Читать книгу Jim Waring of Sonora-Town; Or, Tang of Life - Henry Herbert Knibbs - Страница 6

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Donovan's Hand

Waring was up with the first faint streak of dawn. He threw hay to the horses and strode briskly to the adobe. Juan Armigo was bending over the kitchen stove. Waring nodded to him and stepped to the next room. The Mexicans were asleep; young Ramon lying face down beneath the crucifix on the wall, where he had knelt in prayer most of the night.

Waring drew back quietly.

"Let them sleep," he told Juan in the kitchen.

After frijoles and coffee, the gunman rose and gestured to Juan to follow him.

Out near the corral, Waring turned suddenly. "You say that young Ramon is straight?"

"Si, señor. He is a good boy."

"Well, he's in dam' bad company. How about Vaca?"

Juan Armigo shrugged his shoulders.

"Are you afraid of him, Juan?"

"No. But if he were to ask me for anything, it would be well to let him have it."

"I see. So he sent young Ramon in here for two extra horses, and you were afraid to refuse. I had thought you were an honest man. After I have gone, go hunt up those horses in the cañon. And if any one from Sonora rides in here and asks about Ramon or Vaca or me, you don't know anything about us. Sabe? If your horses are found before you get to them, some one stole them. Do these things. I don't want to come back to see if you have done them."

Juan Armigo nodded, gazing at Waring with crafty eyes. So the gringo was tempted by the gold. He would ride back to Sonora, find the stolen money in the house of Pedro Salazar, and keep it. It would be a very simple thing to do. Young Ramon would be afraid to speak and José Vaca would have disappeared. The gringo could swear that he had not found the bandits or the gold. So reasoned Juan, his erstwhile respect for the gunman wavering as the idea became fixed. He grinned at Waring. It would be a good trick; to steal the gold from the stealers. Of a certainty the gringo was becoming almost as subtle as a Mexican.

Waring was not pleased as he read the other's eyes, but he said nothing. Turning abruptly, he entered the corral and saddled Ramon's horse and his own.

"Get José Vaca out of here as soon as he can travel," he told Armigo. "You may have to explain if he is found here." And Waring strode to the adobe.

Ramon was awake and talking with his uncle. Waring told him to get something to eat. Then he turned to Vaca.

"José," he began pleasantly, "you tried to get me yesterday, but you only spoiled a good Stetson. See? You shot high. When you go for a man again, start in at his belt-buckle and get him low. We'll let that go this time. When you can ride, take your cayuse and fan it anywhere—but don't ride back to Sonora. I'll be there. I'm going to herd young Ramon back home. He is isn't your kind. You are free. Don't jabber. Just tell all that to your saints. And if you get caught, don't say that you saw me. Sabe?"

The wounded man raised himself on his elbow, glaring up at Waring with feverish eyes. "You give me my life. I shall not speak."

"Bueno! And you said in the house of Pedro Salazar?"

"Si! Near the acequia."

"The Placeta Burro. I know the place. You'll find your horse and a saddle when you are able to ride."

The bandit's eyes glistened as he watched Waring depart. If the gringo entered the house of Pedro Salazar, he would not find the gold and he would not come out alive. The gringo gunman had killed the brother of Pedro Salazar down in the desert country years ago. And Salazar had had nothing to do with the Ortez Mine robbery. Vaca thought that the gold was still safe in his tapaderas. The gringo was a fool.

Waring led the two saddled horses to the house. Ramon, coming from the kitchen, blinked in the sunlight.

"It is my horse, but not my saddle, señor."

"You are an honest man," laughed Waring. "But we won't change saddles.

Come on!"

Ramon mounted and rode beside Waring until they were out of sight of the ranch-house, when Waring reined up.

"Where is that money?" he asked suddenly.

"I do not know, señor."

"Did you know where it was yesterday?"

Ramon hesitated. Was this a trap? Waring's level gaze held the young

Mexican to a straight answer.

"Si, señor. I knew—yesterday."

"You knew; but you didn't talk up when your uncle tried to run me into

Pedro Salazar."

"I—he is of my family."

