Shoot Him On Sight (13 page)

"
Amigos—
friends," Tawney introduced me. "My
amigo
, Juan Cardinal, who has required all too long to arrive. But now he is here, he will share our work and our pleasures. Give him the loyalty you have given me. That is a request, not an order. Also, it is my hope, as it is the hope of Mateo Vinanda."

I said in an aside to Tawney, "Good Lord, Jeff, I hope you know what you are doing."

"I know what I'm doing. It's okay," he replied. "I'll explain, later, and you'll see I'm right."

I found it hard to face the white-toothed smiles directed my way, embarrassed as I was, and unable to figure out the business. Well, for the moment, I'd play along with Jeff's idea, until things came clearer. Me, half-owner of the Box-CT. The whole business was crazy, as I saw it. For an instant I got to thinking I was the sucker in some sort of come-on swindle, then I banished that thought. Tawney appeared to be too sincere, as were the others. I circulated through the bunkhouse, shaking hands, catching names, here and there. From everyone's attitude I suspected that old Mateo had already prepared them for some sort of partial change of ownership, but it still didn't make sense to me.

About that time old Mateo entered, laughing, bearing a gallon jug of wine, to celebrate my arrival, as he put it. The jug circulated the room. We didn't bother with glasses, and it was soon finished. I could see they were all pleased I could speak Spanish. It sort of helped things, as if I were a blood brother, or something. And then I began to get the queerest sensation as though I'd come home. Home? Hell, I couldn't figure it out.

I said to Tawney, at last, "C'mon, let's get out of here and get some place where we can talk, Jeff. This suspense is driving me
loco
."

We said good-night and
adios
and I finally escaped, much as I'd have enjoyed staying and getting better acquainted with my crew.
My
crew? That too sounded crazy to me.

We returned to the big living-room with the easy chairs before a wide stone fireplace where mesquite roots burned. There was a small table between the chairs and a bottle of
Old Crow
and glasses stood waiting where Mama Benita had put them. Jeff Tawney filled the glasses as we settled down. We both rolled cigarettes.

"Now, dammit, out with it," I laughed.

"In a minute. But first, satisfy my curiosity."

So I had to hold a tight rein on my feelings, while I told him the whole story and the reason why I'd been forced to leave Tenango City after extorting the money from old Skinflint Kirby. Jeff listened in silence, while the mesquite roots snapped and flared in the fireplace. "And that," I concluded, "believe it or not, is my only crime. Nor am I a tough gun-fighter. Nor did I ever kill anyone. Matter of fact, my knees start quaking every time I get in a jam, and I dread the day when I'm forced to fire in self-defense, because I haven't any speed on the draw. Never before had any reason to work up speed."

"Johnny," Jeff laughed softly, "you've got a whale of a nerve coming to Onyxton, then. But I never saw a better act than you staged in the Onyx this afternoon. You really had that place bluffed."

"Sure, it was an act," I said earnestly, "an act prompted by fear. It was just that I've run long enough, and I'm tired of running, and that was the only way I knew to hide my fear."

"Pretty damn successful, I'd say," he chuckled. He sat staring into the fireplace. I judged him five or six years older than I was, and I was ready to accept his more mature judgment.

"Do you know of anything else I could have done?" I asked.

"I'd state here and now you've done plumb elegant. Y'know, when I saw that reward bill, with the name Cardinal on it, I wondered if it could be the same man. Then I decided against it, though it's an unusual surname. Why did I decide against it? Well, because of what I knew, I couldn't see any son of Ethan Dameris Cardinal going bad and becoming a gunman wanted by the law."

"What do you know about my father?" I demanded.

"I saw him once, though I've not much memory of him, being just a small younker at the time. He was a very good friend of my father. My mother had died and to forget his grief my father had headed down into Mexico to prospect for gold, with Mateo Vinanda. Likely he didn't look in the right places; anyway, he didn't have any luck. So there I was, being dragged around the country by Dad, and when he couldn't find anybody to take care of a small child, he finally hired Mateo to take care of me, and Mateo has been like a father to me since my own dad died. And—"

"But where did you ever see my father?" Excitement was mounting.

