Shoot Him On Sight (20 page)

I answered rather coldly, sounding inhospitable as the devil, "So?"

"So," he replied, "I'm looking for John Cardinal." That threw a jolt into me, particularly when I caught the gleam of a gold badge on his vest. Now I knew where I'd heard the name. Trent Taggert. Probably the greatest man-hunter in the country of that day. U.S. Marshal Trent Taggert.

Oh, I knew what was coming, I figured. After running and running, the minute I found a place to stay, I'd been caught. Well, feeling as I did right then, it didn't matter.

I was sunk, anyway. No use putting up a fight now. I didn't feel like fighting any more.

I held my voice steady as possible. I said, "I'm John Cardinal. So it looks as if the law had caught up with me at last."

U.S. Marshal Trent Taggert eyed me steadily a minute. "The law has caught up with you for the second time," he replied.

"How do you mean?"

"Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan had you once, but you ducked out on him."

I said a bit hotly, "Would you expect me to stay?"

"Now, cool down, Cardinal. I'm not holding that against you. It was natural under the circumstances. Neither does Webb Jordan hold it against you—"

"How do you know? Webb Jordan's dead."

He shook his head. "Just say he had a narrow escape, though it was mighty close. He's still in the hospital."

"That's the best news I've had today," I burst out. Then stopped. "Here's something that may be news to you, Marshal Taggert. I finished off the scut who shot Jordan in the back."

"So?" he said. "I heard that, too. It's something—a great deal in your favor, I'd say."

I shrugged. It hadn't occurred to me to ask where Taggert had heard I'd killed Hondo Crowell. I was just so damn glad to hear Webb Jordan still lived, that I felt a sudden lift. Some of my fight was returning.

"You're needed back across the border, Cardinal," he said next.

"And that's not news." I forced a laugh.

"I reckon not, but—"

"I suppose, Marshal, you realize this is Mexico."

He looked steadily at me a moment, his penetrating eyes boring deep. "Cripes A'mighty!" he smiled thinly. "Border lines never made any difference to me."

"So you've got extradition papers, I suppose."

Again that steady look from gray eyes. Now, he almost smiled. "I don't reckon extradition papers will be necessary, Cardinal."

"I suppose not," I conceded. Hell, why fight any further? I said, "Look, I'll go with you. There won't be any trouble. But let's do it quietly, eh? I've got friends in the house. I don't want to get them upset."

"That's all right with me," he nodded, then, "Say, don't you ever ask a man to sit in this country?"

I hadn't thought. We were both still on our feet. I apologized and shoved a chair in his direction. "There's what's left of a bottle, too," I told him. "I'll get a glass if you'll let me out of your sight, and tell the folks we have a guest for supper. Okay?"

"Okay," he responded. He was lifting the bottle to his lips as I turned toward the door. Then I caught his voice, "Oh, Cardinal, don't get any ideas about slipping out the back door. It wouldn't be very smart on your part."

"Hadn't even thought of it," I answered, wondering at the same moment if that was entirely true. A sort of mocking laugh followed me.

Halfway across the big room I encountered Jeff. "Somebody out front?" he asked.

I nodded and told him what had happened. "Where's Mike?"

"Down at the corral with Mateo. Look here, that marshal hombre can't take you back. This is Mexico, not the States. We'll get Mike and Mateo and the rest—" His face was darkening as he talked.

I cut him short. "I've said I'd go without trouble, Jeff. I didn't want to upset Mama Benita. We'll let him pose as an extra hand at supper."

We argued about that for a time, but Jeff finally gave in. "All right, I'll find Mateo and Mike, and explain things, but I still don't like it."

"Neither do I, but I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Maybe it's best." Jeff left the room. I hurried to get a clean glass, and returned to the gallery. By this time the bottle was empty. I offered to get another quart, but Taggert just laughed. "I see you used sense."

"Maybe I got smart for once. Come on in and shake hands with my friends."

Well, we got through supper somehow. Nobody talked much. Taggert complimented Mama Benita on her food. Always liking company, Mama had done herself proud and couldn't understand why no one, except Taggert, had asked for second helpings. Taggert could really stow away food. Once he'd learned that his pony was being taken care of, he really sailed into the fodder. I judged he was the sort of individual who took his eating seriously, and didn't want to have any talk intruding on his nourishment.

Supper finished and Mama Benita departed for her kitchen, I said, "How soon you want to start back, Taggert?"

