Читать книгу The Mesa - Charles Alden Seltzer - Страница 6

Table of Contents

From Nogales southwestward, the land had a downward trend. When dusk came Nolan was descending a big slope. Below him were systems of gorges, basins, low hills, mesas. A dead dry land. Beyond the desolate country, though, was a vista of green, stretching far along the horizon. That was the lower country, stretching away to the Gulf of California.

Nolan was descending the slope of a vast tableland. As he continued to drop, the atmosphere gradually changed. By the time he had reached the floor of the first of a series of basins the air had grown heavier. Also, darkness had come.

Yet Nolan rode on. More than a year ago he had made this same trip, and he had an eye for landmarks and a tenacious memory. He followed the course of the Altar, most of the time riding over the well-packed sand of the river bed.

At midnight, finding a small pool of stagnant water, he permitted the horse to drink sparingly. He pried open the can of airtights and moistened his own lips with the bittersweet plum juice. Then he rode on.

He regretted leaving Clelland. He liked Clelland. They had been together a great deal, and between them was a friendship that had survived more than one hazardous undertaking. And yet, after reading Don Pedro’s pronunciamento and seeing again in memory the face of Juana Bazan, he had suddenly lost interest in everything else. Nogales had bored him, thoughts of going back to Calabasas had sent a shiver of repulsion over him; he had even found Clelland uninteresting.

He rode all night, and the dawn found him descending a wooded arroyo which led into a little basin covered with a wild growth of nondescript trees and brush. The North Fork of the Altar ran through the basin. He followed it to an open space, where he found another pool of water. There again he watered his horse. Sitting on a huge rock near the water he drank the rest of the contents of the can of plums. He threw the can from him and watched it roll down a short slope into the river bed. For a time he sat, watching it. Then as a sharp sound reached his ears, he twisted around, slid down the rock, and landed between two huge boulders at the bottom of the slope near where the empty tin can had stopped rolling.

When he finally came to a halt one of his heavy Colt revolvers was in his hand; and with his body concealed between the boulders he listened for a repetition of the sound he had heard.

His horse had not moved, for the animal had made no sound. And yet, though Nolan was curious, he did not raise his head above the rock. One never knew what might happen in this section of the country. This was Mexico, and the outlaw, Zorilla, might have men in the vicinity. Or any other Mexican, filled with the Mexican national antipathy for Americans, might have developed notions.

Nolan was taking no chances. He kept himself concealed and strained his ears to catch all sound.

For a time he heard nothing. And then, when he had almost decided that the sharp sound he had heard had been made by some roaming animal breaking a twig, he heard it again.

The second sound resembled the first. It was sharp, crackling, near. This time Nolan established the direction from which it came. He peered cautiously around the boulder at his right and saw a man stealthily moving down the opposite slope of the river toward him.

The river bed at this point was not more than a dozen feet wide, and its banks were heavily studded with brush.

The man was lurching down the slope, holding to the trees and brush to keep from falling. His knees were sagging, his head was rolling; he seemed to have barely enough strength to walk. And apparently he did not see Nolan’s horse, for not once as he descended the slope did he gaze at the animal. His eyes, wild and inflamed, seemed to see nothing but the little pool of water, and he made queer little throat noises as he continued to half walk, half slide down the slope.

Nolan’s pity was instant, but still he did not move. This might be a ruse to bring him out of his concealment.

He waited, watching. The man reached the bottom of the slope, threw himself flat upon his stomach, and buried his face almost to his ears in the water.

Still Nolan did not move. He was aware that in his extremity of thirst the man might drink himself to death, and yet Nolan must crouch there and permit him to do so. For another sound had reached Nolan, and after a short interval another man came into view at the crest of the opposite slope.

The second man was big, florid. He wore black trousers, high-heeled black boots, a gray flannel shirt, a gray, wide-brimmed Stetson hat. Around his waist was a cartridge belt which bore at the right hip a holster. In the holster was a revolver of small calibre. The weapon had an ivory handle, for the man now drew it and levelled it at the drinking man. The big man’s eyes were glowing with an evil light. He meant to kill.

