Shoot Him On Sight (4 page)

It wasn't until I'd holed up in my hide-out that evening and my weary bronc was cropping some sparse grass nearby that I commenced to realize what a stupid fool I'd been. It hadn't occurred to me before, but now I was what is called an outlaw from justice; I'd become a hunted man. Three hundred dollars wasn't a big theft, but a charge of extortion would be added to the crime. A kind of reaction set in and I commenced to shake, as I realized what I'd let myself in for.

That story I'd spread of going north wouldn't fool anyone
for
long, and soon, no doubt, Banker Kirby would insist on the law really tracking me down.

Mentally I cursed the hot temper, the unreasoning anger, that had led me into this fix. I'd shown about as much foresight as a skunk-blinded mule—and as little sense. So there I was in a trap that was due to tighten more and more during the year to come. And yet, as I sat staring into a small campfire that night and reviewed my actions, I was forced to admit, finally, that I shouldn't have so much regret. After all, I'd maneuvered the whole business on Dad Pablo's account —and Mama Josefa's. In the last analysis I owed them that much, and a great deal more. So gradually my mind became easier, and my only worry now was whether old Pablo had got to the bank in time and paid over the money. He was so easy-going and disinclined to haste as a rule.

It was two months later that I learned he had. In an old newspaper I found in a bar I read an account of the business, hitched in with a story about my activities. Skinflint Kirby had insisted the law get on my trail, which the deputy did, but, I gathered, with small enthusiasm, where doing Kirby's bidding was concerned. There'd been something of a row at the bank when old Pablo showed up with the money. Dad had had sense enough to pick up a crony in town to take along as a witness to prove he had offered the money before the time due. Kirby had at first refused payment on the grounds that the money had been stolen from him, but having no actual proof, had angrily agreed to let Dad Pablo off the hook. I breathed easier when I read that. By now, of course, Dad realized I had lied to him about the source of the money, but at least he and Mama Josefa were safe. That was what mattered most.

When I left my hide-out, I swung south and east; my biggest worry at the time was money for food. I'd had only a few bucks in my pocket when I took off. In one small town I got a job as a swamper in a saloon for a few days, mopping and sweeping out and washing glasses. That gave me a small stake. A cowhand job showed up next when I swung my trail to the north. I kept that only a short time until the boss's daughter got too friendly. She was a nice kid, but I wasn't ready to tie myself up with any one woman. So I pulled out of that job and took another, never staying long in one place and always keeping on the move.

I suppose I could have returned and faced the music, but knowing how vindictive Banker Kirby could be, I knew it would mean some sort of jail sentence to clear things up. And I certainly didn't like the thought of bars and stone walls. You see, it was still pretty hard for me to think of myself as a crook, though when I faced facts I had to admit I wasn't lilywhite.

And so I kept traveling, taking a small job here, another job there, back and forth across central and western Texas, but always swinging wide from the vicinity of Tenango City. I'd changed my name, of course, and traveled under an alias, and I tell you I was getting damn' tired of always being on the move and not staying long enough in one place to make any real friends.

And then when about the time I thought everything had quieted down, I began to see "wanted bills" with my name on 'em, at various points around Texas. I'd see 'em in saloons and posted on telegraph poles. It was bewildering, and I couldn't understand it. Apparently I was wanted in a number of counties in various parts of west and central Texas. I thought for a moment I must be dreaming, when the damn yellow bills started to increase. And the number of crimes of which I was unjustly accused—it was amazing! Bank robbery, cattle rustling, stage hold-ups. I just couldn't understand it. It was as though some vindictive spirit was hounding me, determined to wipe me out.

No getting away from it, I was a marked man, and I'd just have to run a little faster, and run I did, with fear shadowing me at every step of the way. So now I was a cow-thief and bank robber and stage bandit, eh? Like I say, I couldn't understand it. One solution did occur to me: that all law officers aren't industrious. Some would sooner blame a crooked job on a known wanted man, than saddle up and get on the trail of the real law-breaker. But all deputies and sheriffs aren't lazy, that's a cinch; mostly they're pretty honest men trying to do the job they are paid for doing.

