Shoot Him On Sight (2 page)

I made my way from the bank and stepped into the stream, immediately sinking over one boot-top in the muck. My second step brought a similar result, but I kept on, each step being heavier than the last. I found firm footing, but as I'd guessed, the stream at its deepest came only slightly above the knees. Progressing halfway I found myself pretty well soaked, though I'd managed to keep guns and cartridge belt dry. Shortly, I found the way a trifle firmer and a few minutes later I had mounted the sandy bank and was making my way into thick brush.

Somewhat shaky from weariness, I sank down to a sitting position, drew off my boots and emptied them of water and sand. For the moment I left them off until I could catch my breath, while I reached to one shirt pocket for Durham and papers. I rolled a cigarette and found matches in one hip pocket which were slightly moist. After several tries I managed to light one and drew gratefully on the smoke. Then it dawned on me that there was a sort of vacant spot in my middle; I'd had nothing to eat since breakfast. Well, I'd just have to pull my belt a little tighter, until the present problem was solved.

Abruptly, I stiffened. From downstream a way came the sounds of approaching riders and the barking of hounds. Hurriedly I stubbed out my cigarette and drew on my boots. The posse had returned sooner than I'd expected. I edged back deeper into the brush and got to my feet, then peering through some gnarled branches I saw lights. Some of the riders were bearing lighted lanterns. They drew closer. I caught the sounds of horses' hoofs clumping across the plank bridge, though some of the men and dogs remained on the opposite bank. Through the thick gloom I caught shadowy glimpses of moving figures. A voice spoke grumpily to the hounds.

Whether they found my tracks where I'd entered the water or not, I never knew. But I reckon they did, as within a short time, the riders and dogs on the opposite side of the stream made their way across the bridge. My ears caught the gradually approaching sounds. They were closing in on me. Fast!

Momentarily, terror overtook me. I had but one frantic thought, to dig deeper into the brush which proved to be a veritable jungle of spiny growth and twisted mesquite, yucca and cat-claw, creosote bush and prickly pear cactus. Branches and spines caught at my clothing, though even in my fear I'd retained sense enough to move as stealthily as possible.

I was twenty-five yards from the stream bank now. Ahead of me loomed a huge clump of prickly pear cactus, though it was too dark now for me to distinguish outlines. I only knew it seemed to offer shelter for the time being. Sharp spines caught at my face and hands as I burrowed in toward the bottom where there was a shallow depression. Several of the huge flat prickly pads were snapped off in my frantic digging in. Finally, I could go no farther and sank down on the earth, the huge plant surrounding me, covering me, sheltering my exhausted, shaking form.

I lay there shivering, wet and cold while voices and dogs came nearer. I could hear them crashing through the brush, breaking off small limbs and crushing the growth, and the hounds were making the night hideous with their barking. Sheer terror obsessed me.

I heard the grumpy voice again, after some argument with two others: "Wal, if ye'd only had some article of his clothing so my dawgs would have the scent. Ye can't expect 'em to know for sure what we're after—"

My spirits rose. Maybe my luck had changed slightly, unless some hound came too close and got inquisitive. I heard one go pushing through the brush a short distance away. Abruptly a gleam of light struck my eyes. There was the crunching of plant growth, and the lantern was swung from side to side. Then a voice: "Well, he ain't 'round here no place, that's for certain."

"Howcome you're so sure?"

"Cripes A'mighty, look at the size of that prickly pear clump. Ain't no human man a-goin' to make his way through that, 'thout tearin' his carcass all to hell. And I already searched to both sides—no broken branches nor nothin'."

Almost I chuckled at that point. Both sides and the front, but not on the river side, where I must have left damaging "sign." The voices, the lantern, moved away. Cautiously I lifted a hand to my jammed-down sombrero and felt hundreds of spiny needles sticking in the crown where I'd plunged to hiding. My shirt was also covered as I learned later.

