Jim Waring of Sonora-Town; Or, Tang of Life. Henry Herbert Knibbs
Читать онлайн книгу.
from the leather chairs near the lobby window and followed him. Waring's door closed. He undressed and went to bed. He had been asleep but a few minutes when some one rapped on the door. He asked who it was. He was told to open in the name of the city of Sonora. He rose and dressed quickly.
When he opened the door two Sonora policemen told him to put up his hands. Donovan stood back of them, chewing a cigar. One of the policemen took Waring's gun. The other searched the room. Evidently he did not find what he sought.
"When you get through," said Waring, eyeing Donovan grimly, "you might tell me what you're after."
"I'm after that thousand," said Donovan.
"Oh! Well, why didn't you say so? Just call in Stanley, of the bank. His room is opposite."
Donovan hesitated. "Stanley's got nothing to do with this."
"Hasn't he?" queried Waring. "Call him in and see."
One of the police knocked at Stanley's door.
The bank cashier appeared, rubbing his eyes. "Hello, Bill! Hello, Jim!
What's the fuss?"
"Stanley, did I deposit a thousand dollars in gold to the credit of the
Ortez Mine this afternoon?"
"You did."
"Just show Donovan here the receipt I asked you to keep for me."
"All right. I'll get it."
Donovan glanced at the receipt. "Pretty smooth," he muttered.
Waring smiled. His silence enraged Donovan, who motioned to the police to leave the room.
Waring interrupted. "My gun?" he queried mildly.
One of the police handed the gun to Waring.
Their eyes met. "Why, hello, Pedro!" And Waring's voice expressed innocent surprise. "When did you enroll as a policeman?"
Donovan was about to interrupt when the policeman spoke: "That is my business."
"Which means Bill here has had you sworn in to-day. Knew you would like to get a crack at me, eh? You ought to know better, Salazar."
"Come on!" called Donovan.
The Mexicans followed him down the hallway.
Waring thanked Stanley. "It was a frame-up to get me, Frank," he concluded. "Pedro Salazar would like the chance, and as a policeman he could work it. You know that old game—resisting arrest."
"Doesn't seem to worry you," said Stanley.
"No. I'm leaving town. I'm through with this game."
"Getting too hot?"
"No. I'm getting cold feet," said Waring, laughing. "And say, Stanley,
I may need a little money to-morrow."
"Any time, Jim."
Waring nodded. Back in his room he sat for a while on the edge of the bed, gazing at the curtained window. Life had gone stale. He was sick of hunting men and of being hunted. Pedro Salazar was now a member of the Sonora police through Donovan's efforts. Eventually Salazar would find an excuse to shoot Waring. And the gunman had made up his mind to do no more killing. For that reason he had spared Vaca and had befriended Ramon. He decided to leave Sonora.
Presently he rose and dressed in his desert clothes. As he went through his pockets he came upon the little silver crucifix and transferred it, with some loose change, to his riding-breeches. He turned out the light, locked the room from the outside, and strode out of the hotel.
At the livery-stable, he asked for his horse. The man in charge told him that Dex had been taken by the police. That the Señor Bill Donovan and Pedro Salazar had come and shown him a paper—he could not read—but he knew the big seal. It was Pedro Salazar who had ridden the horse.
The streets were still lighted, although the crowd was thinning. Waring turned a corner and drifted through the shadows toward the edge of town. As he passed open doorways he was greeted in Mexican, and returned each greeting pleasantly. The adobe at the end of the side street he was on was dark.
Waring paused. Pedro Salazar's house was the only unlighted house in the district. The circumstance hinted of an ambushment. Waring crossed to the deeper shadows and whistled. The call was peculiarly low and cajoling. He was answered by a muffled nickering. His horse Dex was evidently corralled at the back of the adobe.
Pedro Salazar knew that Waring would come for the horse sooner or later, so he waited, crouching behind the adobe wall of the enclosure.
Waring knocked loudly on Salazar's door and called his name. Then he turned and ran to the corner, dodged round it, and crept along the breast-high adobe wall. He whistled again. A rope snapped, and there came the sound of quick trampling. A rush and the great, tawny shape of Dexter reared in the moonlight and swept over the wall. With head up, the horse snorted a challenge. Waring called softly. The horse wheeled toward him. Waring caught the broken neck-rope and swung up. A flash cut the darkness behind him. Instinctively he turned and threw two shots. A figure crumpled to a dim blur in the corral.
Waring raced down the alley and out into the street. At the livery-stable he asked for his saddle and bridle. The Mexican, chattering, brought them. Waring tugged the cinchas tight and mounted. Far down the street some one called.
Waring rode to the hotel, dismounted, and strode in casually, pausing at
Stanley's door. The cashier answered his knock.
"I'm off," said Waring. "And I'll need some money."
"All right, Jim. What's up? How much?"
"A couple of hundred. Charge it back to my account. Got it?"
"No. I'll get it at the desk."
"All right. Settle my bill for me to-morrow. Don't stop to dress.
Rustle!"
A belated lounger glanced up in surprise as Waring, booted and spurred, entered the lobby with a man in pajamas. They talked with the clerk a moment, shook hands, and Waring strode to the doorway.
"Any word for the Ortez people?" queried Stanley as Waring mounted.
"I left a little notice for Donovan—at Pedro Salazar's house," said
Waring. "Donovan will understand." And Waring was gone.
The lounger accosted Stanley. "What's the row, Stanley?"
"I don't know. Jim Waring is in a hurry—first time since I've known him. Figure it out yourself."
Back in Pedro Salazar's corral a man lay huddled in a dim corner, his sightless eyes open to the soft radiance of the Sonora moon. A group of Mexicans stood about, jabbering. Among them was Ramon Ortego. Ramon listened and said nothing. Pedro Salazar was dead. No one knew who had killed him. And only that day he had become one of the police! It would go hard with the man who did this thing. There were many surmises. Pedro's brother had been killed by the gringo Waring down in the desert. As for Pedro, his name had been none too good. They shrugged their shoulders and crossed themselves.
Ramon slipped from the group and climbed the adobe wall. As he straightened up on the other side, he saw something gleaming in the moonlight. He stooped and picked up a little silver crucifix.
CHAPTER V
The Tang of Life
Waring rode until dawn, when he picketed Dex in a clump of chaparral and lay down to rest. He had purposely passed the water-hole, a half-mile south, after having watered the horse and refilled his canteen.
There was a distinction, even in Sonora, between Pedro