Oh, it kept me moving, all right. I never kept a job long, and I changed clothing frequently and let my beard sprout, getting only an occasional shave. I'd discarded my Oregon breeches for denim, bibless overalls, traded horses every chance I could make a decent deal. I knew there'd be plenty men out to pick up the increasing rewards for my scalp. There'd be more who wouldn't want any part of me, as by now the reward bills were warning of my killer instincts and my speed with a six-shooter. That would have been laughable if it hadn't been so damn' serious. And now I'd have to be on the look-out for the type of gunman who was always ready to add another notch to his gun-butt.

It got so I was afraid to take a job, anywhere, for fear someone would guess at my identity, so I kept on the move. I'd always been pretty lucky with cards and dice, so now and then I'd drop into a bar where a game was starting and take a hand. My winnings were never big, but I managed to keep ahead of the game and always had more than enough to eat on and take care of my horse, before I'd pull out for some other town. Just a saddle-tramp, that's all I was really. One thing I did learn, and that was to hold my temper. Any time any sort of argument arose, I steered clear.

While I didn't want to admit it, I always felt that eventually some law officer would catch up and capture me. Capture or worse. And I'd wonder how Papa and Mama Serrano were getting on and wish that I had Mike to side with me. And what was happening to Mike these days? About that time I read in a newspaper that Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan had taken my trail. Now I knew I was in for tall dodging. He had a real rep as a man-hunter and I'd have to keep on my toes.

Hoping to shake him off, I headed down into the Big Bend Country, heading for the Rio Grande, where, if worse came to worst, I figured I could ford the river and make a getaway into Mexico. Here the going was slower through mountainous terrain. I didn't like the thought of leaving Texas, but if worse came to worst, I'd do it. For three days I headed straight south, as straight as possible that is, through rugged canyons and up steep inclines. Not too much stuff growing, cactus, creosote, stunted mesquite, sparse juniper.

For the first two days I had an uneasy feeling of being followed. I'd stop from time to time, behind a big rock, to see if anyone showed up, but no one ever did. Then, on the third day when I was nearing the Rio, I got over that feeling. Some extra sense a man has sometimes warns him when he is being trailed. I began to breathe easier and continued on, toward a point where the Rio Grande rushes between high escarpments. I'd be glad to see that river, too, as my canteen was empty, though I still had some biscuits and other food with me. There wasn't too much foliage around for the horse, and I knew he'd be glad of water too.

After a time as I gradually made a descent down a canyon the air grew fresher and I began to hear the sounds of running water. With the sun on them, the rocks looked colorful as the deuce. I guessed the river was just around the next bend too. I was breathing easy, my gaze ahead on the trail I was taking, when I saw something that pulled me up short.

A sandy declivity on the canyon floor showed a fresh hoof track. Farther on were a few scattered droppings. Someone was ahead of me.

It was the only warning I had! I jerked my pony around on two hind hoofs and reined him back of a high cluster of rocks. Then I dropped from the saddle. Fast! And crouched down, reaching behind to jerk the Winchester from its boot.

I waited, not daring to lift my head too high above the rocks as I tried to see what lay ahead. Damn'd if I wasn't trapped. Or maybe the rider ahead was friendly, and no law officer. My heart was going like a trip hammer.

Hell! It was a law officer all right. Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan, though I didn't know that right at first. Then his voice came to me from another clump of rocks, fifty or sixty yards farther on:

"Better surrender, Cardinal. You ain't got a chance."

"Try and make me." I shouted back. Lord, I was scared. I couldn't see him and he couldn't see me—I hoped. Cripes, for all I knew, he might be sneaking up on me. I just had to take a look.

I raised my head cautiously above the rock barrier.
Wham
! A rifle bullet spatflattened against the rock wall at my back. It was well above my head, though.

"You'll have to do better than that, Lawman," I yelled.

A taunting laugh came from the other pile of broken rock. "I can, Cardinal. That was just a warning. Want to try another look?"

I got smart then. Removing my sombrero I stuck it on the end of my rifle barrel and raised it slowly above the edge of the rocks.

Wham! Wham
! My sombrero spun crazily on the end of the gun barrel.

"That suit you, Cardinal?"

