Shoot Him On Sight (14 page)

Early next morning, right after breakfast, Jeff insisted we ride out and look over the spread I'd fallen heir to. I was high as a drunk with delight, as we rode over rolling grasslands, with live oak trees and mesquite dotting the terrain. Not far from the house there was a meandering stream which Jeff said had never run dry, regardless how high the temperature. The white-faced cows looked sleek and in prime condition. I tried to tell Jeff that after all the care he and his father had put into the place, the building up of herds and so on, it didn't seem right I should have a half-share in the Box-CT, but he wouldn't listen.

He protested earnestly for five minutes, ending, "Put it this way, Johnny. My family owed your father a very great deal, and you've inherited. And it's about time you got a break, anyway." He smiled. "And I'm going to be damn disappointed if you won't have me for a pardner."

Hell, what can you do with an hombre like that?

We returned to the house and after dinner I announced my intentions of riding into Onyxton. Jeff and I were standing on the wide gallery that fronted the house. He said, "Do you think it's necessary?"

I nodded. "I want to see what's going on. Anyway, maybe I can get Shel Webster to raise the ante for your head. I might work him up to a thousand."

Jeff laughed. "If you insist, okay. I'll split with you if you can make it." Then he frowned. "That Topaz girl hasn't anything to do with the ride, has she?"

I could feel my face getting hot. "We-ell, not exactly—"

"Dammit, Johnny," he protested. "Leave it alone. You're just flirting with dynamite—"

"Jeepers!" I stated a trifle hotly, "I've been taking care of myself for a long time now, Jeff—"

"Okay, of course you have," he said quickly. "I'm sorry I spoke."

"I'm sorry too, if I sounded a mite proddy for a minute, Jeff. I'll stay, if you'll feel better about it."

He grinned and shook his head. "You'll be safe enough, I reckon, so long as Webster thinks you're on his side. By all means, ride. Maybe you can learn something I don't know about—a planned revolution in Mexico, for instance."

So that breech was healed before it had a chance to open far. We were even better friends after that; I felt he was really concerned about my welfare, as I was about his.

"Your pony looked sort of fagged, ribs beginning to show a mite," he said next. I mentioned the horse had covered a lot of territory for me. "He needs a long rest," Jeff went on. "Mateo and I were talking about it, and he's picked out a nice gelding for you to try out. Call it a sort of coming-home present."

At that moment, Mateo came around the corner of the house leading a trim buckskin pony. Lord, it looked good. It was already saddled. I thanked them both, and leaving my rifle at home, climbed up and kicked the pony in the ribs. "
Adios
," I called over my shoulder.

We just got acquainted for a couple of miles as I tried out his gaits. Damned if that pony didn't seem to have everything. I was in love with it before we'd gone a mile. We made good time through the canyon and emerged into open country once more. Mounting the first rise of ground, I could see the roofs of Onyxton, not too far distant.

I entered town by way of the railroad tracks. I could see three more pine crates stacked on the platform. The T.N. & A.S. freight must have come through that morning. Farther along there was a frame freight-shed, and I could see several men moving a big box inside.

I drew rein and dismounted. A worried looking station man stood staring at one of the crates, chewing moodily on a straw. I said "Howdy," and he gave me a civil "Day to you." I said, "Looks like the train dumped off some freight?"

"When doesn't it?" he scowled.

"Receiving quite a lot, eh?"

"Too much for me to handle," he grouched. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

While I talked I took a squinney at the label on the nearest box. The label, as well as stenciling, told me it contained sewing machines and had been consigned to Heraldica; consignor, some manufacturing company in Connecticut.

"Used to get rid of these things right prompt," the station man grumbled, "and they could be loaded and took'n straight through the canyon, but some trouble has come up about a right-of-way through, and now this stuff just piles up here. My freight shed's nigh to overflowin' full."

At that moment several men approached from the freight-shed. One of them in overalls, pushing a hand-truck, growled at the station man, "Plumb full, mister. Can't get no more in. What do we do?"

"You go back and tell Shel Webster he better damn quick rent somebody's barn, then. I can't take no more. Cripes A'mighty—sewing machines—ploughs! What's the fool Senator Whitlock tryin' to do, figure he can get votes from all Mexico. Somebody should tell him Mexes don't do electin' in this country. And him havin' to pay storage rates too on everythin' that ain't moved prompt." He didn't wait for a reply, but entered the depot, slamming the door behind him.