"Hold your hawsses a mite. I'll get to it. Eventually, the three of us—Dad, Mateo and me—worked up Mexico until we neared the U.S. line. Dad and Mateo both knew cattle, and they decided the best thing to do would be to go back punching. This country hereabouts looked likely to 'em, but there weren't any ranches here then, so they were casting around, figuring where they could get some money to buy a handful of cows for a start."

Jeff paused to roll another cigarette. "Just about that time they were jumped by about a dozen Mescalero Apaches. Mateo got a scratch from an arrow, but we managed, with Dad toting me, to hole up behind a mound of rocks. I don't remember all this, of course, but I do have a sort of memory of my Dad and Mateo shooting guns, and the sweat running down their faces, getting grimier and grimier from powder-smoke, and a lot of crazy yelling and hoofbeats from beyond our rock-shelter. I don't remember being scared or anything. Too young to realize, I suppose. Worst of it was, Dad and Mateo were running shy on lead and powder, and one of our hawsses had been killed."

Jeff paused a moment. "Y'understand, I got all this from my Dad in later years. Things were looking right bad for us, though Dad and Mateo had managed to kill three of the Apaches. About that time your father was riding through the country looking for likely land buys. He'd come down this way and stumbled on the small war taking place between us and the Indians. It didn't take him long to size up the situation and he unloaded some rifle shots so fast that he killed two Apaches and wounded a third. So, the Apaches, deciding this wasn't their day to take scalps, took off in a hurry. I just have a faint memory of your Dad, a tall man with hair like yours, and a big booming laugh. Once he picked me up and carried me on his shoulders, and I remember the ground below looked miles away—"

He broke off. "I reckon I'm not getting to the point very fast, am I? Anyway, your father and my dad and Mateo— and me—drifted around this country a couple of weeks, getting acquainted and looking at likely acreage. Our fathers became right friendly. When Dad brought your father here, they figured this was a place to start an outfit. Dad had been hoping to get a job rodding the spread when it was set up. Instead, your father took them up to Albuquerque, shot off a few telegrams. The upshot was—"

Tawney paused. "I suppose you know your dad was right well fixed."

"Huh?" My jaw dropped. "That's news to me."

"Yeah? Well, it's so—or was then. Like I say, telegrams from Albuquerque produced credit at an Albuquerque bank. Your dad turned sufficient cash over to my dad to buy land from the Mexican government, erect buildings and buy cattle. It was a pardnership, and they decided on the brand, Box-CT."

"I'll be damned!"

"Maybe you will," Jeff grinned. "Anyway, your dad left everything to my father to get things started, then announced he was going to return to Tenango City to take care of some odds and ends, dispose of some holdings he had, before returning here. My dad expected him within six months, but he never showed up—"

"Now, wait," I cut in. "All this doesn't necessarily mean that I've inherited half the Box-CT."

"As I see it, it sure does. Remember, I had the whole story from my father. One of the things your dad planned was to make out a will and deposit it with a banker named Clarence Kirby, naming you his heir, when he got back to Tenango City."

"My God, I never heard that!" I was stunned. "Skinflint Kirby told old Pablo Serrano that my dad only left a couple of hundred dollars, which same he turned over to Pablo. That lying, cheating—"

"Hold your temper, Johnny," Jeff smiled. "Looks like skulduggery, all right, but that can be taken care of later. Let me go on. When your father didn't show up, my dad wrote to Kirby. An answer came a month later, and it was then that Dad learned your folks had been killed in an accident. Dad wrote again, asking what had become of you. Kirby replied he had no idea and that some relative from the East had arrived and taken you back to Kansas City. For a couple of years, Dad tried to trace you, with no luck, and Kirby was no help, of course. So time drifted, and we've all hoped you'd show up someday. And you have."

"That crooked, lying Kirby!" I exclaimed. "You're sure of all this, Jeff?"

"Certain! My dad not only told me the story, and Mateo backs it up, but he also had papers drawn up, signed, witnessed and notarized, telling of the whole business. That was done about a year before he died, and Mateo had instructions to always be on the look-out for you. Dad always felt he owed a lot to your father, and Mateo does, too. I'll show you a copy of the papers later. There is also a copy deposited with the Bank of Mexico City."

I felt numb all over. It didn't seem believable. "Maybe," I said slowly, "I should split my half with Mateo—"

"He wouldn't take it. Both our fathers offered to make him a pardner, but all he asks is a home for himself and Mama Benita."

