Читать книгу The Ranger and Other Stories - Zane Grey - Страница 8

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The bandit was out of reach of Vaughn’s eager hands. He sat back in the saddle with an expression of interest on his swarthy face. The ranger could not be sure, but he would have gambled that Juan did not suspect his deadly intentions. Star was a mettlesome animal, but Vaughn did not like the Mexican’s horse, to which he sat bound, and there were several feet between them. If Vaughn had been free to leap he might have, probably would have, done so.

He swallowed his eagerness and began to rub his wrists again. Presently he removed the pencil and book from his pocket. It was not mere pretense that made it something of an effort to write out a check for Juan Mendoz for the three thousand and odd dollars that represented his balance in the El Paso bank.

“There, Juan. May some gringo treat your chata someday as you treat Señorita Uvaldo,” said Vaughn, handing the check over to the Mexican.

“Gracias, señor,” replied Juan, his black eyes upon the bit of colored paper. “Uvaldo’s daughter then is your chata?”

“Yes. And I’ll leave a curse upon you if she is mistreated.”

“Ranger, I had my orders from Quinela. You would not have asked more.”

“What has Quinela against Uvaldo?” asked Vaughn.

“They were vaqueros together years ago. But I don’t know the reason for Quinela’s hate. It is great and just.... Now, señor, the letter to your banker.”

Vaughn tore a leaf out of his bankbook. On second thought he decided to write the letter in the bankbook, which would serve in itself to identify him. In case this letter ever was presented at the bank in El Paso he wanted it to mean something. Then it occurred to Vaughn to try out the Mexican. So he wrote a few lines.

“Read that, Juan,” he said, handing over the book.

The man scanned the lines, which might as well have been written in Greek.

“Texas Medill does not write as well as he shoots,” said Juan.

“Let me have the book. I can do better. I forgot something.”

Receiving it back Vaughn tore out the page and wrote another.

Dear Mr. Jarvis:

If you ever see these lines you will know that I have been murdered by Quinela. Have the bearer arrested and wire to Captain Allerton, of the Rangers, at Brownsville. At this moment I am a prisoner of Juan Mendoz, lieutenant of Quinela. Miss Roseta Uvaldo is also a prisoner. She will be held for ransom and revenge. The place is in the hills somewhere east and south of Rock Ford trail.

Medill

Vaughn reading aloud to the Mexican improvised a letter which identified him, and cunningly made mention of the gold.

“Juan, isn’t that better?” he said, as he handed the book back. “You’ll do well not to show this to Quinela or anyone else. Go yourself at once to El Paso.”

As Vaughn had expected the Mexican did not scan the letter. Placing the check in the bankbook he deposited it in an inside pocket of his tattered coat. Then without a word he drove Vaughn’s horse forward on the trail, and following close behind soon came up with Roseta and her guard.

The girl looked back. Vaughn contrived, without making it obvious, to show her that his hands were free. A look of radiance crossed her wan face. The exertion and suspense had begun to tell markedly. Her form sagged in the saddle.

Juan appeared bent on making up for lost time, as he drove the horses forward at a trot. But this did not last long. Vaughn, looking at the ground, saw the black shadow of the Mexican as he raised the demijohn to his mouth to drink. What a sinister shadow! It forced Vaughn to think of what now should be his method of procedure. Sooner or later he was going to get his hand on his gun, which stuck out back of Juan’s hip and hung down in its holster. That moment, when it came, would see the end of his captor. But Vaughn remembered how the horse he bestrode had bolted at the previous gunshot. He would risk more, shooting from the back of this horse than at the hands of the other Mexican. Vaughn’s feet were tied in the stirrups with the rope passing underneath the horse. If he were thrown sideways out of the saddle it would be a perilous and very probably a fatal accident. He decided that at the critical time he would grip the horse with his legs so tightly that he could not be dislodged, and at that moment decide what to do about the other Mexican.

After Juan had a second drink, Vaughn slowly slackened the gait of his horse until Juan’s mount came up to his horse’s flank. Vaughn was careful to keep to the right of the trail. One glance at the Mexican’s eyes sent a gush of hot blood over Vaughn. The effect of the canyu had been slow on this tough little man, but at last it was working.

“Juan, I’m powerful thirsty,” said Vaughn.

