The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Part 42

"We didn't see that," he told Pete.

"What was it?"

"Forget it," said Brevoort, as the door opened and the conductor, glancing about, finally saw and recovered the service wire. "Running orders," he said, as he stuffed it in his pocket and moved on down the aisle. Pete gazed out of the window, apparently absorbed in looking at the desert. Brevoort rolled a cigarette, and nodded casually.

The door in the far end of the car slammed. Brevoort turned to Pete.

"Look straight ahead and--listen. That paper you saw was a telegraph from the agent at Sanborn sayin' a man had been found shot, and to watch out for two cow-punchers that bought tickets for El Paso--which is us. That's how we came to stop at the junction back there, which ain't a regular stop. It means there'll be a marshal waitin' for us at El Paso."

"Then let's git off this doggone thing," suggested Pete.

"She stops onct before we git in," said Brevoort. "It's gittin'

dark--and we got one chanct. When she slows down, we go into the baggage-car there and tell the boss we're lookin' for our war-bag, which we didn't have. Jest about the time she stops, we drop off. The side door's open."

"We'll be plumb afoot," said Pete.

"Yes. And we'll have to hole up somewhere till we git some store-clothes--and change our looks--and mebby our luck, which is runnin' bad right now."

"Do we split up when we hit town?" queried Pete.

"We got to: and you want to git rid of that there cash just as quick as you kin. Got any of your own money on you?"

"Got a couple of month's pay. You got the tickets. I'll give you that."

"Forget it! Small change don't count right now. Awhile back I was thinkin' of puttin' it up to you that we split the big money and take a little pasear up to Alaska, where it ain't so warm. The Spider da.s.sent squeal to the law, bein' in bad hisself. We could sure make a get-away with it. But that there telegraph done settled that deal."

"It was settled afore that, Ed."

"Meanin' you wouldn't split, anyhow?"

"That's what."

"But it's crooked money, Pete. And it ain't lucky. Supposin' we get caught? Who gits the money? The Spider, or Arguilla's bunch, or you or me? Not on your life! The cops get it--and keep it."

"That's all right. But if I git through, these here pesos goes to that bank. Anyhow, you said it ain't lucky money. So I aim to git away from it p.r.o.nto. Then I'm square with The Spider--and I quit."

"You can't shake the game that easy, Pete. I quit when we started for Sanborn--and what did we run into? And you bein' with me gits you in bad, likewise."

"If that's what's botherin' you, why, I'll take the chanct, and stick,"

said Pete.

"Nope. Right now I'm lookin' out for myself, and n.o.body else. If they kin hang that last deal onto me--and you know what I mean--why, your Uncle Ed'll sure have to take the long trail. And I aim to keep a-ridin' in the sun for a spell yet. We're gittin' clost to town.

Mebby we can drop off easy and sift out of sight without any fuss.

Then we got a chanct to change our clothes and git rid of that dough.

They'll be lightin' the lamps right soon. Them saddle-bags buckled?"

"They sure are."

"All right. When you hear 'em whistle for the crossin' jest stand up and drop 'em out of the window. n.o.body kin see you from behind. Then we mosey into the baggage-car and tell the agent in there we're lookin'

for our war-bag. Bein' express messenger, he packs a gun. You want to step lively for that side door."

"I git you, Ed. What's all them lights out there?"

"That's the town. She's jest whistlin' for the crossin'. Dump your freight--easy, like you was lookin' out at the scenery. That's her.

Now, stretch your arms and kind of look round. The conductor is out on the back platform. Come on!"

The express messenger was leaning from the side door in the act of swinging a parcel to the local agent at the Grossing, when Brevoort and Pete entered. With his back toward them and absorbed in launching the package he did not see them as they angled quickly to the other door and dropped off into the night. The train slowed almost to a stop, the grinding brakes eased, and it drew away, leaving Pete and Brevoort squatting behind a row of empty oil barrels along the track.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

EL PASO

As the tail-lights of the train disappeared, Pete and Brevoort rose and walked down the track several hundred yards. Pete was certain that they had retraced too far, but Brevoort a.s.sured him that he knew about where to look for the saddle-bags. "I noticed that we pa.s.sed a pile of new ties, jest after you dropped 'em," said the Texan.

Pete insisted that they had come too far until they almost walked into the ties. They searched about in the darkness, feeling along the ground with their feet, until finally Brevoort stumbled over the saddle-bags at the bottom of the ditch along the right-of-way. He picked them up. Pete was still rummaging around as Brevoort straightened. For an instant the Texan was tempted to keep up the pretense of searching and so drift farther from Pete, until under cover of darkness he could decamp with the money--across the border and make a fresh start with it--as he told himself, "something to start on."

But suddenly, and most absurdly alien to his present mood, came the vivid recollection of Pete's face when he had smelled those unforgettable eggs in the box-stall of the Ortez stables. Why this should have changed Brevoort's hasty inclination is explainable, perhaps, through that strange transition from the serious to the humorous; that quick relief from nervous tension that allows a man to readjust himself toward the universe. Brevoort cursed softly to himself as he strode to Pete. "Here they are. Found them back there a piece. Now we got to foot it acrost this end of the town and drift wide of the white-lights. Down to the south end we kin get somethin'

to eat, and some new clothes. Them Jew stores is open late."

