The Westerners Read online

  “No, señor. With a vaquero or a peon,” came the amazing reply.

  Vaughn gave up here, seeing he was losing time.

  “Pedro, show me Roseta’s horse tracks,” he requested.

  “Señor, I will give you ten thousand dollars if you bring my daughter back . . . alive,” said Uvalde.

  “Rangers don’t accept money for services,” replied Vaughn briefly, further mystified by the Mexican’s intimation that Roseta might be in danger of foul play. “I’ll fetch her back . . . one way or another . . . unless she has eloped. If she’s gotten married, I can do nothing.”

  Pedro showed the ranger small hoof tracks made by Roseta’s horse. He studied them a few moments, and then, motioning those following him to stay back, he led his own horse and walked out of the courtyard, down the lane, through the open gate into the field.

  He rode across Glover’s broad acres, through the pecans, to where the ranch bordered on the desert. Roseta had not been bent on an aimless morning ride.

  Under a clump of trees someone had waited for her. Here Vaughn dismounted to study tracks. A mettlesome horse had been tethered to one tree. In the dust were imprints of a riding boot, not the kind left by cowboy or vaquero. Heel and toe were broad. He found the butt of a cigarette, smoked that morning. Roseta’s clandestine friend was not a Mexican, much less a peon or vaquero. There were signs he had waited on other mornings.

  Vaughn got back on his horse, strengthened in the elopement theory, although not wholly convinced. Maybe Roseta was just having a lark. Maybe she had a lover Uvalde would have none of. This idea grew as Vaughn saw where the horses had walked close together, so their riders could hold hands. Perhaps more! Vaughn’s silly hope oozed out and died. And he swore at his ridiculous vain importunities. It was all right for him to be young enough to have an infatuation for Roseta Uvalde, but to have entertained a dream of winning her was laughable. He laughed, although mirthlessly. And jealous pangs consumed him.

  “Reckon I’d better get back to rangerin’ instead of moonin’,” he soliloquized grimly.

  The tracks led in a roundabout way through the mesquite to the river trail. This was two miles or more from the line of the Glover Ranch. The trail was broad and lined by trees. It was a lonely and unfrequented place for lovers to ride. Roseta and her companion still walked their horses. On this beautiful trail, which invited a gallop or at least a canter, only love-making could account for the gait. Also the risk! Whoever Roseta’s lover might be, he was either a fool or crooked. Vaughn swore lustily as the tracks led on and on, deeper into the timber that bordered the Río Grande.

  Suddenly Vaughn drew up sharply with an exclamation. Then he slid out of his saddle, to bend over a marked change in the tracks he was trailing. Both horses had reared, to come down hard on forehoofs, and then jump sideways.

  “A hold-up!” ejaculated Vaughn in sudden dark passion.

  Sandal tracks in the dust. A bandit had hid behind a thicket in ambush. Vaughn swiftly tracked the horses off the trail, to an open glade on the bank, where hoof tracks of other horses joined them and likewise boot tracks. Vaughn did not need to see that these new marks had been made by Mexican boots.

  Roseta had either been led into a trap by the man she had met or they had both been ambushed by three bandits. It was a common thing along the border for Mexican marauders to make away with Mexican girls. The instances of abduction of American girls had been few and far between, although Vaughn remembered several whom he had helped to rescue. Roseta being the daughter of rich Uvalde would be held for ransom and through that might escape the usual terrible treatment. Vaughn’s sincere and honest love for Roseta occasioned an agony of grief at the fate that had overtaken her heedless steps. This was short-lived, for the flashing of the ruthless ranger spirit burned it out.

  “Three hours’ start on me,” he muttered, consulting his watch. “Reckon I can come up on them before dark.”

  Whereupon he followed the broad fresh trail that wound down through timber and brush to the river bottom. A border of arrowweed stretched out across a sandbar. All at once he halted stockstill, then moved as if to dismount. But it was not necessary. He read another story in the sand, and one spot of reddish color—blood—on the slender white stalk of arrowweed, a heavy furrow, and then a line of demarcation through the green to the river—these added a sinister nature to the abduction of Roseta Uvalde. It cleared Roseta’s comrade of all complicity, except heedless risk. And it began to savor somewhat of Quinela’s work. Vaughn wondered if Quinela could be, by any chance, the menace Uvalde had betrayed a fear of. If so, God help Roseta!

