Stewart Edward White - The Killer

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"Hooper sold the Morgan stallion," he whispered, smiled sardonically,
and closed his eyes again.

"Without telling me a word of it!" added Tim with heat. "He ain't
delivered him yet."

"Well, I don't blame you. Now you'd better quietly sneak back to your
quarters. There is likely to be trouble before we get through. You, too,
Brower. Nobody knows you are here."

Brower opened his eyes again.

"I can get out of this place now I've had me hop," said he, decidedly.
"Come on, let's go."

"We'll all go," I agreed; "but let's see what we can find here first.
There may be some paper--or something----"

"What do you mean? What sort of papers? Hadn't we better go at once?"

"It is supposed to be well known that the reason Hooper isn't
assassinated from behind a bush is because in that case his killers are
in turn to assassinate a long list of his enemies. Only nobody is sure:
just as nobody is really sure that he has killers at all. You can't get
action on an uncertainty."

She nodded. "I can understand that."

"If we could get proof positive it would be no trick at all to raise the
country."

"What sort of proof?"

"Well, I mentioned a list. I don't doubt his head man--Ramon, I suppose,
the one he'd trust with carrying out such a job--must have a list of
some sort. He wouldn't trust to memory."

"And he wouldn't trust it to Ramon until after he was dead!" said the
girl with sudden intuition. "If it exists we'll find it here."

She started toward the paper-stuffed desk, but I stopped her.

"More likely the safe," said I.

Tim, who was standing near it, tried the handle.

"It's locked," he whispered.

I fell on my knees and began to fiddle with the dial, of course in vain.
Miss Emory, with more practical decision of character, began to run
through the innumerable bundles and loose papers in the desk, tossing
them aside as they proved unimportant or not germane to the issue. I had
not the slightest knowledge of the constructions of safes but whirled
the knob hopelessly in one direction or another trying to listen for
clicks, as somewhere I had read was the thing to do. As may be imagined,
I arrived nowhere. Nor did the girl. We looked at each other in chagrin
at last.

"There is nothing here but ranch bills and accounts and business
letters," she confessed.

I merely shook my head.

At this moment Brower, whom I had supposed to be sound asleep, opened
his eyes.

"Want that safe open?" he asked, drowsily.

He arose, stretched, and took his place beside me on the floor. His head
cocked one side, he slowly turned the dials with the tips of fingers I
for the first time noticed were long and slim and sensitive. Twice after
extended, delicate manipulations he whirled the knob impatiently and
took a fresh start. On the proverbial third trial he turned the handle
and the door swung open. He arose rather stiffly from his knees, resumed
his place in the armchair, and again closed his eyes.

It was a small safe, with few pigeon holes. A number of blue-covered
contracts took small time for examination. There were the usual number
of mine certificates not valuable enough for a safe deposit, some
confidential memoranda and accounts having to do with the ranch.

"Ah, here is something!" I breathed to the eager audience over my
shoulder. I held in my hands a heavy manila envelope, sealed, inscribed
"Ramon. (To be destroyed unopened.)"

"Evidently we were right: Ramon has the combination and is to be
executor," I commented.

I tore open the envelope and extracted from it another of the
blue-covered documents.

"It's a copy, unsigned, of that last agreement with your father," I
said, after a disappointed glance. "It's worth keeping," and I thrust it
inside my shirt.

But this particular pigeon hole proved to be a mine. In it were several
more of the same sort of envelope, all sealed, all addressed to Ramon.
One was labelled as the Last Will, one as Inventory, and one simply as
Directions. This last had a further warning that it was to be opened
only by the one addressed. I determined by hasty examination that the
first two were only what they purported to be, and turned hopefully to a
perusal of the last. It was in Spanish, and dealt at great length with
the disposition and management of Hooper's extensive interests. I append
a translation of the portion of this remarkable document, having to do
with our case.

