and put down the window. He was more perturbed than ever, filled with a dark suspicion as the significance of that direction washed everything else from his mind. He was reaching for his hat when he heard the hurried slapping of the Mexican’s guarachas.
“Patron!” Juanito’s chins were shaking as he struggled to catch his breath. “Carai!” he cried, blowing his cheeks out. His fat bulk heaved. “The General is gone and the Tejano has gone after him!”
“Carajo!” Don Luis’ face turned ugly with anger. Thrusting Juanito out of his path he rushed from the house breathing curses.
There were three lanterns lit at the stables and the runway was bright with this combined radiance. Five mozos were standing in a close huddle, arguing; when Don Luis stormed in and they sprang apart, frightened.
“Rascals!” he shouted. “Did I not warn you that rogue was to remain in the house on my orders? Sons of goats I Why didn’t you raise the alarm?” He laid hands on the nearest, cuffing him, beside himself. “All your life I support you in idleness and this is how you repay me. Who furnished the horse?”
They cringed back from him, trembling.
“Quick — which one of you?”
At last one, with the sign of the Cross pulled his head up. “It was I, señor — Pablo.” He told how the General had overridden his protests. How the Texan had come up during the saddling and what befell of it, and how afterwards the Texan had gone spurring away after him.
Cordray gnawed at his lip. He couldn’t afford to have the man reach Sierra … Setting aside the business of that let-out notch on the chin strap, the man — whether or not he was actually Descardo — had doubtless been with Descardo’s party when that group had left Sierra. Therefore, was it not reasonable to assume the fellow had quit that group with the money? And, if that were so, did it? not also follow that he was now on his way to recover it?
Cordray said to the men, “To horse, hombres!” He whirled on the fat man who threw up his arm as though to ward off a blow. “The Winchesters, Juanito — hurry! One for each — and Pablo! Put my saddle on Carablanco.”
The man stopped in his tracks and shuddered. His eyes rolled crazily. “I cannot,” he wailed, shrinking into the shadows.
Don Luis’ face darkened. “What is this?” he demanded. “You have a fear of the horse?”
“Alas, no, señor. It was on Carablanco that the General rode away!”
• • •
Reno wished he had a slicker that he could button around his throat to keep the cold wind out of him. It was ever like this in the border country, furnace hot in the day and like the Yukon after night fell. But there was nothing he could do about it, or about that grub he’d had no chance to pick up. He tightened his belt against the growls of hunger and rode with the wind pushing against his right side.
The shack he was looking for, according to the girl, was but an hour’s quick ride from headquarters. South, of course, for that was the way he’d come into this country. But after twenty minutes he reined more to the east so that the wind was behind him, and found the pace better.
The big roan was an easy traveler, a sure footed horse well used to rough country and caring nothing for the dark. Reno talked to him a little, reminded of the years he’d earned his keep riding after cattle, the old carefree days on his dad’s Circled Triangle, before the smoke of a six-shooter had driven him away. It had been colder up there, summer and winter both, with the snow sometimes drifting twelve feet deep in the mountain meadows.
He pulled his thoughts away from these memories and stopped the stallion, taut with listening. With the wind howling down through the rocks like it was he found it hard to be sure; imagination could have foisted that hoof sound upon him — probably had. He rode on, warmed by thoughts of the plunder he was seeking, those two precious sacks of onzas that would brighten
“Patron!” Juanito’s chins were shaking as he struggled to catch his breath. “Carai!” he cried, blowing his cheeks out. His fat bulk heaved. “The General is gone and the Tejano has gone after him!”
“Carajo!” Don Luis’ face turned ugly with anger. Thrusting Juanito out of his path he rushed from the house breathing curses.
There were three lanterns lit at the stables and the runway was bright with this combined radiance. Five mozos were standing in a close huddle, arguing; when Don Luis stormed in and they sprang apart, frightened.
“Rascals!” he shouted. “Did I not warn you that rogue was to remain in the house on my orders? Sons of goats I Why didn’t you raise the alarm?” He laid hands on the nearest, cuffing him, beside himself. “All your life I support you in idleness and this is how you repay me. Who furnished the horse?”
They cringed back from him, trembling.
“Quick — which one of you?”
At last one, with the sign of the Cross pulled his head up. “It was I, señor — Pablo.” He told how the General had overridden his protests. How the Texan had come up during the saddling and what befell of it, and how afterwards the Texan had gone spurring away after him.
Cordray gnawed at his lip. He couldn’t afford to have the man reach Sierra … Setting aside the business of that let-out notch on the chin strap, the man — whether or not he was actually Descardo — had doubtless been with Descardo’s party when that group had left Sierra. Therefore, was it not reasonable to assume the fellow had quit that group with the money? And, if that were so, did it? not also follow that he was now on his way to recover it?
Cordray said to the men, “To horse, hombres!” He whirled on the fat man who threw up his arm as though to ward off a blow. “The Winchesters, Juanito — hurry! One for each — and Pablo! Put my saddle on Carablanco.”
The man stopped in his tracks and shuddered. His eyes rolled crazily. “I cannot,” he wailed, shrinking into the shadows.
Don Luis’ face darkened. “What is this?” he demanded. “You have a fear of the horse?”
“Alas, no, señor. It was on Carablanco that the General rode away!”
• • •
Reno wished he had a slicker that he could button around his throat to keep the cold wind out of him. It was ever like this in the border country, furnace hot in the day and like the Yukon after night fell. But there was nothing he could do about it, or about that grub he’d had no chance to pick up. He tightened his belt against the growls of hunger and rode with the wind pushing against his right side.
The shack he was looking for, according to the girl, was but an hour’s quick ride from headquarters. South, of course, for that was the way he’d come into this country. But after twenty minutes he reined more to the east so that the wind was behind him, and found the pace better.
The big roan was an easy traveler, a sure footed horse well used to rough country and caring nothing for the dark. Reno talked to him a little, reminded of the years he’d earned his keep riding after cattle, the old carefree days on his dad’s Circled Triangle, before the smoke of a six-shooter had driven him away. It had been colder up there, summer and winter both, with the snow sometimes drifting twelve feet deep in the mountain meadows.
He pulled his thoughts away from these memories and stopped the stallion, taut with listening. With the wind howling down through the rocks like it was he found it hard to be sure; imagination could have foisted that hoof sound upon him — probably had. He rode on, warmed by thoughts of the plunder he was seeking, those two precious sacks of onzas that would brighten
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