He replied lazily, "I'm in no particular rush. If there happened to be any bourbon around here, I'd like to talk a mite and get things squared around."

That gave me another idea. Apparently, the man liked to stow away his red-eye. Perhaps, if he took too much, I'd be able on the way back to the border to, once more, show a clean pair of heels to the pursuit. I could see that Mateo and Mike and Jeff also caught something of the same idea, as Mateo instantly produced two bottles when we pushed back chairs from the dining table and got seated before the big fireplace taking the chill from the evening air.

There wasn't much talk at first. Lord, how that man Taggert could put away liquor. He had a bottle to himself and drank three to our one. My heart dropped a little when I realized the whisky wasn't having any adverse effect on him. So there any ideas I'd had of making an escape went glimmering.

I finally grew impatient. "Look here," I said, "Marshal Taggert says I'm needed back in the States. So long as I'm under arrest, we might as well get started back."

No one said anything for a moment. Smoke from cigarettes and Mateo's pipe swirled lazily in the room. Mesquite roots cracked and blazed in the fireplace. My heart dropped a little lower; I was going to miss all this.

Trent Taggert chuckled. "Who said anything about arrest, Cardinal? Looks like you jumped to conclusions."

"You said I was needed back in the States—" I began.

"Right. In Tenango City. We need some sworn statements from you and you'll need to sign some papers. If it will relieve your mind any, Banker Clarence Kirby has been more than glad to drop charges against you for that extortion caper you pulled on him—"

I sat straighter, as did Mateo and Jeff and Mike, their jaws dropping. I guess my eyes were wide and round like silver dollars. I exclaimed, "What the devil you talking about?"

"Also," Taggert put in, "there's a sizable chunk of money waiting in the bank for you—your father's money left to you. You'll have to sign for that, of course, and witness certain statements. You see, Kirby never did reveal your father's will—had some sort of idea of keeping the wealth for himself—"

"Great Jehovah on the mountain!" I exclaimed. "What is all this?"

Taggert poured himself a half-tumbler of whisky and eyed me with sober eyes in which there was a certain twinkle of amusement. He said, "Figured this might come as a surprise. Maybe I'd better clear things up a mite. Things really broke wide open when Senator Cyrus Whitlock was placed under arrest. His confession involved Banker Kirby and several other scuts of equal skulduggery tendencies along the border states. You see, Washington has had an eye on Whitlock for some time."

"Senator Cyrus Whitlock—the great philanthropist!" I yelled.

"The same," Taggert said grimly. "Whitlock, the great scoundrel, with his mealy-mouthed line about helping the poor of Mexico. What a liar. Shipping over guns and munitions, labeled sewing machines and ploughs. Oh, Washington got him dead to rights, and he caved complete once he saw they had the deadwood on him—"

There were surprised questions on the part of the others. "But, why, why?" I demanded, still stunned from the news of my good fortune, and capable only of stammering practically incoherent queries.

Taggert laughed shortly, swallowed half his whisky at a gulp. "Maybe I'd better start farther back. You see, ever since the Civil War—or War between the States, or War of the Rebellion—whatever you like to call it, there's been a certain faction in Washington and New York, that wanted to declare war on Mexico and take over the country. We still had a huge army in the north, so why not? There's much wealth in Mexico—minerals and so on. Why shouldn't the United States take it over? It would be simple. And there were men in Congress who were more than willing to push the idea, as well as big financial men in the east."

We listened wide-eyed as Taggert explained things. "When France put the Emperor Maximilian on the throne in Mexico, these men wanted to use that against Mexico, with the claim Mexico had violated the Monroe Doctrine. Well, that idea didn't hold water. Mexico had captured and executed Maximilian, proving Mexico was blameless. And we didn't want to get involved in a war with France. So another scheme was tried. If it could be made to look as though Mexico had committed an overt antagonist act against this country, Congress would have an excuse to declare war on Mexico. So it was planned that an army would be set up in Heraldica, south of here, and men trained in the pretense of being Mexicans. Arms and munitions were shipped there, under the guise of sewing machines. Once the fake Mexican army was ready, it was to make raids along the border on U.S. towns, killing, stealing, and raping, and so on. Once that happened, Congress would be fooled into declaring war. Various financiers along the southwest country subscribed to the idea—Banker Kirby was one of them—oh, we got names from Senator Whitlock and made arrests right and left." He looked rather grim. "Once we had them in jail, they all talked freely, whining that the Senator had misled them. Rats!"

"God Almighty!" Jeff exclaimed.