"These are my directions," it began, "as to the matter of which we have
many times spoken together. I have many enemies, and many who think they
have cause to wish my death. They are cowards and soft and I do not
think they will ever be sure enough to do me harm. I do not fear them.
But it may be that one or some of them will find it in their souls to do
a deed against me. In that case I shall be content, for neither do I
fear the devil. But I shall be content only if you follow my orders. I
add here a list of my enemies and of those who have cause to wish me
ill. If I am killed, it is probable that some one of these will have
done the deed. Therefore they must all die. You must see to it,
following them if necessary to the ends of the earth. You will know
how; and what means to employ. When all these are gone, then go you to
the highest rock on the southerly pinnacle of Cochise's Stronghold. Ten
paces northwest is a gray, flat slab. If you lift this slab there will
be found a copper box. In the box is the name of a man. You will go to
this man and give him the copper box and in return he will give to you
one hundred thousand dollars. I know well, my Ramon, that your honesty
would not permit you to seek the copper box before the last of my
enemies is dead. Nevertheless, that you may admire my recourse, I have
made an arrangement. If the gray slab on Cochise's Stronghold is ever
disturbed before the whole toll is paid, you will die very suddenly and
unpleasantly. I know well that you, my Ramon, would not disturb it; and
I hope for your sake that nobody else will do so. It is not likely. No
one is fool enough to climb Cochise's Stronghold for pleasure; and this
gray slab is one among many."

At this time I did not read carefully the above cheerful document. My
Spanish was good enough, but took time in the translating. I dipped into
it enough to determine that it was what we wanted, and flipped the pages
to come to the list of prospective victims. It covered two sheets, and a
glance down the columns showed me that about every permanent inhabitant
of the Soda Springs Valley was included. I found my own name in quite
fresh ink toward the last.

"This is what we want," I said in satisfaction, rising to my feet. I
sketched in a few words the purport of the document.

"Let me see it," said the girl.

I handed it to her. She began to examine carefully the list of names,
her face turning paler as she read. Tim Westmore looked anxiously over
her shoulder. Suddenly I saw his face congest and his eyes bulge.

"Why! why!" he gasped, "I'm there! What've I ever done, I ask you that?
The old----" he choked, at a loss and groping. Then his anger flared up.
"I've always served him faithful and done what I was told," he muttered,
fiercely. "I'll do him in for this!"

"I am here," observed Miss Emory.

"Yes, and that sot in the chair!" whispered Tim, fiercely.

Again Brower proved he was not asleep by opening one eye.

"Thanks for them kind words," said he.

"We've got to get out of here," stated Tim with conviction.

"That idea just got through your thick British skull?" queried Artie,
rousing again.

"I wish we had some way to carry the young lady--she can't walk," said
Westmore, paying no attention.

"I have my horse tied out by the lone Joshua-tree," I answered him.

"I'm going to take a look at that Cortinez," said the little Englishman,
nodding his satisfaction at my news as to the horse. "I'm not easy about
him."

"He'll sleep like a log until morning," Miss Emory reassured me. "I've
often stepped right over him where he has been on guard and walked all
around the garden."

"Just the same I'm going to take a look," persisted Westmore.

He tiptoed to the door, softly turned the knob and opened it. He found
himself face to face with Cortinez.

CHAPTER XIII

I had not thought of the English groom as a man of resource, but his
action in this emergency proved him. He cast a fleeting glance over his
shoulder. Artie Brower was huddled down in his armchair practically out
of sight; Miss Emory and I had reseated ourselves in the only other two
chairs in the room, so that we were in the same relative positions as
when we had been bound and left. Only the confusion of the papers on the
floor and the open safe would have struck an observant eye.

"It is well that you come," said Tim to Cortinez in Spanish. "The senor
sent me to conduct these two to the East Room and I like not the job
alone. Enter."

He held the door with one hand and fairly dragged Cortinez through with
the other. Instantly he closed the door and cast himself on Cortinez's
back. I had already launched myself at the Mexican's throat.

The struggle was violent but brief. Fortunately I had not missed my
spring at our enemy's windpipe, so he had been unable to shout. The
noise of our scuffle sounded loud enough within the walls of the room;
but those walls were two feet thick, and the door and windows closed.

"Get something to gag him with, and the cords," panted Tim to the girl.

Brower opened his eyes again.

"I can beat that," he announced.

He produced his hypodermic and proceeded to mix a gunful of the dope.

"This'll fix him," he observed, turning back the Mexican's sleeve. "You
can lay him outside and if anybody comes along they'll think he's
asleep--as usual."

This we did when the dope had worked.

It was now high time to think of our next move. For weapons we had the
gun and knife taken from Cortinez and the miserable little automatic
belonging to Brower. That was all. It was perfectly evident that we
could not get out through the regular doorways, as, by Tim's statement,
they were all closed and guarded. On my representation it was decided to
try the roof.

