Читать книгу Wild Paradise - Kenneth Taylor Perkins - Страница 8

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“Excuse me, mister, but kin I buy you the next one?”

Dave Huppert turned around to see a head with a shock of silvery hair and two red eyes leering up across his shoulder.

“Do you know, mister, you’ve got the distinction of bein’ the one bird in the wide world which can break that little child’s heart.”

This opening naturally enough intrigued the young prospector.

“She’s a queer little kid,” the hostler went on. “Plumb full of phony ideas. Won’t let any of the trainers work any tricks with the led stock which includes bein’ cruel to ’em, nor with the big cats either. Phony ain’t it?

“But the animals know her ideas better than any of us humans with the show. Why they ain’t a cat in the whole show would so much as snarl at her.

“We had a lion went bad on us wunst. Escaped out of his cage. We found him in a barn eatin’ a horse which he’d just killed. No one dast go near.

“Then what should happen but this little kid—well, mister, I seen the picture with my own eyes. Her gold hair, you know, and her flashin’ white arms!

“Why she was right there in the stall—combin’ the lion’s mane with a Spanish comb I give her for her birthday! Magic comb that. She used it to curry down a leopard which had just killed two tent-peggers.”

“What do you mean by my breaking her heart?”

“Why bustin’ out of her room this way, swearin’ you’ll murder the boss. She can’t abide seein’ anything murdered—fish or fowl. She kin pretty near abide seein’ the boss git his—but not quite.

“Why, we had to kill a elephant wunst which was in musth and was tearin’ up a town. And she cried like it was her own child, which it was in a manner of speakin’. She’d raised it; healed it when his head steamed with fever—or he was in high-sterics.

“Works magic on ’em all. I heard once she brought a hedgehog back to life—after it was dead. But that I don’t necessarily swear by.”

Dave Huppert would have sworn by it. His steel-gray eyes softened. “You’re passing off some mighty queer statements, hombre,” he said, “but damned if I don’t believe you.”

Padin seemed tremendously pleased. “You see, pard, she’s got the trick of knowin’ just what a sick animal needs for to git cured. Whether it’s wolf or a wallapai, her prescription works.

“Now in the case of this horse, she knows just what he needs—a month in the desert where he belongs. A month with the right kind of a trainer. And that girl knows a horse lover when she sees one!”

“You mean you want me to take him to the desert?”

“You’ve guessed it!”

“You get hanged for horse stealing in this State,” the other replied.

“Granted. But you ain’t goin’ to steal him. That’s what I come to tell you about. The girl thought you was rich. I stretched a point there, I’ll admit.

“They said you was back with a new claim. I figured you’d discovered a mine—ain’t that natural? I ain’t a miner. Don’t know nothin’ about claims.

“Figured you could buy out the whole circus. Told her so. So she said maybe you’d buy Ali Baba and take him back to the sands of Araby—so to speak. I mean the sands of the desert down toward Mexico.”

“I will but the horse is worth ten times what I’ve got.”

“Oh, no. You’re mistaken. That horse belongs to the girl. But it’s contracted for. And she has to stick to the show doin’ her act, bein’ she’s supportin’ a widowed mother and three kid brothers back in Missouri.

“Ever since that horse come within smellin’ distance of sand, why the girl said she was goin’ to sell him to the first woolly cowboy that come along—so long as he looked as if he could manage him—and treat him kindly. Like a brother—that’s what she specified. And sure enough you come along——”

Yes—Dave remembered the girl’s words. She had been “watching for him.” And he had shown up at the right time.

“But lookee here, boy,” Padin said confidentially. “She’s so sot on seein’ that horse go wild out in the desert again, and with a wild master the likes of you, that she just now made up her mind to part with him. She’s satisfied that you’re the one man between here and the Suez Canal which can handle that horse—and use kindness in so doin’.”

“What do you mean? She’s not giving me the horse.”

“Not exactly. But she’s giving him to you—to take down into the Coyotero Desert and bring him back to life, so to speak. A little whiff of desert wind—and palms and date trees——”

“Your geography’s mixed, old duffer.”