"He still is, I reckon," Taggert said tersely. "Mr. Pinkerton's Secret Service in Washington has had operatives scattered throughout the Southwest. U.S. Marshals and Deputy Marshals were appointed to help out." Taggert turned to me. "When Webb Jordan was shot by Hondo Crowell, up in Deosso Springs, he wasn't after you, Cardinal. He was about to arrest the Senator then, but Whitlock suspected something of the sort and had a bodyguard with him. So it was necessary that Jordan be killed—and he almost was. Oh, yes, Jordan has told us how you saved his life down on the Rio Grande, Cardinal. He's eager to see you again. He was able to learn much about you."

Taggert drained his whisky glass and continued. "It was you, Jeff Tawney, who threw a monkey wrench in Whitlock's plans when you refused to allow his crates and boxes to cross your holdings. You'll remember that Shel Webster tried to buy you out and you refused under the plea you couldn't give clear title, as you had a pardner, whereabouts unknown. Webster was under Whitlock's orders, of course. So then, it became necessary to learn the name of the pardner. A search of the records, witnessed by Jeff's father, revealed that Cardinal was the unknown owner. Cardinal, of Tenango City. At Tenango City, Whitlock's agents learned that John Cardinal was a fugitive from justice. That fitted right in with Whitlock's plans. He finagled around and had further reward bills printed for Cardinal's arrest, dead or alive, claiming all sorts of crimes in various parts of Texas—"

"But, why?" I asked, bewildered.

"Simple enough, Johnny. The more reward bills, the more men seeking the rewards. Sooner or later, the Senator figured someone would kill you, probably by back-shooting, and thus dispose of your ownership in the Box-CT. Had Shel Webster known all this, he'd probably have shot you himself, but Whitlock had never explained. As I understand it, Webster actually believed what those bills stated, and figured to get you on his payroll."

"He won't anymore," I said despondently. "By this time he likely knows what a fake I am."

Mateo had stepped out of the room for a minute. Now he returned with a fresh bottle of whisky and filled our glasses. Taggert swallowed a long draught that emptied his glass and reached for the bottle. "Anyway, Johnny," he said a minute later, "you'll not have to worry about Shel Webster, or Onyxton, any longer, after tonight."

"Howcome?" I asked.

"By this time," Taggert explained confidently, "a regiment of U.S. cavalry, aided by some hundred-fifty riders we've deputized, have swooped down on Onyxton and made arrests, busting up the whole scheme—made arrests or otherwise have disposed of that's rattler's nest. They were due to strike without warning, at seven this evening."

My first thought was of Topaz, and my heart dropped. What would happen to her? I was so miserable I could scarcely find words to speak. I didn't mention Topaz, though. Instead: "There's that gang at Heraldica. Your men will move down there after taking over Onyxton?"

Taggert shook his head. "Crossing the border might lead to some sort of international complications, interfering in Mexico's internal affairs, and so on. But the Mexican Government has been alerted by Washington. Two days from now, a detachment of the Mexican Army will swoop down on Heraldica and wipe out that nest of skunks."

Taggert poured himself a drink, put it away. "So you can now understand, Johnny, why I came here this afternoon. Webb Jordan wanted you to know, as soon as possible, you are in the clear. And now, I reckon, I'd best get back to Onyxton and see how things have gone."

I said, "Damn nice of you to come, Marshal Taggert, though I admit I was mighty scared for a time. This business of juggling a bad record, a bluff and Shel Webster had me a mite nervous."

"Understandable," Taggert laughed. "You'll not have to bother about Webster. By this time he's under arrest—or dead." He turned to Mateo. "Would you please have one of your men bring my hawss around? I've already wasted enough time—" He stopped short, then, "I shouldn't say waste—not with this kind of bourbon to drink—"

We all stopped, listening. From outside came the rapid beating of horse's hoofs, coming fast. The sounds approached nearer. I could almost visualize the scattering of dust and gravel as the rider jerked the horse back into a long sliding halt before the house gallery. There were quick footsteps outside. There came a pounding on the door, even before Jeff could reach it. He flung back the door and Topaz stepped inside. Lord, the sudden feelings that engulfed me. Almost instantly I banished all thought of the scene I'd witnessed earlier that day. I could see she'd been riding hard: wisps of that red-gold hair hung untidily from beneath her sombrero brim. Her divided skirt was foam-flecked from her pony's jaws. She half staggered into the room as Jeff closed the door.