigarette as he came. The two men rose up and came to join him. Obviously, it was no trap—he would not take any chances on his own yellow hide. He greeted them with a graceful wave of the hand.

  “Ah, Señores! A fine morning,” he said mockingly.

  “Well, what you want?” demanded Lefty Sage.

  “You, caballero,” said the Mexican. He put a hand to his pocket and produced a bit of blue cloth. “Perhaps you know this?”

  Lefty grunted, frowningly, but Slivers Lawrence took the little handkerchief, sniffed it and compressed his lips.

  “Hers, I reckon—same perfume,” he muttered, and looked at Valquez. “Well?”

  “The señorita met with misfortune last night,” said the Mexican easily. “She is in our camp now; but do not be alarmed, Señores. She has not been hurt, for we are caballeros. Perhaps you would like to be sure I am not lying to you?”

  He turned, and lifted his voice.

  “Ho, there, Gomez! A little scream from the señorita—touch her with your knife—”

  “Stop it, you devil!” cried out Lefty Sage. Valquez flashed them a smile, then from the background came response.

  “She has fainted, señor—shall I wake her?”

  “Leave her alone,” said Lefty Sage, hoarsely. Valquez waved his hand.

  “Do not wake her,” he called, and turned back to the two with a smile that showed his pointed teeth.

  “What you want?” snapped Lawrence. Valquez grinned at him.

  “Your friend Tio Hernandez was killed last night, Señor, and you are of no interest to me. You may go freely, and take the señorita with you—provided Señor Lefty here gives up his gun and comes with me.”

  Lefty Sage was white, but he looked at Slivers and nodded.

  “There’s no argument, I reckon,” he said quietly. “Not with Sis in their hands.”

  “My gosh!” exclaimed Lawrence. “But—”

  “No buts neither,” and the outlaw shrugged. “They got the whip hand, Slivers. All right, Valquez, you win. Send her down and. I’ll go.”

  Valquez smiled a little.

  “No, Señor—I do not trust anyone. You can trust me, for I have no time to waste on women, and when I’ve tied you to a horse, we head for the Rio Grande. Come with me.”

  Lefty Sage nodded, took out his gun, and gave it to Lawrence.

  “Here y’are—shake! You’ll see Sis safe to town?”

  “Sure,” said Slivers. A lump was in his throat, and words came hard. There was nothing he could say—
Lefty was doing the only possible thing, the thing he himself must have done had their positions been reversed.

  “All ready, Valquez,” said Lefty Sage quietly, leaving his rifle where it lay. “So long.”

  “So long,” said Slivers huskily, and that was all.

  The two walked off together.

  They had gone perhaps a hundred feet, when from the farther hillside came a sudden short, sharp yelp. Lawrence stared, wondered what it meant. He saw Valquez swing around and jerk out his gun, and instinctively reached for his own rifle. Then his eye caught a moving streak of dust down the valley.

  Like a flash, it all came to him—they had missed the girl after all! Yet, unwilling to risk a battle, the wily Mexican had worked a ruse—probably Bessie had lost her handkerchief when the wagon went down, and the sentinel there had found it.

  “Lefty! Look out—cover up!” yelled Lawrence frantically.

  Too late.

  Valquez, warned, had seen the dust streak also, knew riders were coming there, and coming fast. He whirled and deliberately shot Lefty Sage—shot him twice. Lefty took a step, staggered and went down in a heap.

  His killer leaped for the nearest rocks, while rifles blazed lead at Slivers Lawrence. But Mr. Lawrence cared nothing for bullets. He stood, aiming carefully, firing slowly. He put a bullet through the leg of Valquez, who went down and began to crawl. Unhurried, Slivers took good aim and smashed the other leg. Valquez yelled to his men, waved his hand.

  Lawrence grinned cruelly, took to cover, waited—and then fired again. This time, Valquez fell forward and lay quietly beside the man he had murdered.

  VI

  Sheriff Simpson and two other men stayed on. As the sheriff said, his posse was able and willing to run down greasers without his help.

  “Yep, she done insisted on comin’ with us,” he said uneasily to Slivers Lawrence, as they watched the grave being dug among the trees. Bessie Lawrence was in the shack, with the body of her brother. “Hell of a note we didn’t get here before, Slivers! Done the best we could. Say, there’s quite a reward on this here Valquez—he done held up a bank or two down below and so forth.”