After a while Tyrel and Orrin went about their business and I finished getting my outfit together. Cap was nowhere to be seen, but he needed no keeper. Cap had been up the creek and over the mountain in his time. Anybody who latched onto that old man latched onto trouble.
Dark came on. I left my gear at the livery stable and started up the street. I paused to look over toward the mountains and I got a look behind me. Sure enough, I'd picked up an Indian.
Only he was no Indian, he was a slick-looking party who seemed to have nothing to do but keep an eye on me. Right away it came to mind that he might be a Bigelow, so I just turned down an alley and walked slow.
He must have been afraid I would get away from him, for he came running, and I did a boxer's sidestep into the shadows. My sudden disappearance must have surprised him. He skidded to a stop, and when he stopped I hit him. My fists are big, and my hands are work-hardened. When I connected with his jaw it sounded like the butt end of an axe hitting a log. Anybody who figures to climb my frame is somebody I wish to know better, so I took him by the shirt front with my left hand and dragged him into the saloon where I was to meet the boys.
Folks looked up, always interested in something coming off, so I taken a better grip and one-handed him to a seat on the bar.
'I hadn't baited no hook, but this gent's been bobbin' my cork,' I said. 'Any of you know him? He just tried to jump me in the alley.'
'That's Will Boyd. He's a gambler.'
'He put his money on the wrong card,' I said. 'I don't like being followed down alleys.'
Boyd was coming out of it, and when he realized where he was he started to slide down off the bar, only I held him fast. From my belt scabbard I took that Arkansas toothpick of mine, which I use for any manner of things.
'You have been led upon evil ways,' I explained, 'and the way of the transgressor is hard. Seems to me the thing led you down the wrong road is that mustache.'
He was looking at me with no favor, and I knew he was one man would try to kill me first chance he had. He was a man with a lot to learn, and he wouldn't learn it any younger.
Balancing that razor-sharp knife in my hand I said, 'You take this knife, and you shave off that mustache.'
He didn't believe me. You could see he just couldn't believe this could be happening to him. He didn't even want to believe it, so I explained.
'You come hunting me,' I said, 'and I'm a mild man who likes to be left alone. You need something to remind you of the error of your ways.'
So I held out the knife to him, haft first, and I could see him wondering if he dared try to run it into me. 'Mister, don't make me lose my patience. If I do I'll whup you.'
He took the knife, carefully, because he didn't feel lucky, and he started on that mustache. It was a stiff mustache and he had no water and no soap and, mister, it hurt.
'Next time you start down an alley after a man, you stop and think about it.'
I heard the saloon door close. Boyd's eyes flickered. He started to speak, then shut up. The man was John Tuthill.
'Here!' His voice had authority. 'What's going on?'
'Man shaving a mustache,' I said. 'He decided he'd rather shave it than otherwise.' Turning my eyes momentarily, I said, 'How about you? You want to shave, Mr. Tuthill?'
His face turned pink as a baby's, then he said, 'If that man did something unlawful, have him arrested.'
'You'd send a man to prison?' Seemed like I was mighty upset. 'That's awful! You'd imprison a fellowman?'
Nobody around seemed likely to side him and he shut up, but he didn't like it. Seemed likely he was the man who set Boyd to following me, but I had no proof.
Boyd was making rough work of the shaving, hacking away at it, and in places his lip was raw. 'When he gets through,' I said, 'he's leaving town. If he ever finds himself in another town where I am, he'll ride out of that one too.'
By sun-up the story was all over town, or so I heard--I wasn't there. I was on my way back to Mora, riding with Tyrel and Cap.
Orrin followed us by several hours, and when he came into the yard in the buckboard Cap was watching me arrange my gear in bundles.
'If you're a man who likes company,' Cap said, I'm a man to ride the hills. I'm getting cabin fever.'
'Pleased,' I said. 'Pleased to have you.' Orrin got down from the buckboard and walked over. 'By the way, Tell. There was a man in Las Vegas inquiring for you. Said his name was Bigelow.'
Chapter V
We started up Coyote Creek in the late hours of night, with the stars hanging their bright lanterns over the mountains. Cap was riding point, our six pack horses trailing him, and me riding drag. A chill wind came down off the Sangre de Cristos, and somewhere out over the bottom a quail was calling.
Cap had a sour, dry-mouthed look to him. He was the kind if you got in trouble you didn't look to see if he was still with you--you knew damned well he was.
Not wishing to be seen leaving, we avoided Mora, and unless somebody was lying atop that rocky ridge near the ranch it was unlikely that we were seen.
The Mora river flowed through a narrow gap at the ranch and out into the flatlands beyond, and we had only to follow the Mora until it was joined by Coyote Creek, then turned up Coyote and across the wide valley of La Cueva.
We circled around the sleeping village of Golondrinos, and pointed north, shivering in the morning cold. The sky
