The Smoking Iron (17 page)

He turned in the saddle to look back at the K T ranch house. In the soft haze of twilight, it was barely discernible behind them. Pat said, “I reckon nobody can see us if we turn off now.”

“Where to?”

“To the Excel ranch. I got a hankerin' to see Lon Boxley.”

“What for!” Ezra grunted suspiciously. “Jest lookin' at him gives me a yen to start shootin', and I wouldn't be responsible.”

“You heard what he said about buyin' heifers. Said he had some for sale.” Pat swung to the right off the road to the river ford. “I reckon we can cut across this way an' hit the X L Ranch.”

“You don't want none of that hungry, gaunted stuff we saw along the road,” Ezra protested. “They'd never stand up under a drive back to Powder Valley.”

“I want to find out what he meant. Sounded like he might have an ace up his sleeve … or maybe a pair of aces.”

“Where do you figure he fits into everything, Pat?”

“I don't know. I've got a hunch he's sweet on Katie Rollins or is makin'
her
think he's sweet on her.”

“You don't reckon she'd
fall
for a man like him, do you?”

“No man ever knows what a gal'll do. She's crazy enough about the K T Ranch to do most anything to keep it goin'.”

“Don't know as I blame her.” Ezra sighed enviously as he took in the serene beauty of the river bottom ranch through which they were riding. “This here makes all the rest of the Big Bend look like a bad dream.”

Pat nodded and said enigmatically, “That's what's makin' me guess certain things. Here's another road cuttin' down across it,” he added. “Leading to another one of the three fords, I reckon. If we turn the other way on it, I'm bettin' we'll ride onto the X L layout.”

They turned to their right on a road leading directly across the Katie away from the river. As it grew darker, they crossed the road from Hermosa to the ranch and rode on toward the rimrocks looming darkly ahead of them.

At the foot of the limestone cliffs they found another wooden gate barring the road that had been cut upward along the side of the cliff. When their horses came out on the top a few minutes later, it was quite dark and Pat indicated a light some miles ahead of them.

“That'll be X L headquarters, from what Katie told us this afternoon. Let's be gettin' there.”

They spurred their horses into an easy lope. The light grew brighter as they neared it and as solid darkness came on. After a time it resolved itself into a lighted window of a frame building set in the middle of a miscellaneous collection of rickety sheds and corrals.

A man hailed them from one of the corrals as they rode up: “Who is it?”

Pat pulled up and called back, “We're lookin' for Lon Boxley.”

“All right, but who are you?” the voice growled back. A man came toward them in the darkness, and Pat saw he was carrying a rifle across the crook of his arm.

“Name's Pat Stevens,” he said mildly. “Cow buyer from Colorado. Boxley asked me up this afternoon.”

“Whyn't you say so?” the man grumbled. He gestured toward the lighted window with the muzzle of his rifle. “Boss is up there.”

They trotted on up into the yard and dismounted. Pat led the way to a door a few feet from the lighted window and knocked loudly. He heard heavy footsteps inside, then the door opened a crack and Boxley's voice asked, “Who is it?”

“Men from Colorado that're wantin' to buy heifers.”

Boxley opened the door up wide and said, “Come in then.” He stepped away from the door and Pat and Ezra entered a small square room that showed the dirt and disorder of bachelor usage. The bare pine floor was grimy and there were greasy supper dishes on the table in the center of the room.

Pat said to Boxley, “You're mighty cautious about lettin' visitors in to yore ranch. I thought we was going to get asked for a password.”

“A man can't be too careful here in the Big Bend.” Boxley was in his shirt sleeves and his breath smelled of whisky. He nodded ungraciously toward a couple of broken-backed chairs. “Set down and rest your feet. I thought you were riding across the river to see about buyin' your stuff over there.”

Pat said, “We changed our minds. Wanted to hear yore proposition first.” He and Ezra sat down.

Boxley remained standing. He frowned and asked, “How do I know you're really cattle buyers from Colorado?”

“You can easily check up on us,” Pat told him shortly.

“Well, it ain't really unlegal, my proposition ain't. You just looking for heifers, huh?”