“Señor, we come to water hole bime-by,” replied the Mexican thickly.

“But won’t you spare me a nip of canyu?”

“Our mescal drink is bad for gringos.”

“I’ll risk it, Juan. Just a nip. You’re a good fellow and I like you. I’ll tell Quinela how you had to fight your men back there, when they wanted to kill me. I’ll tell him Garcia provoked you. ... Juan, you can see I may do you a turn.”

Juan came up alongside Vaughn and halted. Vaughn reined his horse head and head with Juan’s. The Mexican was sweating; his under lip hung a little; he sat loosely in his saddle. His eyes had lost their beady light and appeared to have filmed over.

Juan waited till the man ahead had turned another twist in the trail with Roseta. Then he lifted the obviously lightened demijohn from the saddlebag and extended it to Vaughn.

“A drop—señor,” he said.

Vaughn pretended to drink. The hot stuff was like vitriol on his lips. He returned the jug, making a great show of the effect of the canyu, when as a matter of cold fact he was calculating distances. Almost he yielded to the temptation to lean and sweep a long arm forward. But a ranger could not afford to make mistakes. If Juan’s horse had been a little closer! Vaughn expelled deeply his bated breath.

“Ah-h! Great stuff, Juan!” he exclaimed, and relaxed again.

They rode on, and Juan either forgot to drop behind or did not think it needful. The trail was wide enough for two horses. Soon Roseta’s bright red scarf burned against the gray-green brush again. She was looking back. So was her Mexican escort. And their horses were walking. Juan did not appear to take note of their slower progress. He long had passed the faculty for making minute observations. Presently he would take another swallow of canyu.

Vaughn began to talk, to express more gratitude to Juan, to dwell with flowery language on the effect of good drink—of which canyu was the sweetest and most potent in the world—of its power to make fatigue as if it were not, to alleviate pain and grief, to render the dreary desert of mesquite and stone a region of color and beauty and melody—even to resign a doomed ranger to his fate.

“Aye, señor—canyu is the blessed Virgin’s gift to the peon,” said Juan, and emphasized this tribute by having another generous drink.

They rode on. Vaughn asked only for another mile or two of lonely trail, free of interruption.

“How far, Juan?” asked Vaughn. “I cannot ride much farther with my feet tied under this horse.”

“Till sunset—señor—which will be your last,” replied the Mexican.

The sun was still high above the pipes of organ cactus. Two hours and more above the horizon! Juan could still speak intelligibly. It was in his lax figure and his sweating face, especially in the protruding eyeballs, that he betrayed the effect of the contents of the demijohn. After the physical letdown would come the mental slackening. That had already begun, for Juan was no longer alert.

They rode on, and Vaughn made a motion to Roseta that she must not turn to look back. Perhaps she interpreted it to mean more than it did, for she immediately began to engage her guard in conversation—something Vaughn had observed she had not done before. Soon the Mexican dropped back until his horse was walking beside Roseta’s. He was a peon, and a heavy drink of canyu had addled the craft in his wits. Vaughn saw him bend down and loosen the rope that bound Roseta’s left foot to the stirrup. Juan did not see this significant action. His gaze was fixed to the trail. He was singing:

“Ay, mía querida chata.”

Roseta’s guard took a long look back. Evidently Juan’s posture struck him apprehensively, yet did not wholly overcome the interest that Roseta had suddenly taken in him. When he gave her a playful pat she returned it. He caught her hand. Roseta did not pull very hard to release it, and she gave him another saucy little slap. He was reaching for her when they passed out of Vaughn’s sight round a turn in the green-bordered trail.

Vaughn gradually and almost imperceptibly guided his horse closer to Juan. At that moment a dog could be heard barking in the distance. It did not make any difference to Vaughn, except to accentuate what had always been true—he had no time to lose.

“Juan, the curse of canyu is that once you taste it you must have more—or die,” said Vaughn.

“It is—so—señor,” replied the Mexican.

“You have plenty left. Will you let me have one more little drink.... My last drink of canyu, Juan! ... I didn’t tell you, but it has been my ruin. My father was a rich rancher. He disowned me because of my evil habits. That’s how I became a ranger.”

“Take it, señor. Your last drink,” said Juan.

