Shoot Him On Sight Read online

  "That posse, already it judges me a kind of idiot. When I tell how I left it and forgot to drop reins, they will just think me a bigger fool when I say that it ran off."

  "Damned if you don't think of everything—"

  "I think only you must make the get-going, before I am missed." He crawled up to the saddle while I mounted, and handed me a paper-wrapped package. "Biscuits and the beef. One pickle—"

  "Damned if you don't think of everything."

  "I remember to think only what you have done for the padre."

  "He is well?"

  "Yes, and also the mama. They feel for you. Where will I find you next, Johnny?"

  "I'm heading for a town named Onyxton—clear out of Texas—where law is scanty, I'm told. I just have to continue running, running, running—"

  "Make the start, now, Johnny. There's not much time."

  I started slowly after we'd clasped hands once more, then gradually increased the pace. At my rear I heard Mike loping his pony back toward the posse and hounds, already bewailing in a loud voice the loss of his pony that had ran off.

  Once more I had escaped the noose or a killing slug of lead.

  II

  Two days passed before I made much of a stop anyplace, as I continued to head west. At one small burg where I halted to grab a bite, I'd also bought a leather jacket. The nights were still cool in the higher elevations, though the days were hot. It had been when buying the jacket that I noticed the bills in my wallet were still damp. Out in open country again I stopped and spread the money on a rock to dry. It was then I unfolded from my wallet one of the reward bills I had picked up—offering a reward for my apprehension.

  My blood boiled as I read through it again. The yellowed bill gave the usual details, offering one thousand dollars reward for the capture of one John Cardinal, "Dead or Alive," wanted for the cold-blooded killing of Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan, in addition to various other crimes. A description followed: gray eyes, six feet tall, weight—175, red hair, wearing such-and-such clothing when last seen, and so on and so on. At the bottom of the bill a note to the effect that I was fast with a gun and for officers to take no chances, as "Cardinal is known to be vicious with a fast gun."

  My God! I hope nothing could be farther from the truth. As to being fast with a gun, that was a joke. No better than average, I'd say. Vicious? Hell's-bells! That was just plain lying. Hot-tempered, yes. Yeah, I'll admit that, though I always tried to hold my temper in check, knowing it's a bad fault and a temper is a good thing to sit tight on when a man's blood begins to boil. As to being a gunfighter, that was sheer nonsense. I never considered myself better than average with a hawg-laig; there'd never been any reason for going into gun-slinging. But I do admit that it was a hot-temper accountable for my having spent the past year of my life on the dodge.

  I'd been raised and brought up by old Pablo Serrano, Miguel's father; my own parents had been killed when their team and buggy went over a cut-bank, leaving me an orphan as a baby. It was Pablo and his wife, Josefa, who took me in and raised me as their own, back in Tenango County, where they ran the Star-S Ranch. Miguel—Mike—and I were about the same age. My parents and Mike's had been friends. I guess my dad had owned some property in the county, though after he died, according to the bank, it was washed out by debt. There was a rumor that he owned property in one of the territories farther west, but I was told later that that was just rumor with no foundation. But, as I say, it was old Pablo and Josefa who took me in, and Mike and I grew up together, as close as two fingers on a hand.

  We were both sent to school, though Mike had small desire for that sort of learning. He was more interested in stock raising and hunting, and skipped a great many of his classes. When I grew older, Pablo Serrano taught me all he knew about stock raising, also making certain I knew Spanish as well as English. Between Mike and me there was never any partiality shown by the Serranos. They were mighty good to me, and I felt I owed them plenty. I loved them as I would have my own parents; they were the only mother and father I had any memory of.

  So I grew to manhood and found myself working cows with the rest of the Star-S crew, with little thought of what lay ahead. Then there came a couple of years of drought, resulting in damn poor feeding for the cows. That meant Dad Pablo had to buy feed for the critters. As he lacked money, that also meant slapping a mortgage on his spread. Oh, the bank was more than willing to lend, so things picked up after a time and more seasonal rains produced all the feed necessary. Meanwhile Old Pablo had reduced his debt to something over five hundred dollars. Perhaps he got careless and forgot the date, I don't know. Anyway, the next thing I learned was that the bank was going to foreclose because of non-payment, as Pablo lacked the five-hundred plus at the moment.