Then Nolan broke the silence.

“Sure, stranger,” he said, “shoot him in the back! There’s no chance of you gettin’ hurt that way!”

Nolan did not expose himself, and the man with the revolver stood erect and rigid, trying to discover from which direction the voice had come.

He had changed his mind about shooting the man who was drinking, for he had involuntarily raised both hands until the fingers were about level with his shoulders, and he looked harassed and uncertain. Meanwhile, the man at the bottom of the river bed continued to drink, as though completely oblivious to all things save the quenching of his thirst.

“Go down there an’ stop him!” ordered Nolan, speaking to the would-be killer. “He won’t stop until he kills himself!”

The other man slid down the slope. He seized the drinker by the collar and dragged him back. The drinker instantly stretched out on the sand of the river bed and drew a deep sigh of contentment.

“He’s had plenty,” said Nolan. “Now, stranger, put up your gun an’ tell me why you go around tryin’ to shoot men in the back. Talk fast!”

Nolan stood erect at the side of the boulder which had concealed him. He was irritated, and his gaze was level and steady.

“You’re interfering with the law!” declared the stranger. “My name is Ben Lathrop, and I’m a revenue officer from El Paso. This man”—he pointed to the drinker—“is a moonshiner. The Department has been after him for months. I have orders to bring him in. I’ve chased him from El Paso.”

“H’m,” said Nolan, “the one thing I admire about you revenue fellows is the way you hang on. But what makes you think you’ve got a right to play tag with your man when he’s in Mexico? You got extradition papers?”

“Don’t need them,” answered Lathrop. “We catch our man first and get the extradition papers afterward.”

“H’m,” said Nolan. “Laws don’t cut much of a figure with you as long as you get your man, eh?”

“I always get him!” declared Lathrop.

“I’ve noticed you tryin’ to get him. When you pulled that toy pistol you was figurin’ on givin’ him extradition papers to heaven, I reckon. Mebbe for the good of his soul, eh?”

Lathrop reddened. But there was malice in his gaze.

“Look here!” he said. “What business is this of yours? You are an American, ain’t you? You live close to the border or you wouldn’t be here right now. Well, I’m telling you this: if you keep on interfering with me, I’ll lay for you when you get back to the States, and I’ll haul you up for interfering with an officer!”

“Sometimes I get pretty close to losin’ my temper when I meet a man like you,” said Nolan. “I sure do. Here’s a poor devil that’s dragged himself to this water. He’s already half dead. Accordin’ to you, he’s a criminal. Well, say he is. No matter what he’s done in that moonshine deal he don’t deserve killin’. You ever been shot? You ever feel the burn of a bullet when it tears into you? You didn’t? Then you’ve got no right to do any shootin’.” Nolan was fingering his gun; he now lifted its muzzle until it gaped at Lathrop. Into Nolan’s eyes had come a glint of intolerance.

“I’ve got a notion to let you have the feel of a bullet,” he said. “The feelin’ will amaze you. If one even hits your arm, it feels like someone had busted you with a sledge hammer. If it goes into your chest it feels like someone was workin’ on you with a red-hot drill while somebody else is whackin’ you on the head with a mallet. If you’re shot in the back it feels like someone was stickin’ you with a fence post an’ shovin’ you forward on your face. Yes, shootin’ is an amazin’ thing; an’ it’s just such miserable shorthorns like you that’s always wantin’ to do it. I reckon I’ll just bore you once to give you the feel of it!”

Lathrop’s face whitened. He smiled stiffly.

“You’re talking high and mighty,” he said. “But if you think I run into this deal without anyone to back up my play you are fooled. There’s two of us. My partner, Abe Pennel, is back in the brush right now. He’s got you covered with his rifle. If you try any monkey business you’ll do some feeling yourself. Abe!” he called. “Tell this hombre where to head in at!”

“He’ll do his heading in if he lifts that gun any higher!” came a voice from the brush at the crest of the slope behind Lathrop. “I’ve got a dead bead on him.”