For a short time anyway, I was safe. Voices, dogs, men moved farther up the stream. I could hear the hounds baying from time to time. Two or three times riders loped along the more open stretch beyond the brush and mesquite bordering the stream, then returned. The dogs sounded farther away now. Suddenly the noises became louder. I could hear men cursing angrily. Some sort of tumult arose, and I wondered what had happened. The grumpy voice of the old owner of the hounds was cursing louder than the rest.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, while the angry sounds went on. While I was considering what my next move would be, I caught the sound of someone pushing toward the brush in my direction. I tensed, one hand slipping toward my Colt butt. Then a voice came softly through the night: "Johnny —Johnny Cardinal. Where—?"

I knew that voice! Miguel Serrano! Where in God's name did he come from? I replied cautiously, "That you, Mike?"

"Come on out, Johnny, and make the hurry. Not much time."

With some difficulty I extricated myself from the tearing cactus spines and clambered erect. Mike's shadowy figure confronted me in the gloom. Our hands met, clutched hard. "Mike, how in the devil—?"

"You are one damn hard man to trail, Johnny. How long-nearly a year now—no, wait, not much of time. Let me talk. For most a year I have try to make the catch-up, but always you are ahead. From time to time I catch rumors. I push on. Today, when I pass through that town, they are making up a posse. I am ask to join. I agree, thinking I will be led to you and may help. Of all I am the only one to examine the stream bank where you left the water, so I know you are someplace near. I pretend to hear a noise farther on. I lead those men away—"

"But what in hell is all the noise about farther on?"

"The men make a cursing of the hounds. They can do nothing but sneeze."

"Sneeze?" I didn't catch on.

"Before I leave with the posse I go to the
abarrotero—
grocery store—and make the buy of a large sack of chili powder. In my so careless manner I manage to drop some. The hounds are overtaken with a sneezing, and will be no much good now. Some of the powder I have save to make of the sneezing 'round here if they show a curiosity—which I do not think. But, Johnny, we waste of time. The horse waits—"

"Hell, Mike, I can't take your pony—"

"That not of the necessary. I have two
caballos—"

"How in the devil—?"

"Always since I follow you, I have the extra pony. It is for sale, you see, but the price is always too elevated. I bring him tonight in case we have the long chase. That posse, they think me a fool—but hurry!"

We made our way out of the brush and mesquite, where a sort of roadway ran. In the starlight I saw two ponies tethered nearby. I could still hear cursing voices some distance off. Mike handed me the reins of one pony. It looked like a muscular buckskin in the gloom. I hesitated a moment longer. "But, Mike, how are you going to explain the disappearance of this horse?"

"That posse, already it judges me a kind of idiot. When I tell how I left it and forgot to drop reins, they will just think me a bigger fool when I say that it ran off."

"Damned if you don't think of everything—"

"I think only you must make the get-going, before I am missed." He crawled up to the saddle while I mounted, and handed me a paper-wrapped package. "Biscuits and the beef. One pickle—"

"Damned if you don't think of everything."

"I remember to think only what you have done for the
padre
."

"He is well?"

"Yes, and also the mama. They feel for you. Where will I find you next, Johnny?"

"I'm heading for a town named Onyxton—clear out of Texas—where law is scanty, I'm told. I just have to continue running, running, running—"

"Make the start, now, Johnny. There's not much time."

I started slowly after we'd clasped hands once more, then gradually increased the pace. At my rear I heard Mike loping his pony back toward the posse and hounds, already bewailing in a loud voice the loss of his pony that had ran off.

Once more I had escaped the noose or a killing slug of lead.

Two days passed before I made much of a stop anyplace, as I continued to head west. At one small burg where I halted to grab a bite, I'd also bought a leather jacket. The nights were still cool in the higher elevations, though the days were hot. It had been when buying the jacket that I noticed the bills in my wallet were still damp. Out in open country again I stopped and spread the money on a rock to dry. It was then I unfolded from my wallet one of the reward bills I had picked up—offering a reward for my apprehension.

My blood boiled as I read through it again. The yellowed bill gave the usual details, offering one thousand dollars reward for the capture of one John Cardinal, "Dead or Alive," wanted for the cold-blooded killing of Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan, in addition to various other crimes. A description followed: gray eyes, six feet tall, weight—175, red hair, wearing such-and-such clothing when last seen, and so on and so on. At the bottom of the bill a note to the effect that I was fast with a gun and for officers to take no chances, as "Cardinal is known to be vicious with a fast gun."

