Читать книгу Port O' Gold - Louis J. Stellman - Страница 21

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Five horsemen rode into the morning sunshine down El Camino Real toward the south. One was Washington Bartlett, alcalde of Yerba Buena, whose rather pursy figure sat with an ungainly lack of grace the mettled horse which he bestrode. It was none other than Senora Windham's favorite and beloved mare "Diablo," filched from the Windham stables several days before. In compensation she received a bit of paper signifying that the animal was commandeered "for military necessity."

The rancheros were patient fellows, Bartlett reflected. If his conscience smote him sometimes, he took refuge in the knowledge that America was still at war with Mexico and that these horses were the property of alien enemies. Non-combatants, possibly. Yet they had failed in declaration of allegiance to the United States.

"I'll show you some excellent horseflesh today," he promised his companions. "And, what's better, you shall have your pick."

"Well, that's extraordinarily good of you, alcalde," said the man who rode beside him. "But … do you mean one gets these glorious animals--for love?"

"Not--er--exactly," Bartlett answered. "You see, my deputies and officers, like yourself, must ride about to make their observations and reports. Such are the needs of war."

"Of course," another rider nodded understandingly. "And as alcalde you have many deputies."

"As well as many--er--observation officers like ourselves to supply," a third supplemented, slyly dropping one eyelid.

The fourth man said nothing for a time. Then, rather unexpectedly, he asked: "And what do you give them in exchange, alcalde?"

Bartlett turned in some surprise. "I give them notes of hand," he answered half resentfully. "Notes redeemable in American gold--when the war is over."

"And, are these notes negotiable security? Will your shop-keepers accept them in lieu of coin?"

"At proper discounts--yes," said Bartlett, flushing.

"I have heard," the other remarked almost musingly, "that they are redeemable at from fifteen to twenty per cent. And that the only man who accepts them at even half of their face value is McTurpin the gambler."

"That is not my business," Bartlett answered brusquely. The quintet rode on, absorbed and silent. Below them swept green reaches of ranch land, dotted here and there with cattle and horses or the picturesque haciendas of old Spanish families. The camino stretched white and broad before them, winding through rolling hillocks, shaded sometimes by huge overhanging trees.

"Isn't this Francisco Sanchez, whom we go to visit, a soldier, a former commandante of your town, alcalde?" asked a rider.

"Yes, the same one who ran away when Montgomery came." Bartlett laughed. "It was several days before he dared come out of the brush to take a look at the 'gringo invader.'"

"I met him at the reception to Commodore Stockton," said the man who rode beside Bartlett. "He didn't impress me as a timid chap, exactly. Something of a fire-eater, I'd have said."

"Oh, they're all fire-eaters--on the surface," Bartlett's tone was disdainful. "But you may all judge for yourselves in a moment. For, if I'm not mistaken, he's coming up the road to meet us."

"By jove, he sits his horse like a king," said Bartlett's companion, admiringly. "Who are those chaps with him? Looks like a sort of--reception committee."

"They are Guerrero and Vasquez and--oh, yes, young Benito Windham," Bartlett answered. He spurred his horse and the others followed; there was something about the half careless formation of the four riders ahead which vaguely troubled the alcalde.

"Buenos dias, caballeros," he saluted in his faulty Spanish.

"Buenos dias, senors," Sanchez spoke with unusual crispness. "You have come for horses, doubtless, amigo alcalde?"

"Ah--er--yes," said Bartlett. "The necessities of war are great," he added apologetically.

"And suppose we refuse?" Benito Windham pressed forward, blazing out the words in passionate anger. "Suppose we deny your manufactured requisitions? Whence came the horse you sit like a very clown? I will tell you, tyrant and despoiler. It was stolen from my mother by your thieves."

"Benito, hold your peace," said Sanchez sternly. "I will deal with this good gentleman and his friends. They shall be our guests for a time."

As though the words had been a signal, five lariats descended apparently from a clear sky, each falling over the head of a member of Bartlett's party. They settled neatly and were tightened, pinning the arms of riders helplessly.

"Well done, amigos," commented Sanchez as a quintet of grinning vaqueros rode up from the rear. "As you have so aptly said, the necessities of war are paramount, alcalde."

"What's the meaning of this?" demanded Bartlett. "Release us instantly, or you shall suffer. Do you think," he sneered, "that a handful of greasers can defy the United States?"

"Perchance, with so important an official as the great Alcalde Bartlett for your hostage, we can reach a compromise on certain points," said Sanchez. "Come, you shall suffer no hardship, if you accept the situation reasonably."

"I warn you that this means death or imprisonment to all of you," Bartlett shouted.

"Ah, senor, the risks of war are many." Sanchez' teeth flashed. He clucked to his horse and the little cavalcade wound, single-file, up a narrow horse-trail toward the hills.

They passed many bands of horsemen, all armed, saluting Sanchez as their chief. Among them were owners and vaqueros from a score of ranches. There was something grim, determined in their manner which foreboded serious trouble.

One of Bartlett's fellow-captives leaned toward him, whispering: "Those fellows mean business. They're like hornets if you stir 'em up too far, these greasers."

"Yes, by Jove! And they mean to sting!" said another.