"It proves something," I called back, voice not quite steady. I crouched down, examined my hat. There were four holes in the crown of the sombrero where Jordan's slugs had passed straight through. God! The man could shoot.

His voice reached me again: "That'll teach you not to try that stale stunt of a Stet-hat on the end of a rifle barrel," Jordan jeered, and I began to feel foolish. He'd outfoxed me, just as he'd outfoxed me by guessing I was heading for the Rio Grande, following two days to make sure, then swinging wide to cut me off before I got there. A smart outlaw I'd turned out to be.

Anyway, there was a chance of keeping him from closing in on me now. I found a small crevice between two chunks of rock, and sent a fast Winchester slug toward the wall at his back, when I couldn't see sight of him.

"Better lower your sights, fellow," he called with a cool laugh.

Jeepers! I hadn't been trying to hit him, but so long as there was a chance of keeping him from closing in it was a worthwhile game. He fired again, and again the shot was wide. Well, maybe he thought he was keeping me from closing in too. Hell's-bells on a tomcat, I didn't want to get any closer to him, but of course he didn't know that.

For an hour we kept up a desultory sort of fire, with me not trying to hit him, and knowing what I already did of his aiming, he didn't seem to want to hit me either. I didn't quite figure it out. Once he yelled out something about getting together and having a talk, but I was afraid to chance that.

We each levered a few more cartridges into our barrels and fired some more shots at random. I was getting worried, wondering how much longer I could hold out. Powdersmoke drifted in the air. The sun had dropped low to the west by this time. Maybe if I could hold out until darkness came, I might be able to retreat back up the canyon. I threw another random shot in his direction, and he replied instantly. I heard the whine of the bullet as it passed overhead, and then it happened:

Something hit me a tremendous wallop back of the ear, high on my head. A million lights exploded inside my cranium and then a ton of blackness hit me. I felt myself falling sidewise and then a great ebony curtain descended to carry me into oblivion…

I awakened slowly. The moon was high overhead, shining directly down on the river. My head ached terrifically. Through almost closed eyes I gazed about. I didn't see anything of Jordan, but a brief glimpse showed me a small fire with a coffeepot resting on the coals. I moved my hands slightly and felt a rough blanket beneath my body. Anyway, I wasn't handcuffed. Despondency swept over me. Caught at last! Now I'd have to face—what?

I shifted my eyes and saw at the other side of the fire my saddle, and resting against it my Winchester, holstered belt and .44 Colt. A prisoner, just a lousy prisoner, that's what I was. I'd been out-foxed again. But how in the devil had Jordan got around behind me? I'd been so sure…

At that moment I heard his voice from the rear: "How about sitting up and taking a little nourishment, Cardinal? I know you've come to, and I figure I've waited supper long enough. Got a headache, I'll bet. Mebbe some hot coffee will fix that."

I realized now that he had a rather pleasant voice, nothing antagonistic in it; there hadn't been from the first. I came to a sitting position. A wave of dizziness swept over me and a thousand imps within my skull were using sledge hammers. After a minute my head cleared and I mumbled something about my horse.

"I took care of your hawss. It's just around that next bend of rock, where there's some grass for the animals to crop. Look here, I don't want to put the cuffs on you. Can you act sensible for a spell, until we have a mite of
habla
?"

"Anyway, I'll try," I smiled weakly. He walked around in front of me then, and I saw a tall man with good features and iron-gray hair, puffing a briar. A Colt was strapped at one hip and he wore a black Stetson and flat-heeled boots, checked shirt and corduroys cuffed at the ankles. "Right now," I continued, "I'm too achy to do anything but act sensible. So I reckon you can feel sure of collecting the reward."

He directed a sharp look at me from steely eyes. "Reward?" he growled. "You think I'm after those piddlin' rewards. Ain't I told you—aw, hell, forget it."

He got tin dishes from a burlap sack, produced a cup and poured coffee which he handed me. "Watch your lip, it's boiling hot. Sugar?"

I said, "No, thanks," and raised the cup to my mouth. Lord, such Java! My head began to feel better almost immediately. Jordan crouched near the fire, produced a frying pan and soon frying odors mingled with that of coffee in the air.