  Vaughn took time enough to dismount and trail the line where the murderers had dragged the body. They had been bold and careless. Vaughn picked up a cigarette case, a glove, a watch, and he made sure by the latter he could identify Roseta’s companion on this fatal ride. A point of gravel led out to a deep current, to which the body had been consigned. It would be days and far below where the Río Grande would give up its dead.

  The exigencies of the case prevented Vaughn from going back after food and canteen. Many a time had he been caught thus. He had only his horse, a gun, and a belt full of cartridges.

  Hurrying back to Star, he led him along the trail to the point where the bandits had gone into the river. The Río was treacherous with quicksand, but it was always safe to follow Mexicans, provided one could imitate them. Vaughn spurred Star, plunged across the oozy sand, and made deep water just in the nick of time. The current, however, was nothing for the powerful horse to breast. Vaughn emerged where the bandits had climbed out.

  Again Vaughn loped Star on the well-defined tracks of five horses. At this gait he knew he gained two miles on them while they were going one. He calculated they should be about fifteen miles ahead, unless rough country had slowed them, and by early afternoon he ought to be close on their heels. If their trail had worked down the river toward Rock Ford he might have connected these three with the marauders mentioned in Captain Allerton’s letter. But it led straight south of the Río Grande and showed a definite object.

  Vaughn rode for two hours before he began to climb out of level river valley. Then he struck rocky hills covered with cactus and separated by dry gorges. There was no difficulty in following the trail, but he had to go slower. He did not intend that Roseta Uvalde should spend a night in the clutches of these Mexicans. Toward noon the sun grew hot, and Vaughn began to suffer from thirst. Star sweat copiously, but showed no sign of distress.

  He came presently to a shady spot where the abductors had halted, probably to eat and rest. The remains of a small fire showed in a circle of stones. Vaughn got off to put his hand on the mesquite ashes. They were hot. Two hours behind, perhaps a little more or less!

  He resumed the pursuit, making good time everywhere and a swift lope on all possible stretches.

  There was a sameness of brushy growth and barren hill and rocky dry ravine, although the country grew rougher. He had not been through this section before. He crossed no trails. And he noted that the tracks of the riders gradually headed from south to west. Sooner or later they would join the well-known Rock Ford trail. Vaughn was concerned about this. And he pondered. Should he push Star to the limit until he knew he was close behind them? It would not do to let them see or hear him. If he could surprise them, the thing would be easy. While he revolved these details of the problem, he kept traveling deeper into Mexico.

  He passed an Indian cornfield, and then a hut of adobe and brush. The tracks he was hounding kept straight on, and led off the desert onto a road—not, however, the Rock Ford road. Vaughn here urged Star to action, and in half an hour he headed into a well-defined trail. He did not need to get off to see that no horses but the five he was tracking had passed this point since morning. Moreover, they were not many miles ahead.

  Vaughn rode on a while at a gallop, then, turning off the trail, he kept Star to that gait in a long detour. Once he crossed a streambed up which there would be water somewhere. T
hen he met the trail again, finding to his disappointment and chagrin that the tracks had passed. He had hoped to head them and lie in wait for them.

  Mid-afternoon was on him. He decided not to force the issue at once. There was no ranch or village within half a night’s ride of this spot. About sunset, the bandits would halt to rest and eat. They would build a fire.

  Vaughn rode down into a rocky defile where he found a much needed drink for himself and Star. He did not relish the winding trail ahead. It kept to the gorge. It was shady and cool, but afforded too many places where he might be waylaid. Still he had to go on. He had no concern that the three bandits would ambush him. But if they fell in with others!

  Vaughn approached a rocky wall. He was inured to danger. And his ranger luck was proverbial. It was only the thought of Roseta that occasioned misgivings. And he turned the corner of the wall to face a line of leveled rifles.

  “Hands up, gringo ranger!”

  III

  Vaughn was as much surprised by the command in English as at the totally unexpected encounter with a dozen or more peones. He knew the type. These were Quinela’s bandits.

