Stewart Edward White - The Killer

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"Sure," said McCloud, "I'll go twist that Chink washee-man. Been
intending to for a week." And he stumped out on his wooden foot.

The comet hit at precisely 7:42 by McCloud's big clock. Its head was
Brower at high speed and tension; and its tail was the light alkali dust
of Arizona mingled with the station agent. No irresistible force and
immovable body proposition in mine; I gave to the impact.

"Why, sure, I got 'em for you," I answered. "You left your dope lying
around loose so I took care of it for you. As for your bag; you seemed
to set such store by it that I got that for you, too."

Which deflated that particular enterprise for the moment, anyway. The
station agent, too mad to spit, departed before he should be tempted
beyond his strength to resist homicide.

"I suppose you're taking care of my gun for me, too," said Brower; but
his irony was weak. He was evidently off the boil.

"Your gun?" I echoed. "Have you lost your gun?"

He passed his hand across his eyes. His super-excitement had passed,
leaving him weak and nervous. Now was the time for my counter-attack.

"Here's your gun," said I, "didn't want to collect any lead while you
were excited, and I've got your dope," I repeated, "in a safe place." I
added, "and you'll not see any of it again until you answer me a few
questions, and answer them straight."

"If you think you can roll me for blackmail," he came back with some
decision, "you're left a mile."

"I don't want a cent; but I do want a talk."

"Shoot," said he.

"How often do you have to have this dope--for the best results; and how
much of it at a shot?"

He stared at me for a moment, then laughed.

"What's it to yuh?" he repeated his formula.

"I want to know."

"I get to needing it about once a day. Three grains will carry me by."

"All right; that's what I want to know. Now listen to me. I'm custodian
of this dope, and you'll get your regular ration as long as you stick
with me."

"I can always hop a train. This ain't the only hamlet on the map," he
reminded me.

"That's always what you can do if you find we can't work together.
That's where you've got me if my proposition doesn't sound good."

"What is your proposition?" he asked after a moment.

"Before I tell you, I'm going to give you a few pointers on what you're
up against. I don't know how much you know about Old Man Hooper, but
I'll bet there's plenty you _don't_ know about."

I proceeded to tell him something of the old man's methods, from the
"boomerang" to vicarious murder.

"And he gets away with it?" asked Brower when I had finished.

"He certainly does," said I. "Now," I continued, "you may be solid as a
brick church, and your plans may be water-tight, and old Hooper may
kill the fatted four-year-old, for all I know. But if I were you, I
wouldn't go sasshaying all alone out to Hooper's ranch. It's altogether
_too_ blame confiding and innocent."

"If anything happens to me, I've left directions for those contracts to
be recorded," he pointed out. "Old Hooper knows that."

"Oh, sure!" I replied, "just like that! But one day your trustworthy
friend back yonder will get a letter in your well-known hand-write that
will say that all is well and the goose hangs high, that the old man is
a prince and has come through, and that in accordance with the nice,
friendly agreement you have reached he--your friend--will hand over the
contract to a very respectable lawyer herein named, and so forth and so
on, ending with your equally well-known John Hancock."

"Well, that's all right."

"I hadn't finished the picture. In the meantime, you will be getting out
of it just one good swift kick, and that is all."

"I shouldn't write any such letter. Not 'till I felt the feel of the
dough."

"Not at first you wouldn't," I said, softly. "Certainly not at first.
But after a while you would. These renegade Mexicans--like Hooper's
Ramon, for example--know a lot of rotten little tricks. They drive
pitch-pine splinters into your legs and set fire to them, for one thing.
Or make small cuts in you with a knife, and load them up with powder
squibs in oiled paper--so the blood won't wet them--and touch them off.
And so on. When you've been shown about ten per cent, of what old Ramon
knows about such things, you'll write most any kind of a letter."

"My God!" he muttered, thrusting the ridiculous derby to the back of his
head.

"So you see you'd look sweet walking trustfully into Hooper's claws.
That's what that newspaper ad was meant for. And when the respectable
lawyer wrote that the contract had been delivered, do you know what
would happen to you?"

The ex-jockey shuddered.

"But you've only told me part of what I want to know," I pursued. "You
got me side-tracked. This daughter of the dead pardner--this girl, what
about her? Where is she now?"

"Europe, I believe."

"When did she go?"

"About three months ago."

"Any other relatives?"

"Not that I know of."

"H'm," I pondered. "What does she look like?"

