Across the rustic bridge, and once behind the sycamores
at the lower end of the cow pasture, Guy Evans
let his horse out into a rapid gallop. A few minutes later
he overtook a horseman who was moving at a slow walk
farther up the cañon. At the sound of the pounding
hoofbeats behind him, the latter turned in his saddle,
reined about and stopped. The boy rode up and drew
in his blowing mount beside the other.
“Hello, Allen!” he said.
The man nodded.
“What’s eatin’ you?” he inquired.
“I’ve been thinking over that proposition of yours,” explained
Evans.
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’ve been thinking maybe I might swing it; but
are you sure it’s safe. How do I know you won’t
double-cross me?”
“You don’t know,” replied the other. “All you know
is that I got enough on you to send you to San Quentin.
You wouldn’t get nothin’ worse if you handled the rest
of it, an’ you stand to clean up between twelve and
fifteen thousand bucks on the deal. You needn’t worry
about me double-crossin’ you. What good would it do
me? I ain’t got nothin’ against you, kid. If you don’t
double-cross me I won’t double-cross you; but look out
for that cracker-fed dude your sister’s goin’ to hitch to.
If he ever butts in on this I’ll croak him an’ send you to
San Quentin, if I swing for it. Do you get me?”
Evans nodded.
“I’ll go in on it,” he said, “because I need the money;
but don’t you bother Custer Pennington—get that
straight. I’d go to San Quentin and I’d swing myself
before I’d stand for that. Another thing, and then we’ll
drop that line of chatter—you couldn’t send me to San
Quentin or anywhere else. I bought a few bottles of
hootch from you, and there isn’t any judge or jury going
to send me to San Quentin for that.”
“You don’t know what you done,” said Allen, with a
grin. “There’s a thousand cases of bonded whisky hid
back there in the hills, an’ you engineered the whole
deal at this end. Maybe you didn’t have nothin’ to do
with stealin’ it from a government bonded warehouse in
New York; but you must’a’ knowed all about it, an’
it was you that hired me and the other three to smuggle
it off the ship and into the hills.”
Evans was staring at the man in wide-eyed incredulity.
“How do you get that way?” he asked derisively.
“They’s four of us to swear to it,” said Allen; “an’
how many you got to swear you didn’t do it?”
“Why, it’s a rotten frame-up!” exclaimed Evans.
“Sure it’s a frame-up,” agreed Allen; “but we won’t
use it if you behave yourself properly.”
Evans looked at the man for a long minute—dislike
and contempt unconcealed upon his face.
“I guess,” he said presently, “that I don’t need any
twelve thousand dollars that bad, Allen. We’ll call this
thing off, as far as I am concerned. I’m through, right
now. Good-by!”
He wheeled his horse to ride away.
“Hold on there, young feller!” said Allen. “Not so
quick! You may think you’re through, but you’re not.
We need you, and, anyway, you know too damned much
for your health. You’re goin’ through with this. We
got some other junk up there that there’s more profit
in than what there is in booze, and it’s easier to handle.
We know where to get rid of it; but the booze we can’t
handle as easy as you can, and so you’re goin’ to handle
it.”
“Who says I am?”
“I do,” returned Allen, with an ugly snarl. “You’ll
handle it, or I’ll do just what I said I’d do, and I’ll do
it pronto. How’d you like your mother and that Pennington
girl to hear all I’d have to say?”
The boy sat with scowling, thoughtful brows for a
long minute. From beneath a live oak, on the summit
of a low bluff, a man discovered them. He had
been sitting there talking with a girl. Suddenly he
looked up.
“Why, there’s Guy,” he said. “Who’s that with—why,
it’s that fellow Allen! What’s he doing up here?” He
rose to his feet. “You stay here a minute, Grace. I’m
going down to see what that fellow wants. I can’t
understand Guy.”
He untied the Apache and mounted, while below, just
beyond the pasture fence, the boy turned sullenly toward
Allen.
“I’ll go through with it this once,” he said. “You’ll
bring it down on burros at night?”
The other nodded affirmatively.
“Where do you want it?” he asked.
“Bring it to the west side of the old hay barn—the
one that stands on our west line. When will you come?”
“To-day’s Tuesday. We’ll bring the first lot Friday
night, about twelve o’clock; and after that every Friday
the same time. You be ready to settle every Friday for
what you’ve sold during the week—sabe?”
“Yes,” replied Evans. “That’s all, then”; and he turned
and rode back toward the rancho.
Allen was continuing on his way toward the hills when
his attention was again attracted by the sound of hoofbeats.
Looking to his left, he saw a horseman approaching
from inside the pasture. He recognized both horse
and rider at once, but kept sullenly on his way.
Pennington rode up to the opposite side of the fence
along which ran the trail that Allen followed.
“What are you doing here, Allen?” he asked in a not
unkindly tone.
“Mindin’ my own business, like you better,” retorted
the ex-stableman.
“You have no business back here on Ganado,” said
Pennington. “You’ll have to get off the property.”
“The hell I will!” exclaimed Allen.
At the same time he made a quick movement with his
right hand; but Pennington made a quicker.
“That kind of stuff don’t go here, Allen,” said the
younger man, covering the other with a forty-five. “Now
turn around and get off the place, and don’t come on it
again. I don’t want any trouble with you.”
Without a word, Allen reined his horse about and
rode down the cañon; but there was murder in his heart.
Pennington watched him until he was out of revolver
range, and then turned and rode back to Grace Evans.