Vaughn braced every nerve and fiber of his being. He leaned a little. His left hand went out—leisurely. But his eyes flashed like cold steel over the unsuspecting Mexican. Then, with the speed of a striking snake, his hand snatched the bone-handled gun from its sheath. Vaughn pulled the trigger. The hammer fell upon an empty chamber.

Juan turned. The gun crashed. “Dios!” he screamed in a strangled death cry.

The leaps of the horses were not quicker than Vaughn. He lunged to catch the Mexican—to keep him upright in the saddle. “Hold, Star!” he called sternly. “Hold!”

Star came down. But the other horse plunged and dragged him up the trail. Vaughn had his gun hand fast on the cantle and his other holding Juan upright. But for this grasp the frantic horse would have unseated him.

It was the ranger’s job to manage both horses and look out for the other Mexican. He appeared on the trail riding fast, his carbine held high.

Vaughn let go of Juan and got the gun in his right hand. With the other then he grasped the Mexican’s coat and held him straight on the saddle. He drooped himself over his pommel, to make it appear he had been the one shot. Meanwhile, he increased his iron leg grip on the horse he straddled. Star had halted and was being dragged.

The other Mexican came at a gallop, yelling. When he got within twenty paces Vaughn straightened up and shot him through the heart. He threw the carbine from him and pitching out of his saddle, went thudding to the ground. His horse bumped hard into the one Vaughn rode, and that was fortunate, for it checked the animal’s first mad leap. In the melee that followed Juan fell off Star to be trampled under frantic hoofs. Vaughn hauled with all his might on the bridle. But he could not hold the horse and he feared that he would break the bridle. Bursting through the brush the horse ran wildly. What with his erratic flight and the low branches of mesquite, Vaughn had a hard job sticking on his back. Presently he got the horse under control and back onto the trail.

Some few rods down he saw Roseta, safe in her saddle, her head bowed with her hands covering her face. At sight of her Vaughn snapped out of the cold horror that had enveloped him.

“Roseta, it’s all right. We’re safe,” he called eagerly as he reached her side.

“Oh, Vaughn!” she cried, lifting her convulsed and blanched face. “I knew you’d—kill them.... But, my God—how awful!”

“Brace up,” he said sharply.

Then he got out his clasp knife and in a few slashes freed his feet from the stirrups. He leaped off the horse. His feet felt numb, as they had felt once when frozen.

Then he cut the ropes which bound Roseta’s right foot to her stirrup. She swayed out of the saddle into his arms. Her eyes closed.

“It’s no time to faint,” he said sternly, carrying her off the trail, to set her on her feet.

“I—I won’t,” she whispered, her eyes opening, strained and dilated. “But hold me—just a moment.”

Vaughn folded her in his arms, and the moment she asked was so sweet and precious that it almost overcame the will of a ranger in a desperate plight.

“Roseta—we’re free, but not yet safe,” he replied. “We’re close to a hacienda—perhaps where Quinela is waiting.... Come now. We must get out of here.”

Half carrying her, Vaughn hurried through the brush along the trail. The moment she could stand alone he whispered, “Wait here.” And he ran onto the trail. He still held his gun. Star stood waiting, his head up. Both other horses had disappeared. Vaughn looked up and down the trail. Star whinnied. Vaughn hurried to bend over Juan. The Mexican lay on his face. Vaughn unbuckled the gun belt Juan had appropriated from him, and put it on. Next he secured his bankbook. Then he sheathed his gun. He grasped the bridle of Star and led him off the trail into the mesquite, back to where Roseta stood. She seemed all right now, only pale. But Vaughn avoided her eyes. The thing to do was to get away and not let sentiment deter him one instant. He mounted Star.

“Come, Roseta,” he said. “Up behind me.”

He swung her up and settled her in the saddle.

“There. Put your arms round me. Hold tight, for we’re going to ride.”

When she had complied, he grasped her left arm. At the same moment he heard voices up the trail and the rapid clipclop of hoofs. Roseta heard them, too. Vaughn felt her tremble.

“Don’t fear, Roseta. Just you hang on. Here’s where Star shines,” whispered Vaughn, and guiding the nervous horse into the trail, he let him have a loose rein. Star did not need the shrill cries of the peons to spur him into action.