“Oh, no. That’s what the stud had back in Arabia—and there’s plenty of desert trees here which he’ll recognize—I don’t mean necessarily date trees. But they’re desert trees just the same, and he’ll recognize them. And he’ll change to the prince that he once was.”

“She’s trusting her own horse with me—a stranger——”

“Sure. If you don’t come back—why she’ll be satisfied just the same that the horse got his innin’s. If you do come back—why she’ll be waitin’ for you in Tucson where they’re puttin’ up our advance advertisin’ paper now. Bein’ that’s our showstand next month.”

“How about this skunk Vasto?”

“Ah, yes. Now you’ve asked me somethin’, mister. Why he mustn’t know. If he sees you ridin’ out to the desert with our star horse, he’ll just git his con men to go after you and plug you.

“It’s got to be done on the Q. T. Tonight I’ll meet you in some place you kin designate—where no one will find us. Midnight it must be.

“Then in the mornin’, I bein’ the boss hostler of this aggregation, I’ll spread it around that Ali Baba has been stole by Mexicans.”

“I told you what I’d get stealing a horse.”

“But you ain’t really stealin’.”

“If it looks that way—I get hanged without trial——”

“Oh yes, I know. But just hop on Ali Baba’s back and see who kin hang you! You’ll beat the Santa Fee overland into California if you’re of that mind.”

He took Dave’s arm. “You ain’t backin’ down, mister. You cain’t refuse that little kid any desire she specifies.”

“I didn’t say I was backing down,” Dave rejoined. “Only you better go easy about giving that alarm of a rustled horse—or my name’s adobe mud.”

“Where’ll I meet yer?”

“There’s a gulch down at the end of the main street—a half mile beyond the cantina.”

“I’ll be there at midnight,” the other said out of the corner of his tobacco-stained lips.

“What’ll it be this time,” Dave asked, as they both turned to the bar.

“Champagne,” said the old hostler.

“Two shots of redeye,” Dave stipulated to the barkeep.

Early the following morning Sheriff Flapjohn was summoned from a sound sleep.

One of Vasto’s men, a gnarled mozo with red eyes and stained teeth, announced that a horse had been stolen—the horse, the headliner of the Vasto Rodeo & Circus Co!

The obese Flapjohn, puffing and wheezing, pulled on his jack boots, his hat, his holster, and went out into the cool desert dawn.

In the lot between the Rex Cantina and the Frontier Palace Hotel, the big top of Vasto’s show was already down, unlaced, but it was not as yet stowed with the poles aboard the wagons. The chuck wagon, wardrobe wagon and cage-wagon were still arranged on the three sides of the sand lot, their wheels in purple sage.

The elephant was there, weaving up and down at his peg—for the excitement of every man, woman and child of the organization had been easily sensed by the old Mayor of Bombay. The zebra was at his picket line, his mule-like tail swishing at blowflies.

The acrobat, the bareback rider, the clowns, the candy butcher, the canvas men were gathered about a grim and badly battered gentleman whose two blackened eyes had been carefully painted with grease paint. There was a palaver as excited as that going on in the monkey cage.

Sheriff Flapjohn elbowed his way into the crowd.

“Oh, there you are, are you!” the man with the flesh painted eyes roared. It was Vasto himself. “A hell of a sheriff you are! First you agree to take a good slice out of our receipts for protection—then you let one of your gunmen attack me. And now look what’s happened. My star performer——”

“Ali Baba—the white stallion——” others chimed in. “He’s gone, sheriff!”

“What do you mean gone?”

“Some one’s stole’ him.”

“ ’Tain’t possible,” said the sheriff. “No one could rustle a big white stallion like that. Ain’t no one fool enough to try.”

“Well, he’s rustled just the same!” Vasto snapped back. “He didn’t just gallop off. We’re too careful about that. My boss hostler here keeps him tethered same as if he was a herd of elephants.”

The old red-eyed hostler spoke up: “The halter was cut, sheriff. Lookee here. That don’t look like the knot was untied? We don’t tie no knots. Ali Baba’s been taught to untie ’em with his teeth. Some one cut this halter and got away with him. Ten thousand dollars—that’s what that horse is worth.”