"She's about medium height, dark, good figure, good-looking all right.
She's got eyes wide apart and a wide forehead. That's the best I can do.
Why?"

"Anybody heard from her since she went to Europe?"

"How should I know?" rejoined Brower, impatiently. "What you driving
at?"

"I think I've seen her. I believe she's not in Europe at all. I believe
she's a prisoner at the ranch."

"My aunt!" ejaculated Brower. His nervousness was increasing--the
symptoms I was to recognize so well. "Why the hell don't you just shoot
him from behind a bush? I'll do it, if you won't."

"He's too smooth for that." And I told him what Hooper had told me. "His
hold on these Mexicans is remarkable. I don't doubt that fifty of the
best killers in the southwest have lists of the men Old Man Hooper
thinks might lay him out. And every man on that list would get his
within a year--without any doubt. I don't doubt that partner's daughter
would go first of all. You, too, of course."

"My aunt!" groaned the jockey again.

"He's a killer," I went on, "by nature, and by interest--a bad
combination. He ought to be tramped out like a rattlesnake. But this is
a new country, and it's near the border. I expect he's got me marked. If
I have to I'll kill him just like I would a rattlesnake; but that
wouldn't do me a whole lot of good and would probably get a bunch
assassinated. I'd like to figure something different. So you see you'd
better come on in while the coming is good."

"I see," said the ex-jockey, very much subdued. "What's your idea? What
do you want me to do?"

That stumped me. To tell the truth I had no idea at all what to do.

"I don't want you to go out to Hooper's ranch alone," said I.

"Trust me!" he rejoined, fervently.

"I reckon the first best thing is to get along out of town," I
suggested. "That black bag all the plunder you got?"

"That's it."

"Then we'll go out a-horseback."

We had lunch and a smoke and settled up with McCloud. About
mid-afternoon we went on down to the livery corral. I knew the keeper
pretty well, of course, so I borrowed a horse and saddle for Brower. The
latter looked with extreme disfavour on both.

"This is no race meet," I reminded him. "This is a means of
transportation."

"Sorry I ain't got nothing better," apologized Meigs, to whom I had
confided my companion's profession--I had to account for such a figure
somehow. "All my saddle hosses went off with a mine outfit yesterday."

"What's the matter with that chestnut in the shed?"

"He's all right; fine beast. Only it ain't mine. It belongs to Ramon."

"Ramon from Hooper's?"

"Yeah."

"I'd let you ride my horse and take Meigs's old skate myself," I said to
Brower, "but when you first get on him this bronc of mine is a
rip-humming tail twister. Ain't he, Meigs?"

"He's a bad _caballo_," corroborated Meigs.

"Does he buck?" queried Brower, indifferently.

"Every known fashion. Bites, scratches, gouges, and paws. Want to try
him?"

"I got a headache," replied Brower, grouchily. "Bring out your old dog."

When I came back from roping and blindfolding the twisted dynamite I was
engaged in "gentling," I found that Brower was saddling the mournful
creature with my saddle. My expostulation found him very snappy and
very arbitrary. His opium-irritated nerves were beginning to react. I
realized that he was not far short of explosive obstinacy. So I conceded
the point; although, as every rider knows, a cowboy's saddle and a
cowboy's gun are like unto a toothbrush when it comes to lending. Also
it involved changing the stirrup length on the livery saddle. I needed
things just right to ride Tiger through the first five minutes.

When I had completed this latter operation, Brower had just finished
drawing tight the cinch. His horse stood dejectedly. When Brower had
made fast the latigo, the horse--as such dispirited animals often
do--heaved a deep sigh. Something snapped beneath the slight strain of
the indrawn breath.

"Dogged if your cinch ain't busted!" cried Meigs with a loud laugh.
"Lucky for you your friend did borrow your saddle! If you'd clumb Tiger
with that outfit you could just naturally have begun pickin' out the
likely-looking she-angels."

I dropped the stirrup and went over to examine the damage. Both of the
quarter straps on the off side had given way. I found that they had been
cut nearly through with a sharp knife. My eye strayed to Ramon's
chestnut horse standing under the shed.

CHAPTER IX

We jogged out to Box Springs by way of the lower alkali flats. It is
about three miles farther that way; but one can see for miles in every
direction. I did not one bit fancy the canons, the mesquite patches, and
the open ground of the usual route.