  It didn't seem to worry him too much at first, not until he had gone into Tenango City to see old skinflint Banker Clarence Kirby. Then he returned downcast, telling us in Spanish:

  "Banker Kirby insists on foreclosing. Almost I begged him on my knees to give me a few more days until I raise the dinero, but he was like a rock. No and no, he said. If I could not pay, then we must leave—"

  I started to swear, but Dad Pablo cut me short. "Enough, Juan," he said sternly. "This is no time for a display of temper. I will have the handling of this problem. I have the cows. In the adjoining county I have a man who will buy. If I only had a little more time."

  "How much more time?" I asked.

  "Until noon tomorrow," the old man answered somberly. "If the money is not paid then, we shall have to make plans to move."

  "The dirty damn robbin' old miserly skinflint—" I burst out. "He knows right well you can't raise that much, not around here. Practically everybody around here owes the bank money, just like you, and greedy Clarence Kirby would bop down on anybody who tried to help you. So help me—"

  But again the old man shut me up, saying again something about a hot temper being a bad thing to have but a good thing to keep.

  "By the hornswoggled steers I'll do something about it. Wait until I see Miguel. Where'd he go?"

  "Miguel has gone hunting again. He promises to bring back a splendid buck," Mama Josefa replied. Her eyes were teary. "He should return in two-three days."

  "And neither Miguel nor you will intrude in my problems," Papa Pablo stated determinedly.

  I shrugged shortly and went up to our bedroom in the old ranch house. I knew Miguel didn't have any money, to speak of, but searching through his bureau drawer, I found something under fifty dollars. I'd been saving more of the money Dad Pablo paid us for working the cows. By the time I'd added my money to Mike's I was still three hundred dollars short.

  I came back downstairs and found Mama Josefa placing supper dishes on the table. The beef and onions cooking in the kitchen smelled good. We ate supper in silence, though none of us put away much. Down in the bunkhouse the crew was making the usual noises, little realizing they'd probably be out of a job this time tomorrow. Skinflint Kirby would never keep 'em on; he hated Mexicans and most of our crew were Mexicans, and better rope-men I've never seen anyplace. And the same goes for riding.

  After supper I helped Mama Josefa with the dishes, then dropped into a chair to glance at some old newspapers. There was something in one paper that had something to do with some big politico from the East who was some sort of do-gooder. Senator Cyrus Whitlock, it appeared, was interested in doing something to help the poorer class of Mexicans along the border, as well as other folks. He was donating money, while out here on one of his frequent trips. Being interested in the Southwest country, stating he wanted to see it built up. He'd already bought various parcels of property near the Border and spoke of plans tending toward a better living for the poorer classes. Right then Senator Cyrus Whitlock rose a heap in my estimation, but I couldn't keep my mind on what I was reading. I tossed down the paper, rose and reached for my gray Stetson. I kept hearing Mama Josefa's muffled sobs from another room, and I couldn't stand it any longer.

  Old Pabl
o was slumped hopelessly in a rocking chair, gazing blankly into space, forehead creased in a frown. He glanced up at my movement. "You plan to go out, Juan?" he asked.

  "I'm aiming to see if I can catch up with Miguel. I'm right sure I know where he's heading for that prime buck." I buckled on my cartridge belt and .44, snatched my Winchester from a stand in one corner.

  Pablo Serrano nodded and I detected a certain sigh of relief in his voice. "Perhaps it is better so that you are not here to lose more of the so hot temper and make of bad trouble. Vaya con Dios—go with God—Juan, my son."

  "Hasta luego—until I see you," I jerked out, called an "Adios!" to Mama Josefa, seized my coat and slammed out the door.

  Down at the corral I slapped a saddle on my pony, led him outside and closed the gate. The moon was still low and there were a few stars riding herd on some drifting clouds. From the bunkhouse came the plunking of a guitar. I wanted to say good-bye to the crew, knowing with what I planned it would be long before I saw them again, but decided against it. The fewer who knew of my actions, the better. I touched spurs to my horse and moved out to the trail running to Tenango City.