“They’s some mistake, gents,” the sheriff said. “Ain’t no one would take a hoss like that. These here rustlers—Injuns and breeds—they wouldn’t dast take a hoss of that thar nature. A stray fuzztail mebbe—but a stallion like that. No gents. ’Tain’t possible.”

“You mean you ain’t goin’ to help me get my horse back?” Vasto exclaimed belligerently. “And after the graft you worked yesterday!”

The sheriff flushed. But he was diplomatic. He wiped his moon face.

“I don’t figure we’ll have any trouble gettin’ that thar animal back, Mr. Vasto.”

“Well, how are you goin’ to git started?”

Flapjohn pulled thoughtfully at his red mustache.

“I’d like to clear up a point first,” he said. “Bein’ you’re so all-fired certain they’s a rustler made off with him, are you figurin’ on offerin’ a reward?”

“A thousand dollars—for the horse and the man who took him. I want the horse alive—but the rustler can be a carcass for all I care.”

“That makes it much simpler,” said the man with the star. “I’ll post up a reward right now. And then we kin git started huntin’.”

A sheepherder who kept a shack at the lower end of Cobb’s Coulee rode up to the lot.

“What’s all this I hear about your white stallion bein’ rustled, gents?”

The story was told. Then:

“I seen him last night,” said the herder.

“Seen him? Where? Why didn’t you tell us? Seen a horse bein’ rustled? And you didn’t give the warnin’?”

“I seen that stranger who beat you up yesterday ridin’ out to the desert,” the herder explained. “He was ridin’ his own pinto—and leadin’ a white hoss. I wasn’t close enough to see what the white hoss was. But now I reckon you-all have a clew.”

Without a word Sheriff Flapjohn turned upon his heels and ran to the corral behind his office.

“We’ll git your man all righto!” the sheepherder cried to the gaping circus folk.

Vasto left his men and went after the sheriff. He found him ordering a stable mozo to fix up a food and waterpack. Flapjohn himself went into his office to take stock of his six-gun and cartridges.

Vasto followed.

“Now that we’re alone, sheriff,” the circus owner said, “I’ve got a thing or two to tell you.”

Flapjohn knew that this was to be a private interview. He closed the door, and without looking up laid a long row of cartridges on his desk.

“I understand, sheriff,” Vasto said, “that there’s been a sort of custom around this Coyotero Desert that when you find a rustler with the goods, you figure it’s best to hang him on the spot.”

“In some cases,” the other said non-committally. “But this bird who stole your hoss——”

“Just a minute. I’ve heard that a trial often results in acquittal——”

“In certain cases,” the other repeated in the same tone. “But I don’t figure this hellbender will have much of a chanst thataway.”

“Still and all, sheriff, I’ve heard there are delays. You have to find witnesses. Can’t always get ’em. Some of ’em are afraid to testifyin’ against an outlaw. Because shootin’ at sight bein’ prevalent in these parts, they’re liable to find themselves dumped in the sawdust while they’re peaceably takin’ a snootful of liquor at some bar.”

“That thar ain’t a oncommon practice, Mr. Vasto,” the other agreed genially.

“Furthermore, some of the poor ranchers can’t afford to meet the expense of bringing a man to trial—even though they know him to be guilty.”

“Granted. But——”

“And it’s known that you can’t just take a rustler to trial, find a judge, and have him condemned to death. You have to git evidence. And evidence down in the Coyotero Desert is hard to transport into a court room. At best, it’s circumstantial.”

“Very often.”

“Therefore, it is a custom for ranchers hereabouts—and in all Western frontiers where shootin’ and rustlin’ is common—to wink at any sheriff who takes it into his head to hang a rustler.”

“Any sheriff that does that promiscuous-like gets a hell of a name, Mr. Vasto. Lots of such-like sheriffs turn out to be bad men—with the name and fear-sway of bad men.” He yanked uneasily at his mustache.

“As for me myself, I’ve used them methods wunst in awhile. Right now, I’ve got a bad name. That’s why I always wants a good reward specified, and I want the reward myself. Because every rustler I hang, stretches my reputation considerable, as you might say.