"What's the trouble between you and Shel Webster, Jeff?" Jeff frowned. "Maybe you noticed the high mountains rising either side of that canyon that runs through Buzzard Buttes—the trail we took to get here." I nodded and he went on, "For over fifty miles either way, that's the only road through into Mexico, and a town called Heraldica. To get there, it's necessary to cross my—our—holdings. Those crates of sewing machines, ploughs, or whatever, that Senator Whitlock is sending out, are being delivered to Heraldica, The T.N. & A.S. railroad depot is convenient to the canyon, for delivering the crates. Otherwise, it would mean a nasty trek over mountains, which I don't think a team and wagon could make. So, when Shel Webster came here and asked permission to cross Box-CT range, I gave it of course, and wagons came through every time a delivery was made by the railroad."

I scowled. "Exactly how does Webster happen to be mixed up in the senator's business?"

"I wondered about that too. Webster explained that he was just handling the crates as a favor to Whitlock. I got a hunch he's getting well paid by the senator."

"So where's all the difficulty with Webster come on?"

"They always manage to freight those crates through during the night. One night, toward dawn, I heard a heavy crash on the road that passes the house and a lot of cursing, and so on. I wondered what the rumpus was, so I got up and dressed. There were about a dozen of Webster's hoodlums, besides the team and wagon, when I arrived on the scene. Seems they'd had the wagon piled high and heavy. One of the big wheels had come off, and a couple of the boxes and crates had toppled off to the roadway. They were just lifting them back on, with the wheel being replaced. No one appeared ready to talk much. Then I noted that the end of two of the boxes had splintered open. That started me thinking."

"
Por qué
—why?"

"The largest box was stenciled 'Sewing Machines'. However, I recognize guns—carbines—when I see 'em. The small box contained ammunition."

"The hell you say!" I sat straighter. "What goes on?"

"That I don't know," Jeff frowned. "I didn't like it."

"And the stuff was being freighted to Heraldica? What sort of place is Heraldica?"

"It's about ten miles below our southern boundary line. Used to be a quiet little village, but the past year it has grown, driving most of the Mexican residents out, to be replaced by a large number of men from the U.S. side. Funny thing is, they pretend to be Mexicans, dress as they do, steeple-crowned hats and so on. They seem to be the dark swarthy type, and those who didn't speak Spanish are picking it up fast. Mostly they raise a lot of hell, drinking and wenching, in new places that have started up."

"After the wagonwheel had been replaced and the boxes reloaded, the wagon continued on. I thought about the business a couple of days, then I sent Mateo down to see what he could pick up from the few former residents left in Heraldica."

Jeff tossed a cigarette butt into the glowing embers in the fireplace, and continued, "Mateo didn't learn much. There seemed to be a feeling that, perhaps, some sort of revolution against the Mexican Government was being planned, but that was rumor. He could get no proof. Anyway, I didn't like the looks of things and I rode into Onyxton one morning and told Webster he'd have to find some other method of delivering his crates and boxes to Heraldica. I didn't say why, but maybe he guessed I had a hunch about something. We argued some, but I held firm. He got damn mad and I walked out on him. That afternoon he rode out here and asked what I'd take for my outfit. I told him I refused to sell. Two days later he was back with an offer. I gave the same answer. He's made three offers since, damn good ones too, so there's money back of him, I reckon. To get rid of him, I finally explained I couldn't give clear title, until I could locate a pardner whose whereabouts were unknown to me. I didn't get any more offers from him, but each time I go to Onyxton now, I feel lucky to leave without getting shot. One night they tried to smuggle a wagon through, but one of the boys, up late, heard 'em coming. That roused us and we grabbed rifles and made the wagon turn back."

"You've cleared up your end of the deal," I frowned, "but damned if I can see how Webster switches those crates—sending munitions instead of Senator Whitlock's sewing machines and ploughs and so on."

"It's got me beat," Jeff admitted.

We spent an hour speculating on what was going on, but couldn't arrive at any answer to the problem. Finally, Jeff suggested bed, and I was ready to agree. Mister, I hadn't slept in a bed like that for a year, and for the first time in many a night, I slept like a log in a room of my own.
On my own spread
! I still couldn't believe it.