  The town was less than ten miles, so there was no hurry. A mile out of town I pulled rein, unsaddled and, rolling myself in the saddle blanket, stretched out beneath the spreading branches of an old live oak tree. I fell asleep.

  III

  The sun was already high when I awakened. I didn't carry a watch, but guessed it must have been around six-thirty. For a moment I felt fine, rested, ready to enjoy the coming day, then I remembered what had happened and what I intended to do and I could feel the indignation boiling up within me again. Damn and blast Banker Kirby for the grasping skinflint he was! I could feel the hair rising at the back of my neck the instant I thought of him.

  Well, it looked like I'd have a long hard day ahead, so I'd better get started. Resaddling and shoving the Winchester into my saddle boot, I climbed up and reined the pony in the direction of town. It was only a short time later I was loping into Tenango City.

  City? That was an exaggeration if I'd ever heard one. There was just a single winding street, twisting between rows of high false-fronts and adobe buildings, a street dusty in the hot seasons and muddy in the rainy periods. A couple of cross streets. Two restaurants, three saloons, a general store, livery and so on. Oh, yes, and Kirby's bank. Some plank sidewalks or uneven paths on either side of the road. There weren't many people abroad. A few loungers were already seeking the shade between buildings. Three chickens picked at the rutted roadway, and a mongrel dog hurried along sniffing and catching up on the news regarding previous canines. Three men, clumping along on high-heeled boots, nodded and I gave them a civil "Good mornin'" before pushing on to the livery stable.

  At the livery I stopped and told the man in charge to give my bronc such water as needed, and a good-sized feed of oats. Then I made my way to the general store, where I got a box of forty-four cartridges, stuffed enough in my belt loops to fill it, then jammed the rest of the box in one coat pocket. Leaving the general store, I headed for the first restaurant I came to and stowed away a breakfast of ham, eggs and fried potatoes, rice pudding and two cups of coffee completing the meal. While I was eating I had the counterman wrap me up some slices of beef and tortillas. He asked if I expected to be away for a time. I explained briefly I was heading north to the Sawtooth Range to join Mike in some deer hunting.

  The horse was ready for me when I got back. I tossed a half dollar to the livery man and led the pony outside. He followed me out with some idea of talking a minute. I answered in monosyllables. The sun was commencing to pour down heat by this time. I stripped off my coat and wrapped the beef and tortillas package inside, then rolled the whole and tied it behind my saddle.

  "Looks like a lunch you was packin'," the livery man said.

  "You guessed right," I answered shortly. "I'm heading up to the Sawtooths to see if I can get me a buck."

  A buck? Hell, it was three hundred bucks I was after. I climbed back to the saddle, reined the horse in the direction of the bank. Here, I again halted and tossed reins over the hitchin' pole. I checked my saddle cinch and made certain everything was ready. While I was busy, Banker Kirby mounted the steps to the single doorway of his edifice of usury. He was a wizened mean-looking cuss with squinty eyes and a mouth that reminded me of a rat trap, dressed in shiny black, celluloid collar and a derby hat. He shot a sour glance in my direction and passed on inside.

  I waited five minutes, then followed. There were no customers in the bank when I entered. At one side were two grilled windows; at the other a flat desk for clients. No chair there. A chair might have been an expense. The cashier stood at his window; another man worked at a ledger behind him. At the rear was a small room with a small door marked, "Private".

  The cashier said, "Morning, Johnny."

  I moved easily toward his window. "I got a date to see Mr. Kirby. He said shortly after eight. Is he in yet?"

  "Just came in a minute ago." He smiled wanly. "Usual dill pickle disposition. If you want a loan, I'll warn you his humor is bad."

  I laughed easily. "When was it good? Well, I'm not asking much, but I got a chance to pick up some beef steers at a bargain."

  The cashier nodded. "Better give him a minute or so, until he recovers from his usual morning indigestion belches."