  Vaughn elevated his hands. Why this gang leader held him up, instead of shooting on sight, was beyond Vaughn’s ken. The Mexicans began to jabber angrily. If ever Vaughn expected death, it was then. He had about decided to pull his gun and shoot it out with them, and finish as many a ranger had before him. But a shrill authoritative voice deterred him. Then a swarthy little man, lean-faced and beady-eyed, stepped out between the threatening rifles and Vaughn. He silenced the others.

  “It’s the gringo ranger, Texas Medill,” he shouted in Spanish. “It’s the man who killed Lopez. Don’t shoot. Quinela will pay much gold for him alive. Quinela will strip off the soles of his feet and drive him with hot irons to walk on the chaya.”

  “But it’s the dreaded gun-ranger, señor,” protested a one-eyed bandit. “The only safe way is to shoot his cursed heart out here.”

  “We had our orders to draw this ranger across the river,” returned the leader harshly. “Quinela knew his man and the hour. The Uvalde girl brought him. And here we have him . . . alive! Garcia, it’d cost your life to shoot this ranger.”

  “But I warn you, Juan, he is not alone,” returned Garcia. “He is but a leader of rangers. Best kill him quick, and hurry on. I have told you already that gringo vaqueros are on the trail. We have many horses. We cannot travel fast. Night is coming. Best kill Texas Medill.”

  “No, Garcia. We obey orders,” returned Juan harshly. “We take him to Quinela.”

  Vaughn surveyed the motley group with speculative eyes. He could kill six of them at least, and, with Star charging and the poor marksmanship of Mexicans, he might break through. Coldly Vaughn weighed the chances. They were a hundred to one that he would not escape. Yet he had taken such chances before. But these men had Roseta, and when there was life, there was always some hope. With tremendous effort of will he forced aside the deadly impulse and applied his wits to the situation.

  The swarthy Juan turned to cover Vaughn with a cocked gun. Vaughn read doubt and fear in the beady eyes. He knew Mexicans. If they did not kill him at once, there was hope. At a significant motion, Vaughn carefully shifted a long leg and stepped face front, hands high, out of the saddle.

  Juan addressed him in Spanish

  “No savvy, señor,” replied the ranger.

  “You speak Spanish?” repeated the questioner in English.

  “Very little. I understand some of your Mexican lingo.”

  “You trailed Manuel alone?”

  “Who’s Manuel?”

  “My vaquero. He brought Señorita Uvalde across the river.”

  “After murdering her companion. Yes, I trailed him and two other men, I reckon. Five horses. The Uvalde girl rode one. The fifth horse belonged to her companion.”

  “Ha! Did Manuel kill?” exclaimed the other, and it was certain that was news to him.

  “Yes. You have murder as well as kidnapping to answer for.”

  The bandit cursed under his breath. “Where are your rangers?” he went on.

  “They got back from the Brazos last night with news of your raid,” said Vaughn glibly. “And this morning they joined the cowboys who were trailing the horses you stole.”

  Vaughn realized then that somewhere there had been a mix-up in Quinela’s plans. The one concerning the kidnapping of Roseta Uvalde and Vaughn’s taking the trail had worked out well. But Juan’s dark corded face, his volley of unintelligible maledictions at his men betrayed a hitch somewhere. Again Vaughn felt the urge to draw and fight it out. What passionate fiery-headed fools these fellows were! Juan had lowered his gun to heap abuse on Garcia. That individual turned green of face. Some of the others still held leveled rifles on Vaughn, but were looking at their leader and his lieutenant. Vaughn saw a fair chance to get away, and his gun hand itched. A heavy-booming revolver—Juan and Garcia dead—a couple of shots at the others—that would have stampeded them. But Vaughn caught no glimpse of Roseta. He abandoned the grim cold impulse and awaited eventualities.

  The harangue went on, soon to end in Garcia being cursed down.

  “I’ll take them to Quinela,” rasped Juan shrilly, and began shouting orders.

  Vaughn’s gun belt was removed. His hands were tied behind his back. He was forced upon one of the horses, and his feet were roped to the stirrups. Juan appropriated his gun belt, which he put on with the Mexican’s love of vainglory, and then mounted Star. The horse did not like this exchange of riders, and, right there, followed evidence of the cruel iron hand of the bandit. Vaughn’s blood leaped, and he veiled his eyes lest someone see his intent to kill. When he raised his head, two of the squat-shaped, motley-garbed and wide-sombreroed crew were riding by, and the second led a horse upon which sat Roseta Uvaldo.