The overalled men looked at each other, shrugged and began to head back toward the main street of the town. One of them joined a man leaning against a telegraph pole, farther on. I saw only the man's back, but for a moment it looked like Hondo Crowell. I figured he'd been sent down here to boss the laborers, then the matter slipped from my mind.

I followed the station man into the depot. He glanced up from behind a small ticket window with a grilled front. "You, again," he grunted. "Whatcha want?"

I made up a phony story. "Did a valise arrive for me? I had it shipped through from El Paso."

"Ain't no valise been shipped through for nobody," he snapped irritably. "Most folks come here don't have no valises nowdays. Whatcha name?"

"John Cardinal."

His eyes widened. "You that gun-fighter I been hearin' 'bout all over town."

"I haven't been all over town yet," I said shortly.

"I'll look, Mister Cardinal, yessir I'll look." He seized a bunch of bills, riffled 'em through. "No, sir. Ain't nothing here. When'd you send it?"

"It was supposed to have been sent last week."

His face cleared. "Wouldn't have time to get here yet, then." Then clouded again. "Anyway, nothing much comes 'ceptin' booze for Shel Webster's place. That and sewing machines and ploughs, ploughs and sewin' machines. It's enough to drive a man crazy! I wisht ter Gawd, just once, somebody would consign a nice shiny buckboard, or a new saddle. T'would lighten my day, I swear it would."

"How long all these sewing machines been coming here now?" I asked idly.

"Nine-ten months, anyway."

"Must be nigh enough to equip an army."

"Army?" He looked startled.

"Army of dressmakers," I finished smoothly.

He scratched his head. "Sewin' shirts for soldiers, mebbe?"

"I hadn't figured that. Doesn't seem that sort of thing would fit into Senator Whitlock's idea. Forget it."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, not quite understanding. "You mentionin' an army, made me remember somethin'." I asked a question and he went on to explain, "'Bout eight months back, one of them boxes arrived, with a board comin' loose at one end. I tooken my hammer and tried to fix it, but the nails was bent, so I took the board off, so's I could do a complete job. What do you think I found inside?"

"Mice?"

"Naw." He looked disgustedly at me. "Boxes of ca'tridges. Now what do you figure Senator Whitlock was sendin' them to Mexico for?"

I shrugged. "The Senator like's not figures that the Mexicans can do some hunting, bring home meat for their families. That reasonable?"

"Yeah, that could be it." He looked as though some weighty problem had been solved. I could have told him it hadn't.

I said "S'long," and started for the door. He called after me, "I'll keep a look-out for that valise of your'n."

"Thanks," I called back. "I'd hate to lose it. It holds a collection of my guns, and a pack of those reward bills, which same I keep for souvenirs."

His jaw dropped so far, I expected to hear it strike the ticket window counter. Idiot that I was, I had to admit I was getting a big thrill out of this tough-gunman bluff I was running—instead of doing all the running in another way.

I opened the door and stepped out of the station, glancing both ways along the T.N. & A.S. tracks. My new buckskin was standing at the edge of the raised-dirt station platform, nibbling at a weed sprouting from the earth. I noticed a few men standing fifty yards away, to my left, but thought nothing of it. I crossed the platform and was preparing to swing a leg over my saddle when I heard a sudden wild yell:

"John-n-ee! Look out!"

I had no chance to look out or in any other direction, for in the next instant I heard two sharp gun explosions, coming practically together, and I caught the nasty whine of a slug as it flashed a few feet from my body.

My hand shot swiftly to my .44 Colt, as my gaze searched ahead for the direction from which the shots had come. Several men were yelling excitedly and heading in the direction of one of the telegraph poles, where Hondo Crowell was cursing and clutching frantically at his forearm, near a pole behind which he'd been hiding, waiting for my appearance from the station.

And a short distance beyond Hondo Crowell, now surrounded by a half dozen men, was—Great Guns!—Miguel Serrano, six-shooter still in hand! Where had he come from?

"Mike!" I exclaimed loudly and broke into a sprint to meet him.

We arrived at about the same instant where Hondo Crowell was sagging back against the telegraph pole, blood soaking one shirt sleeve, and moaning for somebody to get a doctor before he bled to death.

"Ain't no doc here, as you well know, Hondo," one of his pals was saying. "Just that drunken vet."