My God! I hope nothing could be farther from the truth. As to being fast with a gun, that was a joke. No better than average, I'd say. Vicious? Hell's-bells! That was just plain lying. Hot-tempered, yes. Yeah, I'll admit that, though I always tried to hold my temper in check, knowing it's a bad fault and a temper is a good thing to sit tight on when a man's blood begins to boil. As to being a gunfighter, that was sheer nonsense. I never considered myself better than average with a hawg-laig; there'd never been any reason for going into gun-slinging. But I do admit that it was a hot-temper accountable for my having spent the past year of my life on the dodge.

I'd been raised and brought up by old Pablo Serrano, Miguel's father; my own parents had been killed when their team and buggy went over a cut-bank, leaving me an orphan as a baby. It was Pablo and his wife, Josefa, who took me in and raised me as their own, back in Tenango County, where they ran the Star-S Ranch. Miguel—Mike—and I were about the same age. My parents and Mike's had been friends. I guess my dad had owned some property in the county, though after he died, according to the bank, it was washed out by debt. There was a rumor that he owned property in one of the territories farther west, but I was told later that that was just rumor with no foundation. But, as I say, it was old Pablo and Josefa who took me in, and Mike and I grew up together, as close as two fingers on a hand.

We were both sent to school, though Mike had small desire for that sort of learning. He was more interested in stock raising and hunting, and skipped a great many of his classes. When I grew older, Pablo Serrano taught me all he knew about stock raising, also making certain I knew Spanish as well as English. Between Mike and me there was never any partiality shown by the Serranos. They were mighty good to me, and I felt I owed them plenty. I loved them as I would have my own parents; they were the only mother and father I had any memory of.

So I grew to manhood and found myself working cows with the rest of the Star-S crew, with little thought of what lay ahead. Then there came a couple of years of drought, resulting in damn poor feeding for the cows. That meant Dad Pablo had to buy feed for the critters. As he lacked money, that also meant slapping a mortgage on his spread. Oh, the bank was more than willing to lend, so things picked up after a time and more seasonal rains produced all the feed necessary. Meanwhile Old Pablo had reduced his debt to something over five hundred dollars. Perhaps he got careless and forgot the date, I don't know. Anyway, the next thing I learned was that the bank was going to foreclose because of non-payment, as Pablo lacked the five-hundred plus at the moment.

It didn't seem to worry him too much at first, not until he had gone into Tenango City to see old skinflint Banker Clarence Kirby. Then he returned downcast, telling us in Spanish:

"Banker Kirby insists on foreclosing. Almost I begged him on my knees to give me a few more days until I raise the
dinero
, but he was like a rock. No and no, he said. If I could not pay, then we must leave—"

I started to swear, but Dad Pablo cut me short. "Enough, Juan," he said sternly. "This is no time for a display of temper. I will have the handling of this problem. I have the cows. In the adjoining county I have a man who will buy. If I only had a little more time."

"How much more time?" I asked.

"Until noon tomorrow," the old man answered somberly. "If the money is not paid then, we shall have to make plans to move."

"The dirty damn robbin' old miserly skinflint—" I burst out. "He knows right well you can't raise that much, not around here. Practically everybody around here owes the bank money, just like you, and greedy Clarence Kirby would bop down on anybody who tried to help you. So help me—"

But again the old man shut me up, saying again something about a hot temper being a bad thing to have but a good thing to keep.

"By the hornswoggled steers I'll do something about it. Wait until I see Miguel. Where'd he go?"

"Miguel has gone hunting again. He promises to bring back a splendid buck," Mama Josefa replied. Her eyes were teary. "He should return in two-three days."

"And neither Miguel nor you will intrude in my problems," Papa Pablo stated determinedly.

I shrugged shortly and went up to our bedroom in the old ranch house. I knew Miguel didn't have any money, to speak of, but searching through his bureau drawer, I found something under fifty dollars. I'd been saving more of the money Dad Pablo paid us for working the cows. By the time I'd added my money to Mike's I was still three hundred dollars short.