The Smoking Iron (18 page)

Pat laughed sardonically and shook his head. “Hell no, I ain't got the cash with me.”

“I thought you were ready to close the deal,” Boxley complained.

“We may be from Colorado, but we ain't crazy enough to carry a pile of cash around in the Big Bend,” Pat assured him.

“How do you expect to pay for the stock if you decide to buy them?”

Pat pretended to ruminate a minute. “The way I understand the deal is like this: you don't want to try to smuggle the stuff back across the border here?”

“Exactly. It would be too dangerous with
rurales
keeping tabs on the herd. That's one reason I'm eager to sell to someone who doesn't live in the Big Bend. It'll be safe enough to drive them upriver on the Mexican side. Then the
rurales
will realize their suspicions were wrong, and they won't follow the herd to see what becomes of it. Once they're safely upriver a hundred miles or so they can be swum across at night without anyone being the wiser.”

“That's agreeable to me,” Pat told him. “While they're bein' drove upstream they'll be gettin' closer to Colorado. Right below El Paso is a good place to put 'em across, ain't it?”

“Yes. There's good open stretch of river there with lots of fords.”

“I can give you a draft on an El Paso bank,” Pat told him. “That suit you all right?”

“Sure. An El Paso draft will be fine. How much are you ready to pay?”

“I ain't seen 'em yet,” Pat reminded him.

Lon Boxley laughed heartily. “I guarantee they're the slickest range-fed stuff you've looked at in a long time.”

“Half of 'em heifers?”

“That's right. The rest cows and steers. Not a cow over five years old.”

“I ain't making an offer,” Pat warned him cautiously. “But if they're what you say … twenty dollars a head, all around.”

“Twenty dollars a head?” Boxley turned in the saddle to stare at him. “You must be jokin'.”

“Nope. I'm plumb serious.”

“They're worth twice that.”

“Not to you,” Pat told him. “You've got hold of a hot potato, an' it's going to burn you if you don't drop it quick. Anything you can get out of 'em in a hurry is better'n having the Mexican government take 'em over. Ain't it?”

“Well, yes. But twenty dollars …”

“I'm ready to make a deal with you tonight,” Pat pressed him. “After I look 'em over, you can start driving them upriver an' get 'em out of danger if they're what you say. But I won't pay more'n twenty dollars a head.”

“It's robbery,” Boxley frowned.

“I tol' you I was lookin' for a bargain.”

“All right. If you'll make the deal tonight. I want to get them started out of here,” Boxley sighed.

The lights of Boracho were beginning to show up in front of them. Boxley pointed them out and said, “I'll stop there and pick up some trail riders. Might as well get the herd started after you look them over.”

They were trotting into the little town of Boracho. Half a dozen adobe buildings on Main Street showed lighted windows. Boxley pulled up in front of a
cantina
and said, “I'll go in here. Won't be but a minute.” He swung off and went in without inviting them to follow him.

Ezra looked at Pat and said reflectively, “So yo're gonna buy four hundred head of stuff at twenty dollars a head? Me, I ain't very good at riggers, but seems to me, like that adds up to a lot of money. An' since when have you been keepin' money in a El Paso bank that you can draw on? What kind of doggone monkey bizniss you up to, Pat?”

Pat grinned and said, “This is what they call high finance in the city. Where one slicker out-slickers another slicker.” He slid out of the saddle. “Let's go in an' get us a drink.”

Ezra gladly accepted that suggestion and followed him into the saloon.

Boxley stood at the bar talking to two whiskered men in rough clothing. He looked up with a frown of annoyance when he saw his two companions coming in the door. He pulled away from the bar, saying something in a low tone to the men, and they followed him to the back of the room. The bartender was a halfbreed, wearing an undershirt and dirty white pants. There were three other Americans in the saloon and one Mexican grouped together at the other end of the bar. They watched Pat and Ezra come in, but said nothing as the two men bellied up to the bar.

“Got any American whisky?” Pat asked.

“
Sí señor
. One dollar for the drink.”