“I come back, give as my excuse that they ain’t no jails to keep ’em in, and that if I’d try to tote a regular hellbender up from the Coyotero I’d git bumped off on the way by one of his gang.”

“Fine! That’s where I’m leadin’ to,” Vasto declared exuberantly. “The answer to it all is, Mr. Sheriff, I want you to kill this horse thief. That’s more important than gettin’ the horse.

“He cut me up proper yesterday before all my men. And I ain’t goin’ to sleep peaceful till I know he’s dead—and through my own order.”

“This ain’t the middle ages, Mr. Vasto.”

“I’ll be damned if it ain’t. You’ve got the power of life and death over a man who’s stole a horse. And you’ll use it. You git a thousand cold smackers——”

“I ain’t to be bribed, Mr. Vasto,” said the other. “Although it would be the easiest thing in the world if I go down there with a posse and glom onto that hellbender, to leave my men hang him.

“They’ll want to do it. Ain’t never rode with a posse but that the alkali gits ’em all het up and they want to hang a man soon as they catch him. Sometimes they wait an hour—because it takes an hour to find a tree down in them bad lands.

“Sometimes they don’t allow him a minute to say his prayers. But if that happens this time I’m going to object. It’s ag’in’ my conscience.”

“A thousand bones——”

The sheriff shook his head. But he was pulling at his red mustache, and Vasto, a born mind reader, knew what was going to happen.

“If I bring the hellbender back and deliver him to you,” Sheriff Flapjohn said miserably, “will that be as well?”

“As well? Damn me, it’ll be a thousand times better!”

“But it’ll have to be done in secret, you understand that.”

“Don’t think I’m an ass, Mr. Sheriff.”

“Where’s this here show travelin’ to after it leaves Cobb’s Coulee? Mule Town, you said? Then let me see.” He shoved the end of his mustache into his mouth. “Let me think this out. It may take a day to trail this bird; it may take a week.”

“I’ll wait in Mule Town a month,” the other suggested eagerly.

“When I git him, I’ll bring him to a deserted ranch seven miles south of Mule Town. I’ll send a messenger to you tellin’ you he’s there.”

“It’s settled.”

“Bring the reward in cash, Mr. Vasto.”

“Don’t worry about that. If you give me that gunman alive, it’ll be worth a thousand for me to have him alone, for just fifteen minutes.”

Sheriff Flapjohn did not shake on this deal. His eyes dropped. He wiped his rusty moon face.

A little later Vasto saw him riding southward out of town.

Mlle. Posey Nuggins had heard this commotion in the circus lot. It was not long before she learned what had happened. Just what the circumstances were she could not guess. It was all too mysterious. But the answer was plain enough: that desert prospector had, like all other men, succumbed to her charms. And he had granted her wish! Ali Baba was free!

But Posey could not be satisfied with merely the conclusion. She must know something of the premises. She searched out the boss hostler, called him from the crowd of tent-peggers and animal trainers before whom he was declaiming, and asked him point-blank:

“Padin, just what happened?”

Padin’s red eyes looked startled. His leathery skin broke out with blinks of sweat. He started in bravely, then his voice broke and he said softly: “I reckon it’s plain enough to you, mam’zelle. You know everything. More’n I do.”

“The last I saw of that prospector he was on his way to Vasto—and it looked as if he was going to finish him up right—if I could judge the blaze in his eyes. Thought he was going to murder him. But then—I sent you——”

“You sent me to stop him. Well, I did. Right thar in the dance hall. We had a few drinks, a talk. He said he couldn’t buy the hoss, but he’d free him one way or another. I didn’t know what he meant. I knew well enough that he’d do somethin’ rash, bein’ you’d worked the same witchcraft on him you do on anythin’ that lives and breathes, be it a man or a elephant.”

“Is that all you know, Padin—look me in the eye now you old four-flusher! Look me in the eye!”

This was the wish which Padin could not for the life of him satisfy. He could lie to any one in the world—with the blandest, most innocent look ever seen on the face of man. But he could not look this girl in the eye when he lied.