The men were looking warily at Mike and me. A couple of them slunk away. Mike and I exchanged quick greetings. We didn't dare let go our guns long enough for more than that. Powdersmoke still drifted in the air. Crowell's six-shooter lay on the earth, where he'd been forced to drop it when Miguel's shot tore into his arm.

I turned to Crowell. "What in hell did you think you were doing, Crowell? If you crave to draw on me, let's do it in the open, with fair warning to both sides."

"Wa'n't shootin' at you," Crowell groaned. "Just doin' some target practice, when—"

"He lies, Johnny," Miguel interrupted. He switched to Spanish: "I had been seeking you, when I saw this
cabrone
leveling his gun in your direction, just as I saw you. I called a warning, but it came of a tardiness. I could not stop this hombre's firing, but my shot made a distraction of his aiming. And so he missed."

So now I had to run a bluff for Mike, too. "But you just struck his gun-arm, Miguel. Never have I seen you do such poor shooting." I switched to English for the benefit of the others. "Mike, that's the worst shot you ever made. I'm surprised when you throw down on a man and can't come closer than that to wiping him out. Probably you're using some defective ca'tridges."

Mike's jaw dropped. "But, Johnny, I aimed—"

"At his body, sure," I cut in. "I've never known you to do anything else. Just say that Crowell's lucky. If he lives long enough, he'll be able to boast to his grandchildren that he was once thrown down on by the famous Fanner Serrano, and lived to tell the tale."

Mike looked bewildered, but before he had a chance to talk further, a fat man with a marshal's badge pinned to his shirt came waddling up. "What's the trouble here?" he demanded pompously.

"No trouble for my pal," I stated easily. "He just shot the gun out of Hondo Crowell's fist, when he saw Crowell trying to pot-shoot me from behind a telegraph pole. You'd best run Crowell in, Marshal."

"Who are you?" the marshal asked.

"Name's Cardinal. This is my friend, Fanner Serrano. The famous gun-slinger from Texas. You've heard of his speed."

Mike blinked puzzledly, but didn't say anything. The fat marshal drew back a little. "Heard of you, too, Mister Cardinal," he said respectfully, nodding. He swung on Crowell. "This true, Hondo?" he demanded sternly.

But Crowell could only groan. "Get me to the Doc. I'm bleedin' to death."

Grunting, the fat marshal stooped, retrieved Crowell's gun and stuck it in holster. He acted as though he didn't know what to do next. "Shel—Mister Webster, ain't goin' to like this a bit. He wants a peaceful town and I'm supposed to—"

"Slam Crowell in a cell, if you know your duty," I snapped tersely. "I don't figure he's as bad hit as he makes out—"

"I dunno—" The marshal shoved the sombrero to the back of his head and scratched uncertainly. "Hondo is supposed to be Mister Webster's—that is, he's on Mister Webster's payroll—"

"You any proof I'm not?" I snapped.

At that moment I saw Shel Webster striding toward us. Somebody must have carried news to him of what had happened. He was wearing a black, flat-crowned sombrero now, and beneath his unbuttoned jacket I spied the bulge caused by his under-arm gun. He looked hot, angry.

I got his ear before the others saw him. "Dammit, Webster," I snapped, "I thought you were going to give orders your jackals were to lay off and not try to collect rewards on my scalp."

"I've done that," he stated coldly. "What's gone wrong?" I started to tell him, so did three other men, besides the fat marshal. "I can't hear everything at once," Webster scowled. "Marshal, you stay. The rest of you loafers get the hell out of here." The on-lookers started to slink away. "Now, what happened?"

I told him, ending, "My pal, here, shot the gun out of Crowell's hand, just as Crowell was about to plug me."

Webster swung on the groaning Crowell. "That right, Hondo?"

Feebly Crowell shook his head. "All—a mistake," he moaned.

"Christ!" Webster snapped. "I know you and your mistakes. One of these days you'll make one too many." Brutally, he seized Crowell's wounded arm, disregarding the man's sudden yelp of pain, and ripped back the shirt sleeve. There was a lot of blood all right, but it had started to congeal. Webster looked disgusted. "Hondo, you've got nothing to cry about. Just a mite of skin lost." He turned to the marshal. "Take Hondo down to that horse doctor, tell him to spit some tobacco juice on that wound. Hondo'll be hunky-dory, come morning. I'll talk to you then, Hondo. Now, get going!"