Pat shrugged. “Mostly heifers. We'd buy anything else, I reckon, if it was to be offered at enough bargain. Wouldn't we, Ezra?”

“Shore. If 'twas cheap enough.”

Boxley nodded with satisfaction. “You've come to the right place for a bargain.” He went to the end of the room and rummaged under a pile of clothing, pulled out a gallon jug half full of
tequila
. He set it on the table, said, “I'll get some cups,” and disappeared through a side door into the kitchen.

Ezra looked at Pat and made an appreciative smacking sound with his lips. Pat grinned wryly and started to roll a cigarette. Boxley came back with three tin cups. He poured each of the cups half full and offered one to each of his guests, saying, “Talking business is pretty dry work without a snifter to wash it down with. There's salt here on the table if you want some.”

Pat and Ezra shook their heads. Pat took a cautious sip, and Ezra took an incautious gulp. He sputtered and blinked back tears and said, “That's real good.”

Boxley picked up a salt shaker from the table and carefully shook a little salt on his tongue. Then he drank the half cup of fiery Mexican liquor. Holding his breath, he put more salt on his tongue and swallowed, then exhaled loudly. “Ain't so bad if you salt it down,” he explained, then went on abruptly, “I've got myself in a damn-fool jam by trying to be smart. Got a lot of stuff on the other side of the Border I've got to get rid of for cash.”

“How much stuff?”

“Three or four hundred head all told. Maybe half of them are heifers.”

Pat nodded. “What kind of jam?”

“Like I say, it ain't really unlegal … 'cept that the Mexican government is going to make me trouble.” Boxley sat on a corner of the table and frowned at him. “You know anything about Mexican law?”

“Not a damned thing.”

“I'm just learning,” Boxley said plaintively. “Here's the way it stands. No American citizen is allowed to own any land or stock in Mexico.”

Pat nodded. “I've heard that.”

“Things got a mite bad here on my range last year. You rode over most of it today, an' you can see we've had a bad drought for years.”

Pat nodded again. He took another sip of
tequila
. His expression was receptive.

“There was some mighty good grass right on the other side of the Border that was goin' to waste,” Boxley went on. “I saw a chance to save a lot of my stuff. I fixed it with the Mexican that owned that ranch over there to take my stock and graze 'em. He didn't have any money to buy them with, and I didn't want to sell anyway, so we fixed a deal to get around the government law … the one about no Americans owning Mexican stock.”

He paused to look inquiringly at his guests. “Ready for another drink?”

Pat shook his head, but Ezra got to his feet and ambled toward the jug. “B'lieve I'll try some with a shot of salt this time.”

Boxley said, “Help yourself.” He went on to Pat.

“We worked out a brand for him to register in his name in Mexico. A brand that mine could be turned into easy. You take an X L,” he explained, getting a stubby pencil and a piece of paper from the table. “Like this.” He drew a big X L on the paper. “That's my brand. Draw a straight line down through the X. That makes a six-pointed star put of it. Then run the bottom part of the L on over to the left. Draw a line across the top same as the bottom. Connect the two ends of those top and bottom lines with two straight lines. That gives you a figure one in a box. Draw a straight line across the middle of the one, and you've got a cross in a box. See?” He showed his diagram on paper to Pat, and held it so Ezra could goggle at it over his tin cup.

“That makes the Star Boxed Cross brand,” he explained. “That's the way we registered it in Mexico. An' I cut out about half of my stuff and slid them across the river at night. We changed the brands, an' there they were in his pasture. Gettin' fat instead of starvin' on this side. An' it left me enough grass to keep the other half of my stock alive.”

“Sounds reasonable enough,” Pat agreed. “What's come up now?”

“Them damn Mexicans,” Boxley grated. “They smell a rat about him owning a herd like that all of a sudden. We planned to just drive 'em back at night when my grass got good again. But we can't do it that way now. The
rurales
are watching that herd day an' night.”

“Don't look like your grass is any good yet anyhow,” Pat objected.

Boxley smiled thinly. “You've rode down over the Katie spread, ain't you?”

“Yeh. We ate supper at the ranch.”

“There's plenty of good grass there going to waste.”