"Well, I don't blame you. I see that you can keep from talking when you have to. And now is your chance to do a lot of keeping still. I'm going to ride into Sonora ahead of you. When you get in, go home and forget that you made this journey. If your folks ask where your uncle is, tell them that he rode south and that you turned back. Because you did didn't lie to me, and because you did didn't show yellow, I'm going to give you a chance to get out of this. I let your uncle go because he would have given you away to save himself the minute I jailed him in Sonora. It's up to you to keep out of trouble. You've had a scare that ought to last you. Take your time and hit Sonora about sundown. Adios."

"But—señor!"

Waring whirled his horse. "A good rider shoves his foot clear home," he called as he loped away.

Ramon sat his horse, gazing at the little puffs of dust that shot from the hoofs of the big buckskin. Surely the gringo was mad! Yet he was a man of big heart. Perplexed, stunned by the realization that he was alone and free, the young Mexican gazed about him. Waring was a tiny figure in the distance. Ramon dismounted and examined the empty tapaderas.

Heretofore he had considered subtlety, trickery, qualities to be desired, and not incompatible with honor. In a flash he realized the difference, the distinction between trickery and keenness of mind. He had been awed by his uncle's reputation and proud to name him of this family. Now he saw him for what he was. "My Uncle José is a bad man," he said to himself. "The other—the gringo whom men call 'The Killer,'—he is a hard man, but assuredly he is not bad."

When Ramon spoke to his horse his voice trembled. His hand drifted up to the little silver crucifix on his breast. A vague glimmer of understanding, a sense of the real significance of the emblem heartened him to face the journey homeward and the questions of his kin. And, above all, he felt an admiration for the gringo that grew by degrees as he rode on. He could follow such a man to the end of the world, even across the border of the Great Unknown, for surely such a leader would not lose the way.

* * * * *

Three men sat in the office of the Ortez Mines, smoking and saying little. Donovan, the manager; the paymaster, Quigley; and the assistant manager, a young American fresh from the East. Waring's name was mentioned. Three days ago he had ridden south after the bandits. He might return. He might not.

"I'd like to see him ride in," said Donovan, turning to the paymaster.

"And you hate him at that," said Quigley.

"I don't say so. But if he was paymaster here, he'd put the fear of God into some of those greasers."

Quigley flushed. "You didn't hire me to chase greasers, Donovan. I'm no gunman."

"No," said Donovan slowly. "I had you sized up."

"Oh, cut out that stuff!" said the assistant manager, smiling. "That won't balance the pay-roll."

"No. But I'm going to cut down expenses." And Donovan eyed Quigley. "Jim Waring is too dam' high and mighty to suit me. Every time he tackles a job he is the big boss till it's done. If he comes back, all right. If he don't—we'll charge it up to profit and loss. But his name goes off the pay-roll to-day."

Quigley grinned. He knew that Donovan was afraid of Waring. Waring was the one man in Donovan's employ that he could not bully. Moreover, the big Irishman hated to pay Waring's price, which was stiff.

"How about a raise of twenty-five a month, then?" queried Quigley.

To his surprise, Donovan nodded genially. "You're on, Jack. And that goes the minute Waring shows up with the money. If he doesn't show up—why, that raise can wait."

"Then I'll just date the change to-day," said Quigley. "Take a look down the street."

Donovan rose heavily and stepped to the window. "By God, it's Waring, all right! He's afoot. What's that he's packing?"

"A canteen," said the assistant manager. "This is a dry country."

Donovan returned to his desk. "Get busy, at something. We don't want to sit here like a lot of stuffed buzzards. We're glad to see Waring back, of course. You two can drift out when I get to talking business with him."

Quigley nodded and took up his pen. The assistant manager studied a map.

Waring strode in briskly. The paymaster glanced up and nodded, expecting Donovan to speak. But Donovan sat with his back toward Waring, his head wreathed in tobacco smoke. He was apparently absorbed in a letter.

The gunman paused halfway across the office. Quigley fidgeted. The assistant superintendent stole a glance at Donovan's broad back and smiled. All three seemed waiting for Waring to speak. Quigley rather enjoyed the situation. The assistant superintendent's scalp prickled with restrained excitement.

He rose and stepped to Donovan. "Mr. Donovan, Mr. Waring is here."

"Thanks," said Waring, nodding to the assistant.

Donovan heaved himself round. "Why, hello, Jim! I didn't hear you come in."

