Steve Yeager

by William MacLeod Raine

  CHAPTER IX

  GABRIEL PASQUALE

  A red-hot cannon ball was flaming high in the heavens when Yeager drewout of Los Robles at a road gait. The desert winds were whisperinggood-night to the sun as he crossed Dry Sandy just above the Sinks. Manydusty miles in Sonora had been clipped off by Four Bits before the chillmoon rose above the black line of the distant hills and flooded atransformed land with magical light, touching a parched and arid earthto a vibrant and mysterious beauty of whispering yucca and fantasticcactus and weird outline of mesquite.

  Twice he unsaddled the bronco, hobbled it, and lay on his back with hisface to the million stars of night. The first time he gave Four Bits anhour's rest and grazing. It was midnight when he dismounted at awater-hole gone almost dry under many summer suns. Here he slept theheavy, restful sleep of healthy, fatigued youth, arms and legssprawling, serene and peaceful, unmoving as a lifeless log.

  With the first faint streaks of dawn that came flooding into the easternsky he was afoot, knocking together such breakfast as a rider of theplains needs. Presently he was once more in the saddle, pushing acrossthe tawny, empty desert toward the hills that hid Noche Buena, thevillage where Pasquale had his headquarters.

  The smell of breakfast and the smoke of it were in the air when he rodeinto the street lined with brown adobe huts. The guards paid noattention to him. Gringos evidently were no unusual sight to thetroopers of the insurgent chief. Most of these were wearing blue denimsuits of overall stuff, though a few were clad in khaki. All carriedbright-colored handkerchiefs around their necks. Serapes, faded andbright, of all hues and textures, were in evidence everywhere.

  He stopped a boy in riding-boots reaching to his hips, down the sides ofwhich were conchas of silver dollars. Like most of those in camp theface upturned to that of Yeager was of a strong Indian cast.

  The American inquired where the general might be found.

  The boy--Steve judged him not over fifteen, and he was to find manysoldiers in camp younger even than this--pointed to a square two-storyhouse near the center of the town.

  Two sentries were on guard outside. One of these went inside with themessage of Yeager. Presently he returned, relieved the American of hisrevolver, and announced that the general would see him.

  Pasquale was at breakfast with one of his lieutenants, a slender youngman with black sleek hair who sat with his back to the door. From thefirst moment that his eyes fell upon that lithe, graceful figure theAmerican knew that presently he would be looking into the face of RamonCulvera. A chill shudder passed through him for an instant. If thegambler recognized him he was lost.

  But as yet Culvera had not taken the trouble to turn. He was eating abanana indolently and stray Gringos did not greatly interest him.

  "You want to see me, senor," demanded Pasquale in Spanish.

  "I'm out of a job--thought maybe you could give me something to do. Imet Tom Neal. He figured you might."

  "In the army? Do you want to fight?"

  Pasquale leaned back in his chair and looked at his guest from narrowedeyes that expressed intelligent energy and brutality. He was smiling,but there was something menacing even about his smile. It struck Stevethat he was as simple, as natural, and about as humane as a wolf. He wasnot tall, but there was unusual breadth and depth to his shoulders.Something of the Indian was in the high cheekbones of his rough,unshaven, coffee-colored face. The old ruffian looked what he was, aterrible man, one who could brush out a human life as lightly as he didthe ash from his cigar.

  "I don't know. Perhaps. Can you give me a commission?"

  "Hmp!" The beadlike eyes of the bandit took in shrewdly the competenceof this quiet, brown-faced man. He might be a thief and amurderer,--very likely was since he had crossed the border to join theinsurgents,--but it was a safe bet that he had the fighting edge. Men ofthis particular stripe were needed to lick his tattered, nondescriptrecruits into shape. "Where you from? Who knows you?"

  Culvera slewed round in his seat and glanced at the man standing behindhis chair. The indifference did not fade out of his eyes.

  "I've been with the Lunar Film Company. Before that I was riding for theLone Star cattle outfit," answered Yeager.

  The younger Mexican showed a flicker of interest. "The Lunar FilmCompany? Do you know a man named Harrison, senor?"

  "Yes."

  "And a boy named Pheelip Seymour?"

  "I've just met him. He doesn't work for the company."

  Culvera turned to his chief. "It is this Pheelip that shot Mendoza, heand another Gringo."

  Pasquale nodded, still watching Yeager.

  "Know any military tactics?" he asked.

  "None--except to hit the other fellow first and hit him hardest."

  "And to hit him when he isn't looking. Those three things are all thereis to know about war--those three, and to keep your men fat." Pasquale'smomentary grin faded. "I'll give you a try-out for a week. If we likeeach other we'll talk turkey about a commission. Eh, senor?"

  "Go you one. If we ain't suited we part company at the end of a week."

  The noted insurgent leader spoke English as well as he did Spanish.Sometimes he talked in one language, sometimes in the other. Now herelapsed into Spanish and asked Yeager to join them at breakfast.

  The cowpuncher sat down promptly. It had been three hours since he hadeaten lightly and he was as hungry as a Yukon husky. He observed thatCulvera's table manners were nice and particular, whereas those of hischief, though they ate off silver taken from the home of a Federalsupporter during a raid, were uncouth in the extreme. He wolfed hisfood, throwing it into his mouth from knife or fork as rapidly as hecould.

