The Bad Man Part 35

Lopez looked at him. "Ah, _gratia_, Pedro!" He took the weapon from him and patted him on the back. Then he whispered something in his ear, handed it back, and Pedro gave it to Gilbert.

"Ze ranger. Zey come," he said as he did so.

"_Bueno._ I go," said Lopez, and started toward the door. Then he turned to Gilbert. "_Astuavago adios._ Maybe we will meet again, maybe no. _Quien sabe?_" He waved his hand, gave one last look at Pell's limp form, and cried, "_Adios!_" He was gone--vanished like a ghost.

They all were mute in the little room. They heard the hoof beats of the horses as they galloped away. Fainter and fainter grew the sound. Then silence. And meanwhile the great night was falling like a curtain around them all. Through the doorway came the last beautiful beams of the sun. The mountains were like giant sentinels, row on row, unbelievably near in the semi-darkness. Far off, now and then, a bird could be heard calling. Soon darkness would envelop the earth, and this day of doom would be gone forever. Never might they see Pancho Lopez again. Gilbert would go north; and Lucia--He could not think.

Hardy broke the silence. He came over and looked down at Pell. "We can't touch him till the coroner gits here," he said grimly. There were, as always, ghastly details to be attended to.

"But I better make sure," said "Red," kneeling beside the body. "Right in the head. Not a chance." He was peering down at the gaunt face. "No, not a chance when you get it there."

Angela, hearing something outside, had rushed to the door and looked into the growing darkness. "I thought--What was that?" she exclaimed.

They all listened. Far off a shot could be heard--then another. But it must have been miles away.

"Red" sprang up. "Rangers!" he cried. "They're shooting!"

"Where are they?" Hardy asked.

"In the arroyo," "Red" replied. He was at the window, looking out. "You'll see 'em in a minute."

The sound of shots came nearer. It was as though a miniature army were storming the section near the adobe.

Uncle Henry, sitting in the alcove, was terrified. "What's that?" came his piercing voice.

"They see him!" cried "Red."

"Do you think they can hit him?" Angela cried.

"Red" was certain they could not. "There ain't a chance, at that range," he said.

But Uncle Henry was not so sure. "Mebbe they might, by accident."

"Red" turned. "Accidents don't happen in Arizona--leastwise not with guns."

The horses' hoof beats came nearer. Yet in all the excitement, Lucia did not move. She was keeping her silent place by the body of Morgan Pell. She did not even raise her head.

"Here they come!" cried Angela, leaning out the doorway.

"Red" had gone out of the room; but he came back now. "Better get inside,"

he warned them all, definite fear in his voice. "We're in range. It's pretty dangerous. As I said, accidents don't happen down in this country."

"But I want to see!" cried Angela, dancing with excitement now.

"Red" was distracted. "Please come in, Angela," he begged. More shots were heard. He was frightened for everyone. He had lived too long down here not to know the meaning of such desperate shooting. "What the h----" Two bullets came through the window, and smashed a little mirror that hung on the wall near the staircase. The bits of gla.s.s fell to the floor with a loud crash.

"What's the matter?" came the terrified voice of Uncle Henry. His hands clung to the wheels of his chair. But he did not budge it.

"Red" had not been able to dodge a shot. "Right through the hat!" he cried, and waved his Stetson. Sure enough, a bullet had gone clean through his headgear. Had he lifted his face a few inches higher, he would have been shot himself.

More hoof beats. Yet Lucia never moved.

"Bullet?" asked Hardy.

"Yes," "Red" replied. "And it was spang new--this hat. Cost eighteen dollars!" He was still looking at the tattered Stetson.

"Oh, it might have hit you!" Angela cried and embraced him.

"Told you we'd better keep inside!" "Red" said.

"You bet--until they go by," Hardy agreed.

"Red" stepped forward. "Back, everybody!" he ordered. He pushed everyone farther back into the room, until they were all crowded in one corner.

Uncle Henry was trembling like a leaf. How he wished he had never been brought to this strange country! Oh, for the peace of Bangor, Maine!

_There_ was a place for you! Down here it was all shooting, killing, and desperate trouble. Having escaped one crisis, was it possible the fates were to be so unkind as to put him in the way of another, from which there might be no extrication? Curse the luck, anyhow. Gol darn it!

The hoof beats came nearer and nearer. There were more shots. A man dismounted near the door. Then a man on horseback galloped up to the very entrance of the adobe. There was a general movement without, but no one ventured to go out and see what had happened. They could hear voices, sharp commands, and far off one more shot. Someone cried, "Keep on after him, boys!"

A ranger came in. He was an angular fellow, with a bushy mustache, and eyes like a ferret. His gun was on his hip, and one hand never left it. His name was Bradley. Gilbert knew him well. Often had he met him in the hills. He was known as one of the best shots of all that company of men who pursued criminals and bandits through the State, and drove them over the border.

Few escaped him; and he had a train of lieutenants who adored him. A born fighter, a born pursuer of men, who loved his desperate life, and gloried in his conquests. Some called him Bradley the Inexorable. He seldom missed a shot; and G.o.d help those who came into his power.

"We're after Lopez," he said breathlessly. "Been here?" He never wasted words.

"Yes," Hardy answered. He looked toward Pell's body.

Bradley's quick eyes followed his. "h.e.l.lo! what's that? Wounded?" he asked.

"Worse--he's dead," Hardy replied.

Bradley stepped close to the still form. "Who did this? Lopez?"

"Yes," from Hardy.

"Got it in the head, eh?" the ranger went on, looking down at Pell, but with no pity in his face. He was too accustomed to death. A man who had been killed was just another "case" to him--one of an endless row of corpses.

Angela came up to the table. "He's really dead?" she breathed, and clung to "Red's" big arm.

"Who was he?" Bradley inquired.

Hardy motioned to the mute Lucia, sitting so quietly in the chair. "Her husband. Name's Pell."

"Sorry for you, lady," said Bradley, perfunctorily, as he might have said "Good-morning." He turned now to go. "Don't touch him till the coroner comes," he commanded. "Mind what I say."

"But officer--" began Hardy.

"Can't stop," Bradley waved him aside. "Now we _gotter_ get him." He went out as swiftly as he had come in. Every instant was precious. There was not a second to be lost.

And still Lucia did not stir a muscle. It was as if she had been turned to stone. A silence fell upon them all. "Red" sat down on the little window-seat, his Angela beside him. Hardy tried to smoke. They could hear the clock ticking on and on--that little clock which had heard so much as its hands moved around the dial during the last few pregnant hours.