Shoot Him On Sight

'Didn't go to Onyxton,' I replied gruffly.

'You change the mind, eh?' from Mateo.

'I've changed my mind about a lot of things,' I growled shortly.

Silence fell. The three stirred uncomfortably. Mateo rose finally and said something about an order he wanted to give one of the hands. I sat glowering at nothing in particular, not talking. I didn't feel ready to make any explanations. A few minutes later, Jeff announced that he'd forgotten something or other, and he, too, left the gallery for the interior of the house.

Mike eyed me, puzzledly, for a few minutes. 'Something has gone very malo—bad —, Johnny?'

'Mucho malo, Mike,' I grunted, disheartened.

Mike nodded. 'Miss Topaz—?' he queried tentatively.

'Is it any of your business?' I snarled.

He rose, crossed to my chair, placed one hand on my shoulder.

'Si, what is bad for you makes it my affair, Johnny,' he said gently.

I felt lower'n a rundown boot-heel. 'I'm sorry, Mike, I— well—I just don't feel like talking now.'

'Of course not,' he said understandingly. 'For a man there are just three consolations—a woman, talk, or whisky. You do not feel like the conversation, about woman or otherwise. Remains only the whisky.' He nudged the bottle standing on the gallery floor with his booted toe. I glanced up at him, caught the sympathetic flash of very white teeth in his dark face. Again, he patted my shoulder. 'Get drunk in peace, Johnny. It will help you forget—her.' He turned without further talk and disappeared in the direction of the bunkhouse.

Mike knew me like the brother he was. He'd sensed my trouble had to do with Topaz. Maybe he made sense. I reached down and seized the bottle. It was about half full of bourbon. It burned my throat as it went down but I kept swallowing. Only a fit of choking forced me to replace the bottle on the gallery floor. I sat waiting for the liquor to take hold and benumb what was left of my senses. After five minutes nothing had happened. I waited another five. Hell, I must have gone dead inside. I've felt more on a couple of bottles of beer. I sat glaring off across the range. The sun was dropping now, making purple shadows in the hollows, drawing dark lines on the spikes of ocotillo, subduing the earlier lights on prickly pear pads.

I thought, Oh, hell, what's the difference if the sun sets or not, or ever rises again? That's just how low I was. I reached for the bottle again, deciding to finish it off, then stopped. The first drink hadn't helped any, so why shoe a dead horse? I decided whisky wasn't the answer—not right then, anyway. So I just sat and watched the shadows deepen a little more. I could hear voices at the back of the house and near the bunkhouse as the vaqueros came riding in, one or two at a time, but nothing that was said was intelligible to me.

I was roused from a sort of numb stupor by the sound of hoofbeats. Glancing up, I saw a rider on a big gray horse just turning in to the ranch yard. He pulled to a walk, then dismounted a few yards from the gallery. He nodded curtly and said 'Howdy,' and I gave him a short 'Howdy,' in return.

I sized him up as he approached. A big man with a thin, highly-arched nose, tight lips and penetrating gray eyes. Probably in the vicinity of forty years, I judged. He wore a flimsy vest and flannel shirt, brown corduroys tucked into knee-length boots, a big-buckled belt about a slim middle. The dark hair above his ears had touches of gray beneath the somewhat battered low-crowned black sombrero. I noted the holster, with its big Colt's six- shooter, was bound to his thigh with buckskin thongs, often the sign of a gun-fighter. He looked hard as nails and I figured him right then as a hard customer to deal with. I had a hunch right then that he was looking for me.

Warily, I got to my feet, my own right hand straying down toward my .44 Colt. I noted the corners of his lips twitch a little. He hadn't missed my movement. My heart began to beat a little faster. I didn't think I was going to like this.

He wasn't waiting for an invitation to 'Sit and rest your saddle a mite,' either, but came steadily on, full of confidence, his gray eyes boring into mine. Steady as hell they were too, and my heart began to pump a little. He said quietly enough, 'I'm Trent Taggert.'

I answered rather coldly, sounding inhospitable as the devil, 'So?'

'So,' he replied, 'I'm looking for John Cardinal.' That threw a jolt into me, particularly when I caught the gleam of a gold badge on his vest. Now I knew where I'd heard the name. Trent Taggert. Probably the greatest man-hunter in the country of that day. U.S. Marshal Trent Taggert.

Oh, I knew what was coming, I figured. After running and running, the minute I found a place to stay, I'd been caught. Well, feeling as I did right then, it didn't matter.

I was sunk, anyway. No use putting up a fight now. I didn't feel like fighting any more.

I held my voice steady as possible. I said, 'I'm John Cardinal. So it looks as if the law had caught up with me at last.'

XIX

U.S. Marshal Trent Taggert eyed me steadily a minute. 'The law has caught up with you for the second time,' he replied.

'How do you mean?'

'Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan had you once, but you ducked out on him.'

I said a bit hotly, 'Would you expect me to stay?'

'Now, cool down, Cardinal. I'm not holding that against you. It was natural under the circumstances. Neither does Webb Jordan hold it against you—'

'How do you know? Webb Jordan's dead.'

He shook his head. 'Just say he had a narrow escape, though it was mighty close. He's still in the hospital.'

'That's the best news I've had today,' I burst out. Then stopped. 'Here's something that may be news to you, Marshal Taggert. I finished off the scut who shot Jordan in the back.'

'So?' he said. 'I heard that, too. It's something—a great deal in your favor, I'd say.'

I shrugged. It hadn't occurred to me to ask where Taggert had heard I'd killed Hondo Crowell. I was just so damn glad to hear Webb Jordan still lived, that I felt a sudden lift. Some of my fight was returning.

'You're needed back across the border, Cardinal,' he said next.

'And that's not news.' I forced a laugh.

'I reckon not, but—'

'I suppose, Marshal, you realize this is Mexico.'

He looked steadily at me a moment, his penetrating eyes boring deep. 'Cripes A'mighty!' he smiled thinly. 'Border lines never made any difference to me.'

'So you've got extradition papers, I suppose.'

Again that steady look from gray eyes. Now, he almost smiled. 'I don't reckon extradition papers will be necessary, Cardinal.'

'I suppose not,' I conceded. Hell, why fight any further? I said, 'Look, I'll go with you. There won't be any trouble. But let's do it quietly, eh? I've got friends in the house. I don't want to get them upset.'

'That's all right with me,' he nodded, then, 'Say, don't you ever ask a man to sit in this country?'

I hadn't thought. We were both still on our feet. I apologized and shoved a chair in his direction. 'There's what's left of a bottle, too,' I told him. 'I'll get a glass if you'll let me out of your sight, and tell the folks we have a guest for supper. Okay?'

'Okay,' he responded. He was lifting the bottle to his lips as I turned toward the door. Then I caught his voice, 'Oh, Cardinal, don't get any ideas about slipping out the back door. It wouldn't be very smart on your part.'

'Hadn't even thought of it,' I answered, wondering at the same moment if that was entirely true. A sort of mocking laugh followed me.

Halfway across the big room I encountered Jeff. 'Somebody out front?' he asked.

I nodded and told him what had happened. 'Where's Mike?'

'Down at the corral with Mateo. Look here, that marshal hombre can't take you back. This is Mexico, not the