was a dangerous woman.
“Supposin’ I was to take your hundred dollars an’ ride off?” he suggested.
She smiled. “Hadden, my father and I were in the land grant wars in New Mexico.
We had occasion to hire men who could use their guns. I have told you there are
plenty of men along the border who would kill for fifty dollars. If you took my
money without trying to make good on it, I would hire four separate killers and
send them out with good rifles to get you — and they would, Hadden.”
He chuckled. “I just wondered. All right, ma’am, I’ll take the hundred. I been
figurin’ on killin’ Sackett, an’ this here will pay expenses while I do it.”
She rode back to town with Hadden trailing behind, and at the livery stable,
before witnesses, she said, “I do not like the sorrel, Hadden, but I do want
four horses delivered to me in El Paso. I will pay you one hundred dollars now,
the other hundred to be paid by Wells Fargo on my authorization when the horses
are delivered.”
Arch Hadden stabled his horses and went outside. He rolled another smoke, lit
the cigarette, and drew deeply. This was money he was going to enjoy earning. He
looked around and saw Wolf approaching. “Wolf, we got us a job,” he said. “We
got us a good job.”
Chapter 11
We passed a quiet night. Until the last of the twilight was gone I could still
hear the quail. These were the Mexican blue quail that run along the ground more
than they fly, oft times thirty or forty of them in a covey. Around a small
fire, we talked it over. We had invaded Apache country and taken prisoners from
them, so they would be on our trail, they would never let up. The horses needed
rest. The deserted ranch had water and plenty of good grass, and there was a
good field of fire. We decided to stay put, and that was all right with me. I’d
seen no such beautiful place in all my life, and I said as much to Dorset.
“It is beautiful,” she agreed, “and peaceful. I wonder they ever left … the
people who lived here.”
“Apaches. They devastated this whole stretch of country. Folks tried again and
again to build homes here, but they couldn’t make it.
“When we leave here,” I went on, “we’re going to have to run. It is going to be
pure hell betwixt here and the border towns.”
“Why did she do it, Tell?” Dorset asked suddenly. “Why did she want you killed?”
“I don’t know that she did.”
“There was no Orry Sackett, Tell. Can’t you see that? She lied to you. All the
children are accounted for. There were the Creed youngsters and my sister. Harry
had been taken long before, and there simply were no others.”
This idea about Orry worried me. It was something that needed contemplating, but
there was another worry in what Dorset said, for if there was no child, why send
me skyhootin’ into such dangerous country? Unless she did want me dead? And if
she wanted me dead, would she stop with this? Suppose she tried again to kill me
when I showed up alive … if I did?
I never was much good at thinking complicated things out. Mostly I studied on
situations and then went ahead and did what I would have done, anyway. When it
comes to work and travel or a fighting situation, I can come up with answers,
but I never was any good at figuring out why folks turned to evil.
“Dorset,” I said, “I can’t think of a reason why anybody should want me killed
like that. Why, she might be the death of these men with me, too.”
“Maybe she wants to get back at your brother. Maybe she hates the name of
Sackett.”
It made no kind of sense, but I had one thought a body couldn’t get around. And
that was that she had sent me off to Mexico after a child who I now felt sure
never existed.
You might figure I could have looked around more, but not if you knew Apaches.
If any Apaches had a white prisoner it would be known to all of them. They had
few secrets among themselves. So I was left with the almost certain knowledge
that I’d been sent down here on a wild-goose chase that would be almost sure to
get me killed.
Nor was there much I could do about it if I got back. She would simply say that
I lied, that she had told me no such thing — if she was even around to be
accused.
And she would know I wasn’t going to beat up a woman or shoot her. We Sacketts
treated womenfolk gentle, even when they didn’t deserve it.
Had it been only me, I’d have figured I’d been played for a sucker and I’d have
let it go at that, though it wouldn’t have been a pretty thought. But she had
risked the lives of my friends.
We laid up at that deserted ranch for three days. It wasn’t only that we needed
the rest, or that our horses did. It was because a man who doesn’t travel
doesn’t leave any trail. And those Apaches would be looking for a trail. They
would figure that we would naturally high-tail it for the border, and when the
trail was lost they’d head for the border by several trails, exchanging smokes
to talk across the country. So by laying low at this ranch we left them with no
trail to see, and the feeling that we had taken some other, unknown route. On
the morning of the fourth day we moved out Tampico Rocca knew of a ranch
twenty-odd miles west, and we headed for that, keeping off the ridges and using
every trick we knew to cover our sign.
But we weren’t trusting to that. We rode with our eyes looking all around all
the time, and our rifles across our saddles. We rode loose and we made pretty
good time all the first day, wanting distance behind us.
It was rough country. You’ve got to see some of that country to believe it.
Water was growing scarcer, there were fewer trees except along the river
bottoms, and there was more cactus. We saw antelope now and again, and once,
passing through a rugged stretch of bare rock mountains, we saw some desert
bighorns. They’re pretty near the finest meat the country offered, but we
weren’t about to shoot a rifle.
When we reached the ranch we found that it was a big one, and it lay right out
in the open country, with a small stream winding past. There was a dam across
the stream and a fair-sized pond had backed up behind it. Cottonwoods and other
trees grew around, and a big Spanish-style ranch house was set amongst them. And
it was occupied.
We drew up on the crest of a low ridge among some ocotillo and other growth and
studied the layout. We weren’t going to ride up to any place without giving
thought to what lay before us.
Slow smoke was rising from the chimney, and we could hear the squeak of a
windlass as somebody pulled water at a welL We could see a couple of vaqueros
riding out of the back gate, heading for the hills to the southeast of us. They
were riding relaxed and easy, sitting lazy in the saddle as if neither of them
had ever known a care or the name of trouble.
We came down off the slope, riding scattered out a little until we were
channeled by a lane through wide fields of planting.
“Somebody watches us.” Rocca indicated a low tower, and we could see sunlight
gleam on a fieldglass or telescope.
Whoever it was must have seen the children and decided we could be trusted,
because the big wooden gates opened, although nobody was in sight. But as we
drew closer we could see the black muzzles of the rifles that covered our
approach.
We rode in through the gates and they closed behind us. At least six vaqueros
were now in sight, and standing on the wide veranda, a thin Cuban cigar in his
teeth, was a tall old man with white hair and an erect, proud figure.
He came down two steps to greet us, his sharp eyes taking us in with quick
intelligence. I think he knew our story before I spoke, for the hard-ridden
horses, and the children, one of them dressed like an Apache boy, told it.
“Buenos dias, señores,” he said, and then added in English, “My house is yours.”
“You may not wish us to stay, señor,” I said. “We have taken these children from
the Apaches, and they will be looking for us.”
“They have visited us before, and with less reason. You are my guests,