We therefore knotted together the cord that had bound me and two sheets
from the bed, and sneaked cautiously out on the verandah, around the
corner to the water barrel, and so to the vantage point of the roof.

The chill of the night was come, and the stars hung cold in the sky. It
seemed that the air would snap and crackle were some little resolving
element to be dropped into its suspended hush. Not a sound was to be
heard except a slow drip of water from somewhere in the courtyard.

It was agreed that I, as the heaviest, should descend first. I landed
easily enough and steadied the rope for Miss Emory who came next. While
I was waiting I distinctly heard, from the direction of the willows, the
hooting of an owl. Furthermore, it was a great horned owl, and he seemed
to have a lot to say. You remember what I told you about setting your
mind so that only one sort of noise will arouse it, but that one
instantly? I knew perfectly well that Old Man Hooper's mind was set to
all these smaller harmless noises that most people never notice at all,
waking or sleeping--frogs, crickets, owls. And therefore I was convinced
that sooner or later that old man and his foolish ideas and his shotgun
would come projecting right across our well-planned getaway. Which was
just what happened, and almost at once. Probably that great horned owl
had been hooting for some time, but we had been too busy to notice. I
heard the wicket door turning on its hinges, and ventured a warning hiss
to Brower and Tim Westmore, who had not yet descended. An instant later
I could make out shadowy forms stealing toward the willows. Evidently
those who served Old Man Hooper were accustomed to broken rest.

We kept very quiet, straining our eyes at the willows. After an interval
a long stab of light pierced the dusk and the round detonation of
old-fashioned black powder shook the silence. There came to us the
babbling of voices released. At the same instant the newly risen moon
plastered us against that whitewashed wall like insects pinned in a
cork-lined case. The moonlight must have been visibly creeping down to
us for some few minutes, but so absorbed had I been in the doings of the
party in the willows, and so chuckleheaded were the two on the roof,
that actually none of us had noticed!

I dropped flat and dragged the girl down with me. But there remained
that ridiculous, plainly visible rope; and anyway a shout relieved me of
any doubt as to whether we had been seen. Brower came tumbling down on
us, and with one accord we three doubled to the right around the walls
of the ranch. A revolver shot sang by us, but we were not immediately
pursued. Our antagonists were too few and too uncertain of our numbers
and arms.

It was up to us to utilize the few minutes before the ranch should be
aroused. We doubled back through the willows and across the mesquite
flat toward the lone Joshua-tree where I had left my horse. I held the
girl's hand to help her when she stumbled, while Brower scuttled along
with surprising endurance for a dope wreck. Nobody said anything, but
saved their wind.

"Where's Tim?" I asked at a check when we had to scramble across a
_barranca_.

"He went back into the ranch the way we came," replied Artie with some
bitterness.

It was, nevertheless, the wisest thing he could have done. He had not
been identified with this outfit except by Cortinez, and Cortinez was
safe for twelve hours.

We found the Joshua-tree without difficulty.

"Now," said I, "here is the plan. You are to take these papers to Senor
Buck Johnson, at the Box Springs ranch. That's the next ranch on the
fork of the road. Do you remember it?"

"Yes," said Brower, who had waked up and seemed quite sober and
responsible. "I can get to it."

"Wake him up. Show him these papers. Make him read them. Tell him that
Miss Emory and I are in the Bat-eye Tunnel. Remember that?"

"The Bat-eye Tunnel," repeated Artie.

"Why don't _you_ go?" inquired the girl, anxiously.

"I ride too heavy; and I know where the tunnel is," I replied. "If
anybody else was to go, it would be you. But Artie rides light and sure,
and he'll have to ride like hell. Here, put these papers inside your
shirt. Be off!"

Lights were flickering at the ranch as men ran to and fro with lanterns.
It would not take these skilled _vaqueros_ long to catch their horses
and saddle up. At any moment I expected to see the massive doors swing
open to let loose the wolf pack.

Brower ran to my horse--a fool proceeding, especially for an experienced
horseman--and jerked loose the tie rope. Badger is a good reliable cow
horse, but he's not a million years old, and he's got some natural
equine suspicions. I kind of lay a good deal of it to that fool
hard-boiled hat. At any rate, he snorted and sagged back on the rope,
hit a yucca point, whirled and made off. Artie was game. He hung on
until he was drug into a bunch of _chollas_, and then he had to let go.
Badger departed into the distance, tail up and snorting.

