Shoot Him On Sight

when things got bad, teachers quit. Nobody wanted the job. She took it and rented a small house in town. But by that time, decent folks with kids started to move away. The school closed down. Shel Webster offered her a job, sort of overseeing his dance-hall girls—'

'That sort doesn't generally need overseeing.'

'I agree, but I suppose Webster had to have some excuse for keeping her close to him. Any overseeing needed he could have done himself, or delegated the job to one of the girls.'

'Does she live at the Onyx dance hall?'

'Maybe now, for all I know. Couldn't say. I don't come to town often. Now and then I hear a few things, such as Webster warning any other man not to come near her. Anyway, she's got enough of the lady left, so everybody respects her, what with Webster's attitude. She acts pretty free, too, hangs around the bar when she feels like it. I've heard that Webster objects to that, but so far she seems to do as she likes.'

That part I liked. So far, at least, Topaz didn't appear to be completely dominated by Webster.

Tawney went on. 'From what I hear, Webster is completely off his nut about Topaz. I see 'em riding together now and then. They use to cut through my place, to visit Heraldica. She always nodded pleasantly, if I happened to be riding near. Anyway, I reckon there's no doubt about it—Topaz is Webster's doxy.'

I winced. That I didn't like. But I guessed I'd have to face facts.

We rode in silence for a time, our mounts' hoof-beats echoing back from the canyon walls, not moving fast. Too much broken rock scattered along the canyon floor to make safe footing for fast going. Here and there, at sandy spots, I saw wheel ruts, but mostly the footing was rock, spaced here and there with sparse growth of cacti, or choya, or some other southwest growth, rather stunted for lack of the sunlight which came but briefly between the deep canyon walls. Again, Tawney seemed to be lost in deep thought, wondering, I suppose, just how far I was to be trusted. On the one hand, there was my reward-bill-fabricated reputation. That, I knew he didn't like. On the other, I had, perhaps, saved his life, back there in the Onyx Saloon. I wasn't surprised that he had his doubts about me, though.

He said once, 'We just crossed the boundary line of the Box-CT holdings, fifty yards back.'

'That the Mexican line?' I asked.

He shook his head. 'We crossed that quite a spell back. But we're on Box-CT land now.'

The way was widening out now, the canyon walls lower, the buttes of granite, conglomerate and sandstone weren't so steep. Then the walls seemed to fall away all at once and we were emerging on rich grasslands, the trail dropping somewhat. By this time the sun was below the horizon, though it wasn't yet dark. By now we were heading down a long slope into a fertile valley and I expected him to speed up the progress. But he continued the same slow space, still lost in deep thought.

'There it is,' he said suddenly and raised a pointing arm. 'The Box-CT spread.'

My gaze followed the indicating finger, and then I saw the buildings, all built of adobe. There was a wide ranchhouse with a tile roof and corrals, also, what I took from this distance to be a bunkhouse, blacksmith shop, windmill and the usual other structures. The ranchhouse was surrounded by ancient cottonwoods. Off to the left I could see a bunch of cows, already bedding down for the night. Lord, it looked peaceful. I began to envy Tawney his place.

'It looks like a honey of an outfit,' I said impulsively.

He smiled. 'It is. I think you'll enjoy it.'

We'd ridden on a little farther, when he said suddenly, 'You ever been in a Texas town called Tenango City?'

'Have I?' I grinned. 'I wish I was back there right now— or maybe I don't, come to think of it. Hell, man, I was raised in that country, on a ranch nearby—the Star-S, run by Pablo Serrano. He and his wife brought me up. My folks died when I was just a baby. The Serranos were my foster parents.'

'Had your parents lived there too?'

'Yes, until they were killed in an accident.'

'Ever know a man there named Clarence Kirby? He ran the bank—'

I exploded an oath. 'I know him all right. A greater skinflint never lived. Back there they call him Skinflint Kirby. I doubt he's got a friend in the world. You know him?'

'Just heard of him. Didn't know anything about him.'

'You're lucky you never had any dealings with him.'

'Your name's John, I understand.' The horses were just walking side by side, by this time.

I nodded. 'My friends call me Johnny. Hell's-bells, it was Skinflint Kirby who got me into trouble in the first place, or perhaps that part was my fault, to be truthful, but old Skinflint started the trouble.'

'Oh?' He looked quizzically at me in the fading light. 'Maybe that might explain—' He broke off. 'What was your father's name?'

I figured he was getting damn inquisitive for no particular reason, but thought little of it. I answered, 'Ethan —Ethan Damaris Cardinal.'

He said thoughtfully, 'That checks—'

'What checks?' I frowned, not seeing what he was getting at.

He paid no attention to my question. 'And your mother's name?'

'Damned if I see—' I commenced, puzzled, then stopped. 'My mother's name was Clarinda Hepsabeth Cardinal. So what—?'

'Double-check!' he exclaimed.

Puzzled, I said, 'What the hell is all this?'

'Take a look around,' he smiled, 'let your eyes run over all that lies before us.'

I looked, saw the rolling grasslands under the fading light, the ranch buildings, with only a thin orange streak in the west, above the rugged mountains. I saw the yellow lights in the ranchhouse and bunkhouse, soft gray smoke curling from chimneys. I drew a long deep breath. 'It's—it's beautiful.' I half-breathed the words and I meant every syllable.

'It's all that, Johnny,' he said softly. 'I'm sure you'll like it.' And then, 'Welcome home, Johnny Cardinal.'

I laughed. 'You've sure gone all Mexican, with that courtesy business, like, Enter, your casa, senor, and my-house is-your-house line of habla.'

'It's not all courtesy, Johnny, though I mean that part too. What I'm trying to tell you is that everything you see before you is half yours. Whether you like it or not, Johnny, and I hope you'll like it, you're half-owner of the Box-CT. You and I are pardners!'

I half reined my pony, bewildered. 'What in hell do you mean?'

But he had already put his pony into a lope. 'Come on, pardner, we'll talk after supper,' he yelled back over his shoulder, 'and clear a few things in your mind.'

I raced my horse down the long gradual slope after him, my mind churning with crazy speculations.

XII

This, I thought later, is some sort of dream, and for a time I suspected Tawney's sanity. Good Lord, what a spread! The huge livingroom of the house was furnished with old Spanish furniture, animal-skin rugs, a few trophies of the hunt on the walls. There was a large dining room, with a long heavy oak table, presided over by Mama (as Tawney called her) Benita Vinando, wife of Mateo Vinanda, Tawney's mayordomo— foreman—a grizzled, wiry, weather-beaten Mexican of probably sixty years. Mama Benita was fat and comforting, always ready with a soft laugh. I loved them both on sight, reminding me as they did of Old Pablo and Mama Josefa. Mama Benita was housekeeper and head cook for Tawney with a slim Mexican girl, Chepa, as assistant.

Both Mama and Mateo Vinanda ate supper with us at the long table. Everything tasty, spicy and piping hot —frijoles, enchilladas, huevos, tortillas, and later strong coffee.

And apologies from Mama Benita for the meal. If she had only known there was to be a guest, and so on. I limbered up my Spanish and made it clear that I'd not feasted so since I'd left home. I could see they appreciated my speaking Spanish, too, even though she and her husband, Mateo, both had a good command of English. With the meal finished I sat back like a stuffed hawg, my mind still going around in circles. Mama Benita and Chepa cleared the table and I could hear the sounds of dishes being washed in the kitchen. Mateo produced long slim cigars and