Waring's cool gray eyes held Donovan with a mildly contemptuous gaze.

Still the gunman did not speak.

"Did you land 'em?" queried Donovan.

Waring shook his head.

"Hell!" exclaimed Donovan. "Then, what's the answer?"

"Bill, you can't bluff worth a damn!"

Quigley laughed. The assistant mopped his face with an immaculate handkerchief. The room was hot.

"Bill," and Waring's voice was softly insulting, "you can't bluff worth a damn."

Donovan's red face grew redder. "What are you driving at, anyway?"

Quigley stirred and rose. The assistant got to his feet.

"Just a minute," said Waring, gesturing to them to sit down. "Donovan's got something on his mind. I knew it the minute I came in. I want you fellows to hear it."

Donovan flung his half-smoked cigar to the floor and lighted a fresh one. Waring's attitude irritated him. Officially, Donovan was Waring's superior. Man to man, the Sonora gunman was Donovan's master, and the Irishman knew and resented it.

He tried a new tack. "Glad to see you back, Jim." And he rose and stuck out a sweating hand.

Waring swung the canteen from his shoulder and carefully hung the strap over Donovan's wrist. "There's your money, Bill. Count it—and give me a receipt."

Donovan, with the dusty canteen dangling from his arm, looked exceedingly foolish.

Waring turned to Quigley. "Bill's got a stroke," he said, smiling.

"Quigley, give me a receipt for a thousand dollars."

"Sure!" said Quigley, relieved. The money had been stolen from him.

Waring pulled up a chair and leaned his elbows on the table. Quigley unscrewed the cap of the canteen. A stream of sand shot across a map. The assistant started to his feet. Quigley shook the canteen and poured out a softly clinking pile of gold-pieces. One by one he sorted them from the sand and counted them.

"One thousand even. Where'd you overtake Vaca and his outfit?"

"Did I?" queried Waring.

"Well, you got the mazuma," said Quigley. "And that's good enough for me."

Donovan stepped to the table. "Williams, I won't need you any more to-day."

The assistant rose and left the office. Donovan pulled up a chair. "Never mind about that receipt, Quigley. You can witness that Waring returned the money. Jim, here, is not so dam' particular."

"No, or I wouldn't be on your pay-roll," said Waring.

Donovan laughed. "Let's get down to bed-rock, Jim. I'm paying you your own price for this work. The Eastern office thinks I pay too high. I got a letter yesterday telling me to cut down expenses. This last holdup will make them sore. Here's the proposition. I'll keep you on the pay-roll and charge this thousand up to profit and loss. Nobody knows you recovered this money except Williams, and he'll keep still. Quigley and you and I will split it—three hundred apiece."

"Suppose I stay out of the deal," said Waring.

"Why, that's all right. I guess we can get along."

Quigley glanced quickly at Waring. Donovan's proposal was an insult intended to provoke a quarrel that would lead to Waring's dismissal from the service of the Ortez Mines. Or if Waring were to agree to the suggestion, Donovan would have pulled Waring down to his own level.

Waring slowly rolled a cigarette. "Make out my check," he said, turning to Quigley.

Donovan sighed. Waring was going to quit. That was good. It had been easy enough.

Quigley drafted a check and handed it to Donovan to sign. As the paymaster began to gather up the money on the table, Waring pocketed the check and rose, watching Quigley's nervous hands.

As Quigley tied the sack and picked it up, Waring reached out his arm. "Give it to me," he said quietly. Quigley laughed. Waring's eyes were unreadable.

The smile faded from Quigley's face. Without knowing just why he did it, he relinquished the sack.

Waring turned to Donovan. "I'll take care of this, Bill. As I told you before, you can't bluff worth a damn."

Waring strode to the door. At Quigley's choked exclamation of protest, the gunman whirled round. Donovan stood by the desk, a gun weaving in his hand.

"You ought to know better than to pull a gun on me," said Waring. "Never throw down on a man unless you mean business, Bill."

The door clicked shut.

Donovan stood gazing stupidly at Quigley. "By cripes!" he flamed suddenly. "I'll put Jim Waring where he belongs. He can't run a whizzer like that on me!"

"I'd go slow," said Quigley. "You don't know what kind of a game Waring will play."

Donovan grabbed the telephone and called up the Sonora police.