I beguiled the distance watching Brower. The animal he rode was a
hammer-headed, ewe-necked beast with a disconsolate eye and a half-shed
winter coat. The ex-jockey was not accustomed to a stock saddle. He had
shortened his stirrups beyond all reason so that his knees and his
pointed shoes and his elbows stuck out at all angles. He had thrust his
derby hat far down over his ears, and buttoned his inadequate coat
tightly. In addition, he was nourishing a very considerable grouch,
attributable, I suppose, to the fact that his customary dose was just
about due. Tiger could not be blamed for dancing wide. Evening was
falling, the evening of the desert when mysterious things seem to swell
and draw imminent out of unguessed distances. I could not help wondering
what these gods of the desert could be thinking of us.

However, as we drew imperceptibly nearer the tiny patch of cottonwoods
that marked Box Springs, I began to realize that it would be more to the
point to wonder what that gang of hoodlums in the bunk house was going
to think of us. The matter had been fairly well carried off up to that
moment, but I could not hope for a successful repetition. No man could
continue to lug around with him so delicious a vaudeville sketch without
some concession to curiosity. Nor could any mortal for long wear such
clothes in the face of Arizona without being required to show cause. He
had got away with it last night, by surprise; but that would be about
all.

At my fiftieth attempt to enter into conversation with him, I
unexpectedly succeeded. I believe I was indicating the points of
interest. You can see farther in Arizona than any place I know, so there
was no difficulty about that. I'd pointed out the range of the
Chiracahuas, and Cochise's Stronghold, and the peaks of the Galiuros and
other natural sceneries; I had showed him mesquite and yucca, and mescal
and soapweed, and sage, and sacatone and niggerheads and all the other
known vegetables of the region. Also I'd indicated prairie dogs and
squinch owls and Gambel's quail and road runners and a couple of coyotes
and lizards and other miscellaneous fauna. Not to speak of naming
painstakingly the ranches indicated by the clumps of trees that you
could just make out as little spots in the distance--Box Springs, the
O.T., the Double H, Fort Shafter, and Hooper's. He waked up and paid a
little attention at this; and I thought I might get a little friendly
talk out of him. A cowboy rides around alone so much he sort of likes to
josh when he has anybody with him. This "strong silent" stuff doesn't go
until you've used around with a man quite some time.

I got the talk, all right, but it didn't have a thing to do with
topography or natural history. Unless you call the skate he was riding
natural history. That was the burden of his song. He didn't like that
horse, and he didn't care who knew it. It was an uncomfortable horse to
ride on, it required exertion to keep in motion, and it hurt his
feelings. Especially the last. He was a horseman, a jockey, he'd ridden
the best blood in the equine world; and here he was condemned through no
fault of his own to straddle a cross between a llama and a woolly toy
sheep. It hurt his pride. He felt bitterly about it. Indeed, he fairly
harped on the subject.

"Is that horse of yours through bucking for the day?" he asked at last.

"Certain thing. Tiger never pitches but the once."

"Let me ride him a ways. I'd like to feel a real horse to get the taste
of this kangaroo out of my system."

I could see he was jumpy, so I thought I'd humour him.

"Swing on all at once and you're all right," I advised him. "Tiger don't
like fumbling in getting aboard."

He grunted scornfully.

"Those stirrups are longer than the ones you've been using. Want to
shorten them?"

He did not bother to answer, but mounted in a decisive manner that
proved he was indeed a horseman, and a good one. I climbed old crow bait
and let my legs hang.

The jockey gathered the reins and touched Tiger with his heels. I kicked
my animal with my stock spurs and managed to extract a lumbering sort of
gallop.

"Hey, slow up!" I called after a few moments. "I can't keep up with
you."

Brower did not turn his head, nor did Tiger slow up. After twenty
seconds I realized that he intended to do neither. I ceased urging on my
animal, there was no use tiring us both; evidently the jockey was
enjoying to the full the exhilaration of a good horse, and we would
catch up at Box Springs. I only hoped the boys wouldn't do anything
drastic to him before my arrival.

So I jogged along at the little running walk possessed by even the most
humble cattle horse, and enjoyed the evening. It was going on toward
dusk and pools of twilight were in the bottomlands. For the moment the
world had grown smaller, more intimate, as the skies expanded. The dust
from Brower's going did not so much recede as grow littler, more
toy-like. I watched idly his progress.

At a point perhaps a mile this side the Box Springs ranch the road
divides: the right-hand fork leading to the ranch house, the left on up
the valley. After a moment I noticed that the dust was on the left-hand
fork. I swore aloud.