  Wait a minute or so? And me tenser than a drum-head inside. I could feel that boiling indignation coming up again, but I only gave a short laugh and we fanned the air for a couple of minutes. I handed out that line about heading north for deer, again. That was three folks I'd told. Maybe they'd take stock in that "north" guff when the law got on my trail. After a minute I took off in the direction of Kirby's office.

  I paused an instant at the door, knocked once, then turned the knob and pushed inside, closing the door behind me. Kirby's head shot up. "You, Cardinal, don't you know enough to wait for an invitation to enter?"

  "I know enough, but time is short," I said briefly. "I've got a couple of things to say to you—" He had started to rise from his chair.

  I slapped one hand sharply to my Colt butt. "Sit down," I snapped.

  His face went a dirty-gray color and he dropped back in the chair. He didn't know I was damn' near as scared as he was, but I kept up the bluff. "Wha—wha—what do you want?" he stammered.

  "First, I've wanted to tell you for a long time that you're a low-down, greedy, penny-pinching scoundrel and lower than a rattler's belly. Everybody in town hates you—in town and out. Once you get your talons in a man you never let up, and it's time you was taught a lesson. Is that clear?"

  He gulped hard, tried to answer, but couldn't. I went on in a snarly tone of voice. "More than once I've been ready to throw a chunk of lead through your worthless guts. Now I think the time is prime for just that."

  "You—you wouldn't dare," he quavered. "You'd swing for murder—"

  "But you'd be dead," I laughed coldly. "I'd have the thanks of every man in Tenango City. You ready for it? No!"—as he opened his mouth—"Don't yell for help." Again I reached toward my gun-butt.

  Only a half groan issued from his white lips. He half stumbled up then went down on his knees and began to plead for mercy. Slobber ran from his mouth. It was disgusting. Now he was pleading for mercy, tears running down his cheeks, offering to do anything. He started to sob in broken tones and I was afraid he'd be heard in the outer bank.

  Again, I touched my gun-butt and told him to tone down. He quieted, but still remained on his knees, body shaking like a calf being branded. "All right," I growled at last. "You've got just one chance—"

  "Any—anything you say, Mister Cardinal," he gasped.

  "You get a chance to prove just that," I said tersely. "I need three hundred dollars. That's a cheap price for your life. So, it's up to you."

  The thought of losing money stiffened his spine a mite. He clambered back in his chair, still shaking though. "Now, look here, if you think you can cover the Serrano
mortgage in such fashion—"

  "Old Pablo? I don't have anything to do with his business. Hell, no! I've got to have three hundred to get some cows at a bargain price, from a feller up north. But I got to act quick. Now, shake your hoofs!"

  "I got to have security," he whined. "Why can't you come here decent and do business? You'll have to sign—"

  "Goddamit, I'll sign your death warrant in a minute. Move pronto!"

  I jerked out my .44 and that caved him. Shoulders slumped, he stumbled toward the safe in one corner, fumbled at the combination and reluctantly drew open the door. I snapped menacingly, "No double-crossing, now. Bring the cash here and count it before my eyes."

  It didn't take long. He spread bills, gold and silver on his desk. I scooped it up, cramming it into pockets. I was shaky as hell, thinking how time was passing. "Thanks," I told him sarcastically, as he drooped back limply in his chair, sweat beading his forehead. "Now you just stay that way for fifteen minutes. I'll be waiting that long at the front of the bank, and if you let one peep out of that rat-trap mouth, you can count on a date with a .44 slug. You mind! I'll take no chances."

  I whirled to the door, stepped outside, then immediately reopened it. He hadn't made a move, and I knew I'd made my bluff stick. He seemed half paralyzed with fright, his eyes looked slightly glazed, vacant, as though he were about to faint, his jaw was slack. I nodded hard-faced, again slapped hand to gun-butt, and closed the door quietly.

  Outside there were a couple of customers at the grill windows. The cashier hailed me as I passed. "Hope you had some luck, Johnny."

  "That's to be seen," I laughed, and passed through to the sidewalk.

  The clock ticking on the wall had said eight-thirty as I left, and I knew there was no time to lose. Stepping back to the saddle, I glanced along the street and saw the town deputy standing in conversation with the livery stable man, a block distant. Then I wheeled the pony and started to make time to the ranch.