  She was bound to the saddle, but her hands were free. She turned her face to Vaughn. With what terrible earnest dread did he gaze at it! Vaughn needed only to see it flash white toward him, to meet the passionate eloquence of gratitude in her dark eyes, to realize that Roseta was still unharmed. She held the small proud head high. Her spirit was unbroken. For the rest—what to Vaughn mattered the dusky disheveled hair, the mud-spattered and dust-covered vaquero riding garb she wore? What mattered anything so long as she was safe? Vaughn flashed her a look that brought the blood to her pale cheeks.

  Juan prodded Vaughn in the back. “Ride, gringo.” Then he gave Garcia a last harsh command. As Vaughn’s horse followed that of Roseta and her two guards into the brook, there rose a clattering, jabbering mêlée among the bandits left behind. It ended in a roar of pounding hoofs. Soon this died out on top.

  The brook was shallow and ran swiftly over gravel and rocks. Vaughn saw at once that Juan meant to hide his trail. An hour after the cavalcade would have passed a given point here, no obvious trace would show. The swift water would have cleared as well as have filled with sand the hoof tracks.

  “Juan, you were wise to desert your gang of horse thieves,” said Vaughn coolly. “There’s a hard-riding outfit on their trail. And some of them will be dead before sundown.”

  “¿Quién sabe? But it’s sure, Texas Medill will be walking choya on bare-skinned feet manaña,” replied the Mexican.

  Vaughn pondered. Quinela’s rendezvous, then, was not many hours distant. Travel such as this, up a rocky gorge, was necessarily slow. Probably this brook would not afford more than a few miles of going. Then Juan would head out on the desert and essay in other ways to hide his tracks. So far as Vaughn was concerned, whether he hid them or not made no difference. The cowboys and rangers in pursuit were but fabrications of Vaughn’s to deceive his captors. He knew how to work on their primitive feelings. But Vaughn realized the peril of the situation and the brevity of time left him.

  “Juan, you’ve got my gun,” said Vaughn, his keen mind striving. “You say I’ll be dead in less than twenty-four hours. What’s it worth to untie my hands so I can ride in comfort?”<
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  “Señor, if you have money on you, it will be mine anyway,” replied Quinela’s lieutenant.

  “I haven’t any money with me. But I’ve got my checkbook that shows a balance of some thousand dollars in an El Paso bank,” replied Vaughn, and he turned around.

  Juan showed gleaming white teeth in derision. “What’s that to me?”

  “Some thousands in gold, Juan. You can get it easily. News of my death will not get across the border very soon. I’ll give you a check and a letter, which you can take to El Paso, or send by messenger.”

  “How much gold, señor?” Juan asked.

  “Over three thousand.”

  “Señor, you would bribe me into a trap. No. Juan loves the glitter and clink of your American gold, but he is no fool.”

  “Nothing of the sort. I’m trying to buy a little comfort in my last hours. And possibly a little kindness to the señorita, there. It’s worth a chance. You can send a messenger. What do you care if he shouldn’t come back? You don’t lose anything.”

  “No gringo can be trusted, much less Texas Medill of the rangers,” rejoined the Mexican.

  “Sure. But take a look at my checkbook. You know figures when you see them.”

  Juan rode abreast of Vaughn, dominated by curiosity. How his beady eyes glittered!

  “Inside vest pocket,” directed Vaughn. “Don’t drop the pencil.”

  Juan procured the checkbook and opened it. “Señor, I know your bank,” he said, vain of his ability to read, which to judge by his laborious task was very limited.

  “Uhn-huh. Well, how much balance have I left?” queried Vaughn.

  “Three thousand, four hundred.”

  “Good. Now, Juan, you may as well get that money. I’ve nobody to leave it to. I’ll buy a little comfort for myself . . . and kindness to the señorita.”

  “How much kindness, señor?” asked the bandit craftily.

  “That you keep your men from handling her rough . . . and soon as the ransom is paid send her back safe.”