Oh, You Tex!. William MacLeod Raine

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СКАЧАТЬ they had made camp and eaten, the two men sat beside the flickering fire, and Moore told stories of the wild and turbulent life he had known around Dodge City and in the Lincoln County War that was still waging in New Mexico. He had freighted to the Panhandle from El Moro, Colorado, from Wichita Falls, and even from Dodge. The consummate confidence of the man soothed the unease of the young fellow with the hogskin belt. This plainsman knew all that the Southwest had to offer of danger and was equal to any of it.

      Presently Arthur Ridley grew drowsy. The last that he remembered before he fell asleep was seeing Moore light his pipe again with a live coal from the fire. The Texan was to keep the first watch.

      It was well along toward morning when the snapping of a bush awakened Ridley. He sat upright and reached quickly for the revolver by his side.

      "Don't you," called a voice sharply from the brush.

      Two men, masked with slitted handkerchiefs, broke through the shin-oak just as Arthur whipped up his gun. The hammer fell once—twice, but no explosion followed. With two forty-fives covering him, Ridley, white to the lips, dropped his harmless weapon.

      Moore came to life with sleepy eyes, but he was taken at a disadvantage, and with a smothered oath handed over his revolver.

      "Wha-what do you want?" asked Ridley, his teeth chattering.

      The shorter of the two outlaws, a stocky man with deep chest and extraordinarily broad shoulders, growled an answer.

      "We want that money of Clint Wadley's you're packin'."

      The camp-fire had died to ashes, and the early-morning air was chill. Arthur felt himself trembling so that his hands shook. A prickling of the skin went goose-quilling down his back. In the dim light those masked figures behind the businesslike guns were sinister with the threat of mystery and menace.

      "I—haven't any money," he quavered.

      "You'd better have it, young fellow, me lad!" jeered the tall bandit. "We're here strictly for business. Dig up."

      "I don't reckon he's carryin' any money for Clint," Moore argued mildly. "Don't look reasonable that an old-timer like Clint, who knocked the bark off'n this country when I was still a kid, would send a tenderfoot to pack gold 'cross country for him."

      The tall man swung his revolver on Moore. "'Nuff from you," he ordered grimly.

      The heavy-set outlaw did not say a word. He moved forward and pressed the cold rim of his forty-five against the forehead of the messenger. The fluttering heart of the young man beat hard against his ribs. His voice stuck in his throat, but he managed to gasp a surrender.

      "It's in my belt. For God's sake, don't shoot."

      "Gimme yore belt."

      The boy unbuckled the ribbon of hogskin beneath his shirt and passed it to the man behind the gun. The outlaw noticed that his fingers were cold and clammy.

      "Stand back to back," commanded the heavy man.

      Deftly he swung a rope over the heads of his captives, jerked it tight, wound it about their bodies, knotted it here and there, and finished with a triple knot where their heels came together.

      "That'll hold 'em hitched a few minutes," the lank man approved after he had tested the rope.

      "I'd like to get a lick at you fellows. I will, too, some day," mentioned Moore casually.

      "When you meet up with us we'll be there," retorted the heavy-weight. "Let's go, Steve."

      The long man nodded. "Adiós, boys."

      "See you later, and when I meet up with you, it'll be me 'n' you to a finish," the Texan called.

      The thud of the retreating, hoofs grew faint and died. Already Moore was busy with the rope that tied them together.

      "What's the matter, kid? You shakin' for the drinks? Didn't you see from the first we weren't in any danger? If they'd wanted to harm us, they could have shot us from the brush. How much was in that belt?"

      "Six thousand dollars," the boy groaned.

      "Well, it doesn't cost you a cent. Cheer up, son."

      By this time Moore had both his arms free and was loosening one of the knots.

      "I was in charge of it. I'll never dare face Mr. Wadley."

      "Sho! It was his own fault. How in Mexico come he to send a boy to market for such a big stake?"

      "Nobody was to have known what I came for. I don't see how it got out."

      "Must 'a' been a leak somewhere. Don't you care. Play the hand that's dealt you and let the boss worry. Take it from me, you're lucky not to be even powder-burnt when a shot from the chaparral might have done yore business."

      "If you only hadn't fallen asleep!"

      "Reckon I dozed off. I was up 'most all last night." Moore untied the last knot and stepped out from the loop. "I'm goin' to saddle the broncs. You ride in to Tascosa and tell Wadley. I'll take up the trail an' follow it while it's warm. We'll see if a pair of shorthorns can run a sandy like that on me." He fell suddenly into the violent, pungent speech of the mule-skinner.

      "I'll go with you," announced Ridley. He had no desire to face Clint Wadley with such a lame tale.

      The cold eyes of the Texan drilled into his. "No, you won't. You'll go to town an' tell the old man what's happened. Tell him to send his posse across the malpais toward the rim-rock. I'll meet him at Two Buck Crossin' with any news I've got."

      A quarter of an hour later the hoofs of his horse flung back faint echoes from the distance. The boy collapsed. His head sank into his hands and his misery found vent in sobs.

CHAPTER VII

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THE DANCE

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      Long since the sun had slid behind the horizon edge and given place to a desert night of shimmering moonlight and far stars. From the enchanted mesa Rutherford Wadley descended to a valley draw in which were huddled a score of Mexican jacals, huts built of stakes stuck in a trench, roofed with sod and floored with mud. Beyond these was a more pretentious house. Originally it had been a log "hogan," but a large adobe addition had been constructed for a store. Inside this the dance was being held.

      Light filtered through the chinks in the mud. From door and windows came the sounds of scraping fiddles and stamping feet. The singsong voice of the caller and the occasional whoop of a cowboy punctuated the medley of noises.

      A man whose girth would have put Falstaff to shame greeted Rutherford wheezily. "Fall off and 'light, Ford. She's in full swing and the bridle's off."

      The man was Jumbo Wilkins, СКАЧАТЬ