Shoot Him On Sight

'The men make a cursing of the hounds. They can do nothing but sneeze.'

'Sneeze?' I didn't catch on.

'Before I leave with the posse I go to the abarrotero— grocery store—and make the buy of a large sack of chili powder. In my so careless manner I manage to drop some. The hounds are overtaken with a sneezing, and will be no much good now. Some of the powder I have save to make of the sneezing 'round here if they show a curiosity—which I do not think. But, Johnny, we waste of time. The horse waits—'

'Hell, Mike, I can't take your pony—'

'That not of the necessary. I have two caballos—'

'How in the devil—?'

'Always since I follow you, I have the extra pony. It is for sale, you see, but the price is always too elevated. I bring him tonight in case we have the long chase. That posse, they think me a fool—but hurry!'

We made our way out of the brush and mesquite, where a sort of roadway ran. In the starlight I saw two ponies tethered nearby. I could still hear cursing voices some distance off. Mike handed me the reins of one pony. It looked like a muscular buckskin in the gloom. I hesitated a moment longer. 'But, Mike, how are you going to explain the disappearance of this horse?'

'That posse, already it judges me a kind of idiot. When I tell how I left it and forgot to drop reins, they will just think me a bigger fool when I say that it ran off.'

'Damned if you don't think of everything—'

'I think only you must make the get-going, before I am missed.' He crawled up to the saddle while I mounted, and handed me a paper-wrapped package. 'Biscuits and the beef. One pickle—'

'Damned if you don't think of everything.'

'I remember to think only what you have done for the padre.'

'He is well?'

'Yes, and also the mama. They feel for you. Where will I find you next, Johnny?'

'I'm heading for a town named Onyxton—clear out of Texas—where law is scanty, I'm told. I just have to continue running, running, running—'

'Make the start, now, Johnny. There's not much time.'

I started slowly after we'd clasped hands once more, then gradually increased the pace. At my rear I heard Mike loping his pony back toward the posse and hounds, already bewailing in a loud voice the loss of his pony that had ran off.

Once more I had escaped the noose or a killing slug of lead.

II

Two days passed before I made much of a stop anyplace, as I continued to head west. At one small burg where I halted to grab a bite, I'd also bought a leather jacket. The nights were still cool in the higher elevations, though the days were hot. It had been when buying the jacket that I noticed the bills in my wallet were still damp. Out in open country again I stopped and spread the money on a rock to dry. It was then I unfolded from my wallet one of the reward bills I had picked up—offering a reward for my apprehension.

My blood boiled as I read through it again. The yellowed bill gave the usual details, offering one thousand dollars reward for the capture of one John Cardinal, 'Dead or Alive,' wanted for the cold-blooded killing of Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan, in addition to various other crimes. A description followed: gray eyes, six feet tall, weight—175, red hair, wearing such-and-such clothing when last seen, and so on and so on. At the bottom of the bill a note to the effect that I was fast with a gun and for officers to take no chances, as 'Cardinal is known to be vicious with a fast gun.'

My God! I hope nothing could be farther from the truth. As to being fast with a gun, that was a joke. No better than average, I'd say. Vicious? Hell's-bells! That was just plain lying. Hot-tempered, yes. Yeah, I'll admit that, though I always tried to hold my temper in check, knowing it's a bad fault and a temper is a good thing to sit tight on when a man's blood begins to boil. As to being a gunfighter, that was sheer nonsense. I never considered myself better than average with a hawg-laig; there'd never been any reason for going into gun-slinging. But I do admit that it was a hot-temper accountable for my having spent the past year of my life on the dodge.

I'd been raised and brought up by old Pablo Serrano, Miguel's father; my own parents had been killed when their team and buggy went over a cut-bank, leaving me an orphan as a baby. It was Pablo and his wife, Josefa, who took me in and raised me as their own, back in Tenango County, where they ran the Star-S Ranch. Miguel—Mike— and I were about the same age. My parents and Mike's had been friends. I guess my dad had owned some property in the county, though after he died, according to the bank, it was washed out by debt. There was a rumor that he owned property in one of the territories farther west, but I was told later that that was just rumor with no foundation. But, as I say, it was old Pablo and Josefa who took me in, and Mike and I grew up together, as close as two fingers on a hand.

We were both sent to school, though Mike had small desire for that sort of learning. He was more interested in stock raising and hunting, and skipped a great many of his classes. When I grew older, Pablo Serrano taught me all he knew about stock raising, also making certain I knew Spanish as well as English. Between Mike and me there was never any partiality shown by the Serranos. They were mighty good to me, and I felt I owed them plenty. I loved them as I would have my own parents; they were the only mother and father I had any memory of.

So I grew to manhood and found myself working cows with the rest of the Star-S crew, with little thought of what lay ahead. Then there came a couple of years of drought, resulting in damn poor feeding for the cows. That meant Dad Pablo had to buy feed for the critters. As he lacked money, that also meant slapping a mortgage on his spread. Oh, the bank was more than willing to lend, so things picked up after a time and more seasonal rains produced all the feed necessary. Meanwhile Old Pablo had reduced his debt to something over five hundred dollars. Perhaps he got careless and forgot the date, I don't know. Anyway, the next thing I learned was that the bank was going to foreclose because of non-payment, as Pablo lacked the five-hundred plus at the moment.

It didn't seem to worry him too much at first, not until he had gone into Tenango City to see old skinflint Banker Clarence Kirby. Then he returned downcast, telling us in Spanish:

'Banker Kirby insists on foreclosing. Almost I begged him on my knees to give me a few more days until I raise the dinero, but he was like a rock. No and no, he said. If I could not pay, then we must leave—'

I started to swear, but Dad Pablo cut me short. 'Enough, Juan,' he said sternly. 'This is no time for a display of temper. I will have the handling of this problem. I have the cows. In the adjoining county I have a man who will buy. If I only had a little more time.'

'How much more time?' I asked.

'Until noon tomorrow,' the old man answered somberly. 'If the money is not paid then, we shall have to make plans to move.'

'The dirty damn robbin' old miserly skinflint—' I burst out. 'He knows right well you can't raise that much, not around here. Practically everybody around here owes the bank money, just like you, and greedy Clarence Kirby would bop down on anybody who tried to help you. So help me—'

But again the old man shut me up, saying again something about a hot temper being a bad thing to have but a good thing to keep.

'By the hornswoggled steers I'll do something about it. Wait until I see Miguel. Where'd he go?'

'Miguel has gone hunting again. He promises to bring back a splendid buck,' Mama Josefa replied. Her eyes were teary. 'He should return in two-three days.'

'And neither Miguel nor you will intrude in my problems,' Papa Pablo stated determinedly.

I shrugged shortly and went up to our bedroom in the old ranch house. I knew Miguel didn't have any money, to speak of, but searching through his bureau drawer, I found something under fifty dollars. I'd been saving more of the money Dad Pablo paid us for working the cows. By the time I'd added my money to Mike's I was still three hundred dollars short.

I came back downstairs and found Mama Josefa placing supper dishes on the table. The beef and onions cooking in the kitchen smelled good. We ate supper in silence, though none of us put away much. Down in the bunkhouse the crew was making the usual noises, little realizing they'd probably be out of a job this time tomorrow. Skinflint Kirby would never keep 'em on; he hated Mexicans and most of our crew were Mexicans, and better rope-