“There sure is,” Pat agreed.

“That's where I figured on puttin' my Star Boxed Cross herd. You see, I'm taking over the Katie outfit.”

Pat said, “Is that so?” and Ezra set the jug down with a loud thump and glowered at the rancher.

“Yep. The Rollins girl needs a man to take over for her.”

Pat slowly began rolling another cigarette. “But you can't drive the stuff back over like you planned because the Mexican
rurales
are guardin' it?”

“They're not exactly guardin' it, but they're keeping pretty good watch. There'd be hell to pay if they ever found out the deal I pulled. So now, I've got to sell the stuff for cash. The money'll be paid over to my Mexican friend to make it all look proper, an' he'll pass it on to me. That way, nothing can ever be proved.”

“You'll have to take a short price, selling 'em that way,” Pat warned him.

“I know I will. That's the bargain I was talking about. You see, I can't afford to have any trouble here on the border with the
rurales
, now that I'm taking over the Katie. I'll be needin' their help to stop the smuggling that's been going on.”

Pat nodded abruptly. “Sounds like a good deal to me. How about you, Ezra?”

The one-eyed man hiccoughed loudly. He turned his head back and opened his mouth wide, shook a shower of salt into his mouth. Tears came into his eye as he swallowed and gulped. “Shore,” he managed to say. “Shore, it sounds good enough to me.”

“When can we see the stuff?” Pat asked Boxley.

“The sooner the better. Why not tonight? I've got to ride over to Boracho anyhow to see a man about something else. We can go right away.”

“Suits me. But if the stuff ain't fat, I don't want any part of it,” Pat warned him. “It's a hard trip, trail-herdin' up to Colorado from here.”

“They're in mighty fine shape,” Boxley assured him.

“They'll stand the trip good. Been fattenin' on Mexican grass for 'most a year now. I'll get my jacket.” He hurried from the room.

Ezra rounded the table and approached Pat cautiously.

“He's a slick un,” he warned in a deep rumble. “You watch yore step, Pat, else you'll get burnt.”

Pat Stevens laughed recklessly. “I'm not swallowin' his story whole hawg,” he assured Ezra. “I dunno what the deal is, but I figure he ain't telling all the truth. We'll trail along with him an' keep our eyes open. An' our
mouths
shut,” he added harshly as Ezra turned back to the
tequila
jug. “This night's work is going to need clear heads.”

Ezra turned with an injured expression. “That's what I was calculating an' that's why I thought I'd better take another li'l drink. With a shot of salt,” he added with dignity. “It don't seem like it makes a man drunk that-away.”

Boxley came back into the room wearing his silver-decorated buckskin jacket at that moment, and Ezra regretfully passed up another drink.

Boxley blew out the lamp and they went outdoors together.

15

When they reached the barbed wire fence along the river, Pat unobtrusively pushed his horse ahead of the others to the gate, swung off and opened it for them to ride through. He led his horse through last and pretended to have a little trouble getting the gate shut. Boxley rode on into the river to let his horse drink from the running water.

Lingering behind on the bank, Ezra witnessed an astonishing thing. As soon as he was sure Boxley was far enough away not to notice, Pat quit pretending to try and shut the gate. Instead, he dragged it back, leaving the gap in the wire fence wide open.

Shocked by this breach of range etiquette, Ezra reined his horse back as Pat swung into the saddle, and asked hoarsely, “Did that one drink of
tequila
make you plumb drunk, Pat?”

“I'm not drunk.”

“You left that gate open.”

Pat said, “Shut up or Boxley'll hear you. We may be comin' back across here in a hurry tonight.”

“What you got planned?” Ezra asked in a low anxious tone as they rode on down toward the water.

“Nothin',” Pat said simply. “Dependin' on what happens.”

Their horses splashed into the water and they joined the Excel rancher in midstream.

“We have to ride past Boracho, downriver a piece,” Boxley told them. “Then we'll go on to look at the herd.”

“How far is it?”

“The herd? Only a couple of miles up in the foothills behind Boracho.” They rode a short distance and Boxley asked suddenly, “You got the cash with you to pay for this stuff?”