Pat said, “Better make it a big drink for that,” He clanked two silver dollars on the bar, turned casually and looked back toward Boxley in the rear.

Boxley had a worried look on his face. He appeared to be questioning the two men sharply. He glanced up and saw that Pat and Ezra were having a drink, then nodded to one of the men, took his arm and went out a rear door with him. The other man sauntered up to the group at the end of the bar and said something in a low voice, nodding his head at Pat and Ezra.

“Thought we might find Dusty in here,” Pat said out of the side of his mouth. “I noticed a Katie hawse outside. That's what he rode across on.”

Ezra said, “He ain't in here,” and turned his attention to his drink.

Pat picked his glass up and studied it a minute. In a low voice, he muttered, “I'd shore like to know where Lon ducked out to. Wish you'd start up a fracas so I could slip out without bein' noticed particular.”

Ezra tossed his drink down and beamed at Pat. “I'd admire to do that. Ain't had no fun since we started this trip.”

He sidled around Pat and stared pugnaciously at the other men. “What's that I heered one of you fellers say?” he demanded loudly.

They all looked at him in surprise.

Pat grabbed his arm and begged loudly, “Don't start no trouble, Ezra. Come on out in the cool.”

Ezra shook his hand off angrily. “One of them fellers jest
in
sulted us. I heered him plain. I'm gonna bust his head wide open.” He started toward them, big fists swinging like pendulums.

Pat said hastily, “Suit yoreself. I ain't stayin' for no fire-works.” He backed toward the front door and out. He paused long enough to see Ezra shaking his fist at the group. They were grinning at the one-eyed man with the good-natured tolerance of sober men for a drunkard.

Pat turned away from the door and trotted noiselessly along the side of the building. Light came from a small window set high in the wall near the back end of the saloon.

Pat heard voices coming from inside as he reached the window. He pressed against the mud wall underneath and listened.

He heard Dusty's voice saying angrily, “But I tell you I ain't him. My name's Dusty Morgan an' I can prove it if you'll let me outta here.”

There was a low murmur that sounded like Boxley.

Then Dusty again, “I know all about that. Shore, he was wearin' my clothes. I traded with him … after he got killed. I
wanted
them to think he was me. There was a posse after me for killin' the Marfa sheriff. Whoever held up the stage knows he was named Ben Thurston. He hollered out his name just before they blasted him.”

A loud screech of pain sounded from the front part of the saloon. Then the crash of a chair against the wall and an infuriated bellow from Ezra.

Pat heard feet running out from the room inside, heard an inner door slam shut.

He reached up and caught the sill with his fingertips, pulled himself up for a quick look inside the room. Dusty was stretched out on the floor bound tightly with a rope. He didn't see Pat peering in.

The sound of a loud brawl was gaining volume in the front. Rising above all the other noises was Ezra's voice whooping it up happily as he obeyed Pat's order to create a disturbance.

Pat dropped back to the ground and sprinted around to the front door. Boxley and the man who had gone out with him re-entered from the rear just as Pat burst into the front.

There was a rolling mass of fighting men on the floor, with Ezra in the middle of it. One figure already lay limply aside, and another man stumbled out of the melee holding his wrist as Pat ran in.

The man with Boxley pulled his gun and ran toward the group rolling on the floor. He tried to get a bead on Ezra but found it difficult because they constantly shifted positions.

Pat ran forward, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Ezra! Stop it! Ezra!”

The tangle of men suddenly disintegrated with one man flying in one direction and another man in another. Ezra got to his feet with a deprecatory grin. “I didn't mean no harm, Pat. I was jest sort of funnin'.”

Pat grabbed his arm and gave him a shove toward the door. “Get outside an' sober up.” He turned to Boxley. “I'm sorry. He gets fightin' drunk every so often.”

The men who had unwisely engaged in battle with him were gathering themselves up and counting the damage. The Mexican was out cold on the floor with a broken jaw, but the Americans were only scratched and battered.