Following the river road they skirted the town until opposite the Mexican quarter, where, Brevoort explained, they would be comparatively safe, so long as they attended to their own business.

Pete was amazed by the lights and the clamor--a stringed orchestra playing in this open front, and a hot-dog vender declaiming in this open front; a moving-picture entrance brilliantly illuminated, and a constant movement of folk up and down the streets in free-and-easy fas.h.i.+on, and he almost forgot the c.u.mulative hazards of their companions.h.i.+p in experiencing his first plunge into city life.

Brevoort, who knew the town, made for a Mexican lodging-house, where they took a room above the noisy saloon, washed, and after downing a drink of vile whiskey, crossed the street to a dingy restaurant. Later they purchased some inconspicuous "town-clothes" which they carried back to their room.

Pete was for staying right where they were until morning, but Brevoort, naturally restless, suggested that they go to a moving-picture theater.

They changed their clothes. Pete felt decidedly uncomfortable in the coat, and was only persuaded to wear it when Brevoort pointed out that it was a case of either leave their guns in the room or wear something to cover them. Then came the question of what they were to do with the money. Pete was for taking it along with them, but Brevoort vetoed the suggestion. "It's as safe here as in a bank," he said, and taking the two sacks from the saddle-pockets he lowered each one gently into the big water-pitcher. "Nothin' in there but water, which don't interest a Chola nohow. But I'll cinch it." Which he did downstairs, as he drew a handful of gold pieces from his pocket, counted them carefully, and left something like fifty dollars with the proprietor, asking him to take care of the money for them, as they did not want to get "plumb broke" the first night in town. The Mexican grinned understandingly.

He was familiar with the ways of cowboys. Their money would be safe with him.

Outside Pete asked Brevoort if he had not "jest about made a present of fifty to that Mex."

"Not any. He figures he'll get his share of it when we git to hittin'

the high-spots--which we don't aim to hit, this journey. That Mexican sure thinks he's got all the money we own except what's on us right now. So he won't ever think of goin' through our stuff upstairs. That fifty was insurance on the big money. Let's go where we kin git a real drink--and then we'll have a look at a show."

The "real drink" was followed by another. When Brevoort suggested a third, Pete shook his head. "It's all right, if you want to hit it, Ed--but it's takin' a big chanct. Somethin' might slip. 'T ain't the drinkin'--but it's the drinkin' right now."

"Reckon you 're right," concurred Brevoort. "But I ain't had a drink for so long--let's go see that show."

They crowded into a cheap and odoriferous nickel theater, and straightway Pete forgot where he was and all about who he was in watching the amazing offerings of the screen. The comedy feature puzzled him. He thought that he was expected to laugh--folks all round him were laughing--but the unreality of the performance left him staring curiously at the final tangle of a comedy which struggled to be funny to the bitter end. His attention was keen for the next picture, a Western drama, ent.i.tled "The Battle of the Border," which ran swiftly to lurid climax after climax, until even Pete's unsophisticated mind doubted that any hero could have the astounding ability to get out of tight places as did the cowboy hero of this picture. This sprightly adventurer had just killed a carload of Mexicans, leaped from the roof of an adobe to his horse, and made off into the hills--they were real hills of the desert country, sure enough--as buoyantly as though he had just received his pay-check and was in great haste to spend it, never once glancing back, and putting his horse up grades at a pace that would have made an old-timer ashamed of himself had he to ride sixty miles to the next ranch before sundown--as the lead on the picture stated. Still, Pete liked that picture. He knew that kind of country--when suddenly he became aware of the tightly packed room, the foul air laden with the fumes of humanity, stale whiskey, and tobacco, the shuffling of feet as people rose and stumbled through the darkness toward the street. Pete thought that was the end of the show, but as Brevoort made no move to go, he fixed his attention on the screen again. Immediately another scene jumped into the flickering square.

Pete stiffened. Before him spread a wide canon. A tiny rider was coming down the trail from the rim. At the bottom was a Mexican 'dobe, a ramshackle stable and corral. And there hung the Olla beneath an acacia. A saddle lay near the corral bars. Several horses moved about lazily . . . The hero of the recent gun-fight was riding into the yard . . . Some one was coming from the 'dobe. Pete almost gasped as a Mexican girl, young, lithe, and smiling, stepped into the foreground and held out her hands as the hero swung from his horse. The girl was taller and more slender than Boca--yet in the close-up which followed, while her lover told her of the tribulations he had recently experienced, the girl's face was the face of Boca--the same sweetly curved and smiling mouth, the large dark eyes, even the manner in which her hair was arranged . . .

Pete nudged Brevoort. "I reckon we better drift," he whispered.

"How's that, Pete?"

"The girl there in the picture. Mebby you think I'm loco, but there's somethin' always happens every time I see her."

"You got a hunch, eh?"