  Glancing up from his steak, Steve observed the brooding eye of Culveraupon him. Faint suspicions, recollections too vague as yet fordefiniteness, were beginning to stir in the mind of the man. He hadtaken on the look of wariness, masked by a surface smile, that his facehad worn the night of the shooting.

  Yeager's talk flowed on, easy, careless, unperturbed. His stories wereamusing Pasquale, and the old ruffian had a fondness for anybody thatcould entertain him. But back of his debonair gayety Steve nursed agrowing unease. He was no longer dressed in the outfit of a cowpuncher,but wore a gray street suit and a Panama straw hat. Culvera had caughtonly a momentary glance at him the night they had faced each otherrevolver in hand. Yet the American was morally convinced that given timerecognition would flash upon the young Mexican. Some gesture orexpression would betray him. Then the fat would be in the fire. AndSteve--where would he be?

  After breakfast Yeager rode out with Pasquale to review the troops. Itwas an entirely informal proceeding. The youthful army was happilyengaged in loafing and in play. A bugle blew. There was an instantscurry for horses. They swung into line, stood at attention, and at asecond blast charged yelling across the plain, serapes flying wild.

  Pasquale turned to Yeager with a gesture of his hand. "They are mine,body and soul. They eat, sleep, starve, and die at my word. Is it notso?"

  The charging line had wheeled and was coming back like the distant rollof thunder. "Viva Pasquale!" they shouted as they galloped. Steve had amomentary qualm lest they charge over him and their chief, but the toughlittle horses were dragged to a halt five yards from them in a greatcloud of dust. Bullets zipped into the air in their wild enthusiasm.Wild whoops and cheers increased the tumult.

  "Looks that way," agreed the American.

  Returning to the village, Steve observed a bunch of cattle a hundredyards from the trail. A Mexican lad, half asleep, was herding them.Immediately a devouring curiosity took hold of the cowpuncher. He wantedto see the brand on those cattle. It struck him that the shortest waywas the quickest. He borrowed the field-glasses of Pasquale.

  As he lowered the glasses after looking through them, Yeager laughed."Funny how things come out. In this country cattle are like chips in apoker game. They ain't got any home, I reckon."

  "Meaning, senor?" suggested the insurgent chief.

  "Meaning that les
s than a week ago I paid a perfectly good check of theLunar Company for that bunch of steers. We did aim to use them in someroundup sets, but I expect you've got another use for them."

  "Si, senor."

  "Hope Harrison held you up for a good price," suggested the Americancasually.

  Pasquale showed his teeth in a grin. "He was some anxious to unload in ahurry--had to take the market he could find handy."

  "Looks like he was afraid the goods might spoil on his hands," Stevecommented dryly.

  "Maybeso. I didn't ask any questions and he didn't offer anyexplanations. Fifteen gold on the hoof was what I agreed to pay. Wereyou in on this with Harrison?"

  "I was and I wasn't. Me, I drove that bunch 'most forty miles, then heheld me up and took the whole outfit from me."

  Pasquale saw he had made a mistake and promptly lied. "It wasn'tHarrison I got them from at all--just wanted to see what you'd say."

  "Well, they didn't cost me a red cent. You're welcome to 'em as far asI'm concerned. Slow elk suits me fine. I'll help you eat them while I'mhere, and that will be a week anyhow."

  "You're a good sport, Yeager, as you Gringos say. We'll get along likebrothers. Not so?"

  The revolutionary chief was an incessant card-player. He had a greasypack out as soon as they reached camp. Steve was invited to take a hand,also Ramon Culvera and a fat, bald-headed Mexican of fifty namedOchampa. Culvera, playing in luck, won largely from his chief, whoaccepted his run of ill fortune grouchily. Pasquale had been a peon inhis youth, an outlaw for twenty years, and a czar for three. He was asmuch the subject of his own unbridled passions as is a spoiled andtyrannous child. Yeager, studying him, was careful to lose money with alaugh to the old despot and equally careful to see that the chips cameback to him from Ochampa's side of the table.

  The cowpuncher knew fairly well the political rumors that were afloat inregard to the situation in northern Mexico. Pasquale as yet was dictatorof the revolutionary forces, but there had been talk to the effect thatRamon Culvera was only biding his time. Other ambitious men had aspiredto supplant Pasquale. They had died sudden, violent deaths. Ramon hadbeen a great favorite of the dictator, but it was claimed signs were notlacking to show that a rupture between them was near. Watching them now,Yeager could well believe that this might be true. Culvera was suave,adroit, deferential as he raked in his chief's gold, but theirritability of the older man needed only an excuse to blaze.

  A blue-denim trooper came into the room and stood at attention.

  Pasquale nodded curtly.

  "Senor Harrison to see the general," said the private in Spanish.

  A chill ran down the spine of the American. This was the last place inthe world that he wanted to meet Chad Harrison. A swift vision ofhimself standing with his back to a wall before a firing line flashedinto his brain.

  But he was in for it now. He knew that the ex-prizefighter woulddenounce him. A daredevil spirit of recklessness flooded up in hisheart. A smile both gay and sardonic danced in his eyes. Thus doesuntimely mirth in the hour of danger drive away a sober, prayerfulgravity from the mien of such light-hearted sons of nature as StephenYeager.