"Well, you've done it now!" I observed to Brower, who, crying with
nervous rage and chagrin, and undoubtedly considerably stuck up with
_cholla_ spines, was crawling to his feet.

"Can't we catch him? Won't he stop?" asked Miss Emory. "If he gets to
the ranch, won't they look for you?"

"He's one of my range ponies: he won't stop short of the Gila."

I cast over the chances in my mind, weighing my knowledge of the country
against the probabilities of search. The proportion was small. Most of
my riding experience had been farther north and to the west. Such
obvious hole-ups as the one I had suggested--the Bat-eye Tunnel--were of
course familiar to our pursuers. My indecision must have seemed long,
for the girl broke in anxiously on my meditations.

"Oughtn't we to be moving?"

"As well here as anywhere," I replied. "We are under good cover; and
afoot we could not much better ourselves as against mounted men. We must
hide."

"But they may find the trampled ground where your horse has been tied."

"I hope they do."

"You hope they do!"

"Sure. They'll figure that we must sure have moved away. They'll never
guess we'd hide near at hand. At least that's what I hope."

"How about tracks?"

"Not at night. By daylight maybe."

"But then to-morrow morning they can----"

"To-morrow morning is a long way off."

"Look!" cried Brower.

The big gates of the ranch had been thrown open. The glare of a
light--probably a locomotive headlight--poured out. Mounted figures
galloped forth and swerved to right or left, spreading in a circle about
the enclosure. The horsemen reined to a trot and began methodically to
quarter the ground, weaving back and forth. Four detached themselves and
rode off at a swift gallop to the points of the compass. The mounted men
were working fast for fear, I suppose, that we may have possessed
horses. Another contingent, afoot and with lanterns, followed more
slowly, going over the ground for indications. I could not but admire
the skill and thoroughness of the plan.

"Our only chance is in the shadow from the moon," I told my companions.
"If we can slip through the riders, and get in their rear, we may be
able to follow the _barranca_ down. Any of those big rocks will do. Lay
low, and after a rider has gone over a spot, try to get to that spot
without being seen."

We were not to be kept long in suspense. Out of all the three hundred
and sixty degrees of the circle one of the swift outriders selected
precisely our direction! Straight as an arrow he came for us, at full
gallop. I could see the toss of his horse's mane against the light from
the opened door. There was no time to move. All we could do was to cower
beneath our rock, muscles tense, and hope to be able to glide around the
shadow as he passed.

But he did not pass. Down into the shallow _barranca_ he slid with a
tinkle of shale, and drew rein within ten feet of our lurking place.

We could hear the soft snorting of his mount above the thumping of our
hearts. I managed to get into a position to steal a glimpse. It was
difficult, but at length I made out the statuesque lines of the horse,
and the rider himself, standing in his stirrups and leaning slightly
forward, peering intently about him. The figures were in silhouette
against the sky, but nobody ever fooled me as to a horse. It was the
Morgan stallion, and the rider was Tim Westmore. Just as the realization
came to me, Tim uttered a low, impatient whistle.

It's always a good idea to take a chance. I arose into view--but I kept
my gun handy.

"Thank God!" cried Tim, fervently, under his breath. "I remembered you'd
left your horse by this Joshua: it's the only landmark in the dark.
Saints!" he ejaculated in dismay as he saw us all. "Where's your horse?"

"Gone."

"We can't all ride this stallion----"

"Listen," I cut in, and I gave him the same directions I had previously
given Brower. He heard me attentively.

"I can beat that," he cut me off. He dismounted. "Get on here, Artie.
Ride down the _barranca_ two hundred yards and you'll come to an alkali
flat. Get out on that flat and ride like hell for Box Springs."

"Why don't you do it?"

"I'm going back and tell 'em how I was slugged and robbed of my horse."

"They'll kill you if they suspect; dare you go back?"

"I've been back once," he pointed out. He was helping Brower aboard.

"Where did you get that bag?" he asked.

"Found it by the rock where we were hiding: it's mine," replied Brower.

Westmore tried to get him to leave it, but the little jockey was
obstinate. He kicked his horse and, bending low, rode away.

"You're right: I beg your pardon," I answered Westmore's remark to me.
"You don't look slugged."

"That's easy fixed," said Tim, calmly. He removed his hat and hit his
forehead a very solid blow against a projection of the conglomerate
boulder. The girl screamed slightly.

