I suppose I could have returned and faced the music, but knowing how vindictive Banker Kirby could be, I knew it would mean some sort of jail sentence to clear things up. And I certainly didn't like the thought of bars and stone walls. You see, it was still pretty hard for me to think of myself as a crook, though when I faced facts I had to admit I wasn't lilywhite.
And so I kept traveling, taking a small job here, another job there, back and forth across central and western Texas, but always swinging wide from the vicinity of Tenango City. I'd changed my name, of course, and traveled under an alias, and I tell you I was getting damn' tired of always being on the move and not staying long enough in one place to make any real friends.
And then when about the time I thought everything had quieted down, I began to see 'wanted bills' with my name on 'em, at various points around Texas. I'd see 'em in saloons and posted on telegraph poles. It was bewildering, and I couldn't understand it. Apparently I was wanted in a number of counties in various parts of west and central Texas. I thought for a moment I must be dreaming, when the damn yellow bills started to increase. And the number of crimes of which I was unjustly accused—it was amazing! Bank robbery, cattle rustling, stage hold- ups. I just couldn't understand it. It was as though some vindictive spirit was hounding me, determined to wipe me out.
No getting away from it, I was a marked man, and I'd just have to run a little faster, and run I did, with fear shadowing me at every step of the way. So now I was a cow-thief and bank robber and stage bandit, eh? Like I say, I couldn't understand it. One solution did occur to me: that all law officers aren't industrious. Some would sooner blame a crooked job on a known wanted man, than saddle up and get on the trail of the real law-breaker. But all deputies and sheriffs aren't lazy, that's a cinch; mostly they're pretty honest men trying to do the job they are paid for doing.
Oh, it kept me moving, all right. I never kept a job long, and I changed clothing frequently and let my beard sprout, getting only an occasional shave. I'd discarded my Oregon breeches for denim, bibless overalls, traded horses every chance I could make a decent deal. I knew there'd be plenty men out to pick up the increasing rewards for my scalp. There'd be more who wouldn't want any part of me, as by now the reward bills were warning of my killer instincts and my speed with a six-shooter. That would have been laughable if it hadn't been so damn' serious. And now I'd have to be on the look-out for the type of gunman who was always ready to add another notch to his gun-butt.
It got so I was afraid to take a job, anywhere, for fear someone would guess at my identity, so I kept on the move. I'd always been pretty lucky with cards and dice, so now and then I'd drop into a bar where a game was starting and take a hand. My winnings were never big, but I managed to keep ahead of the game and always had more than enough to eat on and take care of my horse, before I'd pull out for some other town. Just a saddle- tramp, that's all I was really. One thing I did learn, and that was to hold my temper. Any time any sort of argument arose, I steered clear.
While I didn't want to admit it, I always felt that eventually some law officer would catch up and capture me. Capture or worse. And I'd wonder how Papa and Mama Serrano were getting on and wish that I had Mike to side with me. And what was happening to Mike these days? About that time I read in a newspaper that Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan had taken my trail. Now I knew I was in for tall dodging. He had a real rep as a man-hunter and I'd have to keep on my toes.
Hoping to shake him off, I headed down into the Big Bend Country, heading for the Rio Grande, where, if worse came to worst, I figured I could ford the river and make a getaway into Mexico. Here the going was slower through mountainous terrain. I didn't like the thought of leaving Texas, but if worse came to worst, I'd do it. For three days I headed straight south, as straight as possible that is, through rugged canyons and up steep inclines. Not too much stuff growing, cactus, creosote, stunted mesquite, sparse juniper.
For the first two days I had an uneasy feeling of being followed. I'd stop from time to time, behind a big rock, to see if anyone showed up, but no one ever did. Then, on the third day when I was nearing the Rio, I got over that feeling. Some extra sense a man has sometimes warns him when he is being trailed. I began to breathe easier and continued on, toward a point where the Rio Grande rushes between high escarpments. I'd be glad to see that river, too, as my canteen was empty, though I still had some biscuits and other food with me. There wasn't too much foliage around for the horse, and I knew he'd be glad of water too.
After a time as I gradually made a descent down a canyon the air grew fresher and I began to hear the sounds of running water. With the sun on them, the rocks looked colorful as the deuce. I guessed the river was just around the next bend too. I was breathing easy, my gaze ahead on the trail I was taking, when I saw something that pulled me up short.
A sandy declivity on the canyon floor showed a fresh hoof track. Farther on were a few scattered droppings. Someone was ahead of me.
It was the only warning I had! I jerked my pony around on two hind hoofs and reined him back of a high cluster of rocks. Then I dropped from the saddle. Fast! And crouched down, reaching behind to jerk the Winchester from its boot.
I waited, not daring to lift my head too high above the rocks as I tried to see what lay ahead. Damn'd if I wasn't trapped. Or maybe the rider ahead was friendly, and no law officer. My heart was going like a trip hammer.
Hell! It was a law officer all right. Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan, though I didn't know that right at first. Then his voice came to me from another clump of rocks, fifty or sixty yards farther on:
'Better surrender, Cardinal. You ain't got a chance.'
'Try and make me.' I shouted back. Lord, I was scared. I couldn't see him and he couldn't see me—I hoped. Cripes, for all I knew, he might be sneaking up on me. I just had to take a look.
I raised my head cautiously above the rock barrier.
'You'll have to do better than that, Lawman,' I yelled.
A taunting laugh came from the other pile of broken rock. 'I can, Cardinal. That was just a warning. Want to try another look?'
I got smart then. Removing my sombrero I stuck it on the end of my rifle barrel and raised it slowly above the edge of the rocks.
'That suit you, Cardinal?'
'It proves something,' I called back, voice not quite steady. I crouched down, examined my hat. There were four holes in the crown of the sombrero where Jordan's slugs had passed straight through. God! The man could shoot.
His voice reached me again: 'That'll teach you not to try that stale stunt of a Stet-hat on the end of a rifle barrel,' Jordan jeered, and I began to feel foolish. He'd outfoxed me, just as he'd outfoxed me by guessing I was heading for the Rio Grande, following two days to make sure, then swinging wide to cut me off before I got there. A smart outlaw I'd turned out to be.
Anyway, there was a chance of keeping him from closing in on me now. I found a small crevice between two chunks of rock, and sent a fast Winchester slug toward the wall at his back, when I couldn't see sight of him.
'Better lower your sights, fellow,' he called with a cool laugh.
Jeepers! I hadn't been trying to hit him, but so long as there was a chance of keeping him from closing in it was a worthwhile game. He fired again, and again the shot was wide. Well, maybe he thought he was keeping me from closing in too. Hell's-bells on a tomcat, I didn't want to get any closer to him, but of course he didn't know that.
For an hour we kept up a desultory sort of fire, with me not trying to hit him, and knowing what I already did of his aiming, he didn't seem to want to hit me either. I didn't quite figure it out. Once he yelled out something about getting together and having a talk, but I was afraid to chance that.
We each levered a few more cartridges into our barrels and fired some more shots at random. I was getting worried, wondering how much longer I could hold out. Powdersmoke drifted in the air. The sun had dropped low to the west by this time. Maybe if I could hold out until darkness came, I might be able to retreat back up the canyon. I threw another random shot in his direction, and he replied instantly. I heard the whine of the bullet as it passed overhead, and then it happened:
Something hit me a tremendous wallop back of the ear, high on my head. A million lights exploded inside my