"The damn fool has taken the wrong road!" and then after a moment, with
dismay: "He's headed straight for Hooper's ranch!"

I envisaged the full joy and rapture of this thought for perhaps half a
minute. It sure complicated matters, what with old Hooper gunning on my
trail, and this partner's daughter shut up behind bars. Me, I expected
to last about two days unless I did something mighty sudden. Brower I
expected might last approximately half that time, depending on how soon
Ramon _et al_ got busy. The girl I didn't know anything about, nor did I
want to at that moment. I was plenty worried about my own precious hide
just then. And if you think you are going to get a love story out of
this, I warn you again to quit right now; you are not.

Brower was going to walk into that gray old spider's web like a nice fat
fly. And he was going to land without even the aid and comfort of his
own particular brand of Dutch courage. For safety's sake, and because of
Tiger's playful tendencies when first mounted, we had tied the famous
black bag--which now for convenience contained also the soothing
syrup--behind the cantle of Meigs's old nag. Which said nag I now
possessed together with all appurtenances and attachments thereunto
appertaining I tried to speculate on the reactions of Old Man Hooper,
Ramon, Brower and no dope, but it was too much for me. My head was
getting tired thinking about all these complicated things, anyhow. I was
accustomed to nice, simple jobs with my head, like figuring on the
shrinkage of beef cattle, or the inner running of a two-card draw. All
this annoyed me. I began to get mad. When I got mad enough I cussed and
came to a decision: which was to go after Old Man Hooper and all his
works that very night. Next day wouldn't do; I wanted action right off
quick. Naturally I had no plans, nor even a glimmering of what I was
going to do about it; but you bet you I was going to do something! As
soon as it was dark I was going right on up there. Frontal attack, you
understand. As to details, those would take care of themselves as the
affair developed. Having come to which sapient decision I shoved the
whole irritating mess over the edge of my mind and rode on quite happy.
I told you at the start of this yarn that I was a kid.

My mind being now quite easy as to my future actions, I gave thought to
the first step. That was supper. There seemed to me no adequate reason,
with a fine, long night before me, why I shouldn't use a little of the
shank end of it to stoke up for the rest. So I turned at the right-hand
fork and jogged slowly toward our own ranch.

Of course I had the rotten luck to find most of the boys still at the
water corral. When they saw who was the lone horseman approaching
through the dusk of the spring twilight, and got a good fair look at the
ensemble, they dropped everything and came over to see about it, headed
naturally by those mournful blights, Windy Bill and Wooden. In solemn
silence they examined my outfit, paying not the slightest attention to
me. At the end of a full minute they looked at each other.

"What do you think, Sam?" asked Windy.

"My opinion is not quite formed, suh," replied Wooden, who was a
Texican. "But my first examination inclines me to the belief that it is
a hoss."

"Yo're wrong, Sam," denied Windy, sadly; "yo're judgment is confused by
the fact that the critter carries a saddle. Look at the animile itself."

"I have done it," continued Sam Wooden; "at first glance I should agree
with you. Look carefully, Windy. Examine the details; never mind the
_toot enscramble_. It's got hoofs."

"So's a cow, a goat, a burro, a camel, a hippypottamus, and the devil,"
pointed out Windy.

"Of course I may be wrong," acknowledged Wooden. "On second examination
I probably am wrong. But if it ain't a hoss, then what is it? Do you
know?"

"It's a genuine royal gyasticutus," esserted Windy Bill, positively. "I
seen one once. It has one peculiarity that you can't never fail to
identify it by."

"What's that?"

"It invariably travels around with a congenital idiot."

Wooden promptly conceded that, but claimed the identification not
complete as he doubted whether, strictly speaking, I could be classified
as a congenital idiot. Windy pointed out that evidently I had traded
Tiger for the gyasticutus. Wooden admitted that this proved me an idiot,
but not necessarily a congenital idiot.

This colloquy--and more like it--went on with entire gravity. The other
men were hanging about relishing the situation, but without a symptom of
mirth. I was unsaddling methodically, paying no attention to anybody,
and apparently deaf to all that was being said. If the two old fools had
succeeded in eliciting a word from me they would have been entirely
happy; but I knew that fact, and shut my lips.

I hung my saddle on the rack and was just about to lead the old skate to
water when we all heard the sound of a horse galloping on the road.

"It's a light boss," said somebody after a moment, meaning a horse
without a burden.