There came a ripple of cold laughter from another point in the brush. Lathrop started. Lathrop’s confederate, in the brush behind, cursed.

Nolan did not move, yet his eyes gleamed and a guilty smile curved his lips.

He knew that voice, even though it had merely emitted a ripple of laughter. He even caught the note of derision in the laughter, the taunt.

The owner of the voice was Bill Clelland!

“It’s curious how smart a man can talk when he thinks he’s got the drop on you, ain’t it, Jim?” said Clelland. His voice was so close that the sound of it now made Nolan almost jump.

“This guy in the brush, now,” Clelland went on. “While you an’ this Lathrop man has been talkin’, this guy’s been up here grinnin’ to himself. He’s been thinkin’ that when the time comes he’d bust in an’ salivate you. But right now he’s standin’ there with his knees knockin’ together. He’s dropped his rifle. You can go ahead with your talk, Jim; it was right interestin’. You was sayin’ somethin’ about shootin’ Lathrop. You go right ahead, just as though nothin’ had happened!”

Lathrop’s face was gray with fear. The ivory-handled gun dropped from his fingers; he stood facing Nolan, his eyes bulging, his mouth open.

Nolan grinned.

“Bill,” he said, “how did you know where I was headin’?”

“I was born with a cawl in one hand an’ a can of airtights in the other,” answered Clelland. “Besides, I’ve seen her.”

“An’ I thought I was sneakin’ away right clever,” mourned Nolan.

“A man in love is never clever, Jim,” said Clelland. “He’s blind an’ foolish an’ gentle. An’ when he goes to gazin’ into distances he’s got to have someone around him to see that he don’t go off an’ get himself killed. That’s why I’m hangin’ around, Jim. Go ahead an’ do your shootin’.”

But Nolan did not shoot. While Clelland had been talking, the beating of hoofs at a little distance had attracted Nolan’s attention; and now the sound grew louder and closer, and the four men at the river held their positions and waited, listening.

Presently a band of horsemen came into view from among the trees and rode directly toward the water. There were thirty or forty men in the band, and they were mostly Mexicans who rode mules or ewe-necked horses. But ahead of them rode two men who were evidently Americans. One of them was red-headed and freckled; the other was tall and austere, with a look of being accustomed to giving orders.

The tall man halted his horse as he reached the crest of the slope behind Nolan. His swift glance took in Nolan, Lathrop, and the fallen moonshiner. He looked straight at Nolan and held up a hand to halt the Mexicans, who were swarming forward.

“Sorry to break in on trouble this way, gentlemen,” he said. “But you should have warned us. If you feel like explaining, go ahead. If you don’t, we’ll keep right on riding.”

Nolan grinned at him.

“You’re that engineer I’ve been hearin’ about, I reckon,” he said. “Your name’s Dan Dean. Well, I’ve been tryin’ to convince this hombre an’ his friend, who is back there in the brush, that it ain’t decent to try to shoot a man in the back, especially when he’s flat on his stomach gettin’ himself a drink.”

Nolan explained further, and when he concluded Dean smiled.

“Unfortunately this is Mexico,” he said. “Lathrop and his friend Pennel have no authority to make a prisoner of the moonshiner. Of course, they couldn’t take him with you and your friend preventing them, and since our coming their chances have grown exceedingly slender, indeed. For our friend Don Pedro Bazan has issued a pronunciamento which immunizes from molestation a great many people, the moonshiner among them. I shouldn’t like to be near if Mr. Lathrop tried to take the moonshiner while the Mexicans are here. These feasts are sacred to them. I should advise you to grin and bear it, Mr. Lathrop.”

“What is the pronunciamento you are talking about?” asked Lathrop.

Dean told him, and Lathrop made a wry face.

“We quit,” he decided. “We’ll hang around until the week is up, and then we’ll grab our man.”

“Mebbe,” said Clelland. “Anyhow, if this hombre can fork a horse we’ll take him to the Mesa del Angeles. An’ when I tell him how you tried to shoot him in the back mebbe he’ll be tickled to death to know you’re hangin’ around.”