"Hush!" warned Tim in a fierce whisper. He raised his hand toward the
approaching horsemen, who were now very near. Without attention to the
blood streaming from his brow he bent his head to listen to the faint
clinking of steel against rock that marked the stallion's progress
toward the alkali flat. The searchers were by now dangerously close, and
Tim uttered a smothered oath of impatience. But at last we distinctly
heard the faint, soft thud of galloping hoofs.

The searchers heard it, too, and reined up to listen. Tim thrust into my
hand the 30-30 Winchester he was carrying together with a box of
cartridges. Then with a leap like a tiger he gained the rim of the
_barranca_. Once there, however, his forces seemed to desert him. He
staggered forward calling in a weak voice. I could hear the volley of
rapid questions shot at him by the men who immediately surrounded him;
and his replies. Then somebody fired a revolver thrice in rapid
succession and the whole cavalcade swept away with a mighty crackling of
brush. Immediately after Tim rejoined us. I had not expected this.

Relieved for the moment we hurried Miss Emory rapidly up the bed of the
shallow wash. The tunnel mentioned was part of an old mine operation,
undertaken at some remote period before the cattle days. It entered the
base of one of those isolated conical hills, lying like islands in the
plain, so common in Arizona. From where we had hidden it lay about three
miles to the northeast. It was a natural and obvious hide out, and I
had no expectation of remaining unmolested. My hope lay in rescue.

We picked our way under cover of the ravine as long as we could, then
struck boldly across the plain. Nobody seemed to be following us. A wild
hope entered my heart that perhaps they might believe we had all made
our escape to Box Springs.

As we proceeded the conviction was borne in on me that the stratagem had
at least saved us from immediate capture. Like most men who ride I had
very sketchy ideas of what three miles afoot is like--at night--in high
heels. The latter affliction was common to both Miss Emory and myself.
She had on a sort of bedroom slipper, and I wore the usual cowboy boots.
We began to go footsore about the same time, and the little rolling
volcanic rocks among the bunches of _sacatone_ did not help us a bit.
Tim made good time, curse him. Or rather, bless him; for as I just said,
if he had not tolled away our mounted pursuit we would have been caught
as sure as God made little green apples. He seemed as lively as a
cricket, in spite of the dried blood across his face.

The moon was now sailing well above the horizon, throwing the world into
silver and black velvet. When we moved in the open we showed up like a
train of cars; but, on the other hand, the shadow was a cloak. It was by
now nearly one o'clock in the morning.

Miss Emory's nerve did not belie the clear, steadfast look of her eye;
but she was about all in when we reached the foot of Bat-eye Butte. Tim
and I had discussed the procedure as we walked. I was for lying in wait
outside; but Tim pointed out that the tunnel entrance was well down in
the boulders, that even the sharpest outlook could not be sure of
detecting an approach through the shadows, and that from the shelter of
the roof props and against the light we should be able to hold off a
large force almost indefinitely. In any case, we would have to gamble on
Brewer's winning through, and having sense enough in his opium-saturated
mind to make a convincing yarn of it. So after a drink at the _tenaja_
below the mine we entered the black square of the tunnel.

The work was old, but it had been well done. They must have dragged the
timbers down from the White Mountains. Indeed a number of unused beams,
both trunks of trees and squared, still lay around outside. From time to
time, since the original operations, some locoed prospector comes
projecting along and does a little work in hopes he may find something
the other fellow had missed. So the passage was crazy with props and
supports, new and old, placed to brace the ageing overhead timbers.
Going in they were a confounded nuisance against the bumped head; but
looking back toward the square of light they made fine protections
behind which to crouch. In this part of the country any tunnel would be
dry. It ran straight for about a hundred and fifty feet.

We groped our way about seventy-five feet, which was as far as we could
make out the opening distinctly, and sat down to wait. I still had the
rest of the tailor-made cigarettes, which I shared with Tim. We did not
talk, for we wished to listen for sounds outside. To judge by her
breathing, I think Miss Emory dozed, or even went to sleep.

About an hour later I thought to hear a single tinkle of shale. Tim
heard it, too, for he nudged me. Our straining ears caught nothing
further, however; and I, for one, had relaxed from my tension when the
square of light was darkened by a figure. I was nearest, so I raised
Cortinez's gun and fired. The girl uttered a scream, and the figure
disappeared. I don't know yet whether I hit him or not; we never found
any blood.

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