We nodded and resumed our occupation. A stray horse coming in to water
was nothing strange or unusual. But an instant later, stirrups swinging,
reins flapping, up dashed my own horse, Tiger.

CHAPTER X

All this being beyond me, and then some, I proceeded methodically to
carry out my complicated plan; which was, it will be remembered, to eat
supper and then to go and see about it in person. I performed the first
part of this to my entire satisfaction but not to that of the rest. They
accused me of unbecoming secrecy; only they expressed it differently.
That did not worry me, and in due time I made my escape. At the corral I
picked out a good horse, one that I had brought from the Gila, that
would stay tied indefinitely without impatience. Then I lighted me a
cigarette and jogged up the road. I carried with me a little grub, my
six-gun, the famous black bag, and an entirely empty head.

The night was only moderately dark, for while there was no moon there
were plenty of those candle-like desert stars. The little twinkling
lights of the Box Springs dropped astern like lamps on a shore. By and
by I turned off the road and made a wide detour down the sacatone
bottoms, for I had still some sense; and roads were a little too
obvious. The reception committee that had taken charge of my little
friend might be expecting another visitor--me. This brought my approach
to the blank side of the ranch where were the willow trees and the
irrigating ditch. I rode up as close as I thought I ought to. Then I
tied my horse to a prominent lone Joshua-tree that would be easy to
find, unstrapped the black bag, and started off. The black bag, however,
bothered me; so after some thought I broke the lock with a stone and
investigated the contents, mainly by feel. There were a lot of clothes
and toilet articles and such junk, and a number of undetermined hard
things like round wooden boxes. Finally I withdrew to the shelter of a
_barranca_ where I could light matches. Then I had no difficulty in
identifying a nice compact little hypodermic outfit, which I slipped
into a pocket. I then deposited the bag in a safe place where I could
find it easily.

Leaving my horse I approached the ranch under cover of the willows. Yes,
I remembered this time that I left tracks, but I did not care. My idea
was to get some sort of decisive action before morning. Once through the
willows I crept up close to the walls. They were twelve or fifteen feet
high, absolutely smooth; and with one exception broken only by the long,
narrow loopholes or transoms I have mentioned before. The one exception
was a small wicket gate or door. I remembered the various sorties with
torches after the chirping frogs, and knew that by this opening the
hunting party had emerged. This and the big main gate were the only
entrances to the enclosure.

I retired to the vicinity of the willows and uttered the cry of the
barred owl. After ten seconds I repeated it, and so continued. My only
regret was that I could not chirp convincingly like a frog. I saw a
shadow shift suddenly through one of the transoms, and at once glided to
the wall near the little door. After a moment or so it opened to emit
Old Man Hooper and another bulkier figure which I imagined to be that
of Ramon. Both were armed with shotguns. Suddenly it came to me that I
was lucky not to have been able to chirp convincingly like a frog. They
hunted frogs with torches and in a crowd. Those two carried no light and
they were so intent on making a sneak on the willows and the
supposititious owl that I, flattened in the shadow of the wall, easily
escaped their notice. I slipped inside the doorway.

This brought me into a narrow passage between two buildings. The other
end looked into the interior court. A careful reconnaissance showed no
one in sight, so I walked boldly along the verandah in the direction of
the girl's room. Her note had said she was constantly guarded; but I
could see no one in sight, and I had to take a chance somewhere. Two
seconds' talk would do me: I wanted to know in which of the numerous
rooms the old man slept. I had a hunch it would be a good idea to share
that room with him. What to do then I left to the hunch.

But when I was half way down the verandah I heard the wicket door
slammed shut. The owl hunters had returned more quickly than I had
anticipated. Running as lightly as possible I darted down the verandah
and around the corner of the left wing. This brought me into a narrow
little garden strip between the main house and the wall dividing the
court from the corrals and stable yards. Footsteps followed me but
stopped. A hand tried the door knob to the corner room.

"Nothing," I heard Hooper's voice replying to a question. "Nothing at
all. Go to sleep."

The fragrant smell of Mexican tobacco reached my nostrils. After a
moment Ramon--it was he--resumed a conversation in Spanish:

"I do not know, senor, who the man was. I could but listen; it was not
well to inquire nor to show too much interest. His name, yes; Jim Starr,
but who he is----" I could imagine the shrug. "It is of no importance."

"It is of importance that the other man still lives," broke in Hooper's
harsher voice. "I will not have it, I say! Are you sure of it?"

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