“Forget it,” Boxley told them impatiently when they began muttering threats of reprisal. “We've got work to do. I want you boys to round up all my Star Boxed Cross stuff an' get 'em ready to move up the river toward El Paso. This man is buyin' 'em from me … delivery on the other side of the river.

“You stay here, Thad,” he told a hulking man with piggish eyes and an undershot jaw. “Take care of Pedro and see he gets his jaw bandaged. An' … take care of everything else too.” He jerked his head toward the rear.

Thad nodded and limped over to squat down by the unconscious Mexican.

“Rest of you come with me,” Boxley said shortly, and strode out of the
cantina
.

Pat let them precede him. He got on his horse slowly and let them ride ahead with Boxley while Ezra fell in with him behind them.

The big man's clothing was torn and his scarred face was streaked with blood, but there was still a joyous light in his single eye. “How'd I do?” he demanded happily.

“I didn't tell you to start a massacre,” Pat told him. “You could of argued, couldn't you?”

“Fightin's more fun. But I only got one good wallop at the Mex 'fore the others jumped me. It was purty good while it lasted. What'd you find out?”

Pat held his horse back so that they would remain out of earshot of the others. He told Ezra what he had seen and heard in the back room of the
cantina
.

“They got him tied up there, an,' you went off an' left him?” Ezra demanded indignantly.

“That's right. I think he's safe enough until Boxley finds out for sure who he is. And I want to get the cattle moving up the river.”

“How do you figure Boxley? What's his game?”

“It looks plain enough,” Pat snorted. “He's been havin' his men pretend to help Katie while she was bein' smuggled poor so she'd give in an' sell the ranch or maybe even marry him. He's scared of havin' anyone help her out, for fear she'll change her mind. That's why he's keepin' Dusty tied up. Till he's shore who he really is or that it's too late for Katie to change her mind.”

The group ahead of them had stopped to go through a pasture gate. They were in the low foothills behind Boracho, in pretty good grazing country. The moon and stars were giving enough light to distinguish things fairly well.

Boxley reined back beside Pat and Ezra as the others rode through the gate.

“This is the pasture they're in,” he told them. “We'll stay here and let them drive 'em out past us. You can look 'em over an' make a count. Is that fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” Pat agreed. “You get on t'other side of the gate, Ezra, an' keep tally with me. That way, we'll be somewhere near right.”

Boxley pulled aside with Pat. “It won't take 'em long to start 'em coming,” he muttered. “This is a little pasture, an' they're so fat they're easy drove.”

Pat rolled a cigarette while they waited. He could hear the riders farther up in the hills, could hear an occasional shout as they started the split hoofs moving toward the gate.

It wasn't long before the vanguard of the herd showed up in the moonlight, a confused mass of broad-backed white-faces, bawling at each other at being wakened from their sleep, trotting and shoving to get through the narrow gate.

Boxley hadn't lied about the shape they were in. They were the fattest bunch of stuff Pat had ever seen on hoof in his life. And each was branded with the Star Boxed Cross which Boxley had described to them.

Pat didn't have any more time for thinking. He was plenty busy trying to make a tally on the fat cattle crowding through the gate in the moonlight. It takes an old hand at the business to make a correct count of a herd like that. It isn't really a matter of counting each separate head that passes. You sort of let your subconscious mind take hold, and you find a total rolling up in your mind after you've done it long enough. An expert at the business, Pat kept his eye on the moving mass of broad backs in front of him and let his instinct do the adding.

The herd began to thin out after a time. The riders were whooping it up behind the stragglers, pushing them forward to form a compact herd with the others.

As the last ones went through the gate, Lon Boxley directed the herders, “Turn them upriver and keep 'em movin'. I'll send a chuck wagon an' more riders from my ranch across the river to catch up with you by morning and make up a regular trail outfit.” And he asked Pat, “What did you make it?”

Pat said, “My tally is three hundred and sixty-eight,” He raised his voice to get Ezra's attention, “How many did you get?”

“Three hundred seventy-one,” Ezra called back, reining across to them.

“That's close enough,” Boxley said with satisfaction. “My count was three seventy-two.”

“We'll call it three seventy,” Pat said.