He mumbled for a moment, casting around for the best way out of this difficulty. Finally he found courage.

“You see, mam’zelle, it was like this, and if I ain’t speakin’ the honest-to-God truth you strike me dead here at your feet!

“I sort of felt that woolly young fellow was goin’ to up and steal the horse right under our very noses. Bein’ he was completely under your spell and would do anything.

“So I sort of made it easy. Told the hoss-boys around the picket line they could go for the night; enjoy theirselfs gamblin’ and sousin’. I said I’d stay on watch.

“Along about midnight he showed up. Had a red bandanna drew across his face. But I couldn’t help knowin’ those gray eyes of his. They just hypnotized me. Worse’n Madame Zuzu and her educated vipers!”

He shivered in the recollection—or I should say the fictitious recollection of that experience. “I felt a ice-cold gun muzzle breathin’ ag’in’ the back of my neck!”

It occurred to him, as soon as he had made this artistic statement, that to see the gray viper eyes and also be held up from behind was a difficult situation to visualize without proper explanation. He hastened to add:

“He made me stick up my hands. I wouldn’t do it.

“Not me! Quick as a flash I turned around ready to fight with my bare hands, when I seen them eyes! Then it was I knew him.

“And I stuck my hands up so quick that he actually blinked in surprise. He must of wondered how my hands was up—when he could of swore they was down at my side!”

“Go on with the rest!” she said impatiently. “You’re a whiz-bang with your hands, I grant that. But the horse——”

“Oh, yes, the hoss. Well, mam-zelle, they ain’t any more to tell. He hopped on and with a gun in each hand went gallopin’ like a streak of lightnin’ off for the desert. I followed. But it was no use. The last I seen of him, he was sailin’ away over sand and rocks, headin’ straight for the Rio Grande.”

Neither Padin nor the girl realized that the Rio Grande was nowhere near Arizona, but this slight geographical inaccuracy was of little importance. The main point about Padin’s yarn was already a proven fact: Ali Baba was gone.

“I didn’t think that young kid would actually steal the horse!” the girl exclaimed in a surprised tone.

“Neither did I! You could of knocked me over with a feather!” Padin agreed. “But you can’t always tell! You’d witched him with your eyes, mam-zelle! How could he refuse? None of us can ever refuse your wishes, can we now?

“If you ask anyone—be he a clown or a cowboy—your slightest wish is granted, ain’t it now? And you sure had that raw-boned yokel goin’ in circles, I’ll say!”

“But if he’s caught!”

“Caught? With Ali Baba to escape on?”

“Vasto’s pretty well worked up. He’ll give a reward. If the boy’s ever caught——”

“Why a trial will free him. Me and you can argue these rustics out of their eye teeth. We’ll save him! I’ve got a trick or two at argufyin’. And all as you have to do is to wink at the twelve good men and true—and there you are!”

Optimistic as this version seemed, the girl believed it.

“I didn’t think I was turning him into a regular outlaw!” she said. “But he certainly looked like one at that! First I had him swaggering off to commit murder, then he steals our best horse! Well, I’m handing it to him for a sport anyway!

“But if they catch him we’re sticking by him, you understand that, Padin?”

“Sure I understand it! We’ll save him. A trial won’t amount to nothin’. Murder would be different. But just stealin’ a hoss—why that’s nothin’. These Westerners are big-minded yokels. What’s a hoss to them? Why just look at the droves of ’em all about!

“All a man has to do around here is to go out and rope one and pay a Injun five dollars to bust it. Stealin’ a hoss in this country is like stealin’ a umbrella back East.”

This seemed to comfort the girl tremendously. Yes, in a country where horses could be had for the asking, it would certainly be a crime condonable under the circumstances.

She put her arms about the white-headed, comforting old liar.

“The main thing is that Ali Baba is free at last!” she said. “But remember this, Padin, if that boy gets into trouble you and I are sticking to him like barnacles!”

The boss hostler went back to his picket line and the led stock. He was happy when the girl was happy. And he complimented himself on his successful, convincingly dramatic methods of argument. He was never beaten. You just simply couldn’t help believing him!