_ CHAPTER XX. BULL MALVEY
Malvey, when not operating a machine gun for Mexican bandits, was usually busy evading a posse on the American side of the border. Needless to say, he knew the country well--and the country knew him only too well. He had friends--of a kind--and he had enemies of every description and color from the swart, black-eyed Cholas of Sonora to the ruddy, blue-eyed Rangers of Texas. He trusted no man--and no man who knew him trusted him--not even The Spider, though he could have sent Malvey to the penitentiary on any one of several counts.
Malvey had no subtlety. He simply knew the game and possessed a tremendous amount of nerve. Like most red-headed men, he rode rough-shod and aggressively to his goal. He "bulled" his way through, when more capable men of equal nerve failed.
Riding beside him across the southern desert, Young Pete could not help noticing Malvey's hands--huge-knuckled and freckled--and Pete surmised correctly that this man was not quick with a gun. Pete also noticed that Malvey "roughed" his horse unnecessarily; that he was a good rider, but a poor horseman. Pete wondered that desert life had not taught Malvey to take better care of his horse.
As yet Pete knew nothing of their destination--nor did he care. It was good to be out in the open, again with a good horse under him. The atmosphere of The Spider's saloon had been too tense for comfort. Pete simply wanted to vacate Showdown until such time as he might return safely. He had no plan--but he did believe that Showdown would know him again. He could not say why. And it was significant of Young Pete's descent to the lower plane that he should consider Showdown safe at any time.
Pete was in reality never more unsafe than at the present time. While space and a swift pony between his knees argued of bodily freedom, he felt uneasy. Perhaps because of Malvey's occasional covert glance at Blue Smoke--for Pete saw much that he did not appear to see. Pete became cautious forthwith, studying the lay of the land. It was a bad country to travel, being so alike in its general aspect of butte and arroyo, sand and cacti, that there was little to lay hold upon as a landmark. A faint line of hills edged the far southern horizon and there were distant hills to the east and west. They journeyed across an immense basin, sun-smitten, desolate, unpromising.
"Just plain hell," said Malvey as though reading Pete's thought.
"You act like you was to home all right," laughed Pete.
Malvey glanced quickly at his companion, alive to an implied insult, but he saw only a young, smooth-cheeked rider in whose dark eyes shone neither animosity nor friendliness. They jogged on, neither speaking for many miles. When Malvey did speak, his manner was the least bit patronizing. He could not quite understand Pete, yet The Spider had seemed to understand him. As Pete had said nothing about the trouble that had driven him to the desert, Malvey considered silence on that subject emanated from a lack of trust. He wanted to gain Pete's confidence--for the time being at least. It would make it that much easier to follow The Spider's instructions in regard to Pete's horse. But to all Malvey's hints Pete was either silent or jestingly unresponsive. As the journey thinned the possibilities of Pete's capture, it became monotonous, even to Malvey, who set about planning how he could steal Pete's horse with the least risk to himself. Aside from The Spider's instructions Malvey coveted the pony--a far better horse than his own--and he was of two minds as to whether he should not keep the pony for his own use. The Concho was a long cry from Showdown--while the horse Malvey rode had been stolen from a more immediate neighborhood. As for setting this young stranger afoot in the desert, that did not bother Malvey in the least. No posse would ride farther south than Showdown, and with Pete afoot at Flores's rancho, Malvey would be free to follow his own will, either to Blake's ranch or farther south and across the border. Whether Pete returned to Showdown or not was none of Malvey's affair. To get away with the horse might require some scheming. Malvey made no further attempt to draw Pete out--but rode on in silence.
They came upon the canon suddenly, so suddenly that Pete's horse shied and circled. Malvey, leading, put his own pony down a steep and winding trail. Pete followed, fixing his eyes on a far green spot at the bottom of the canon, and the thin thread of smoke above the trees that told of a habitation.
At a bend in the trail, Malvey turned in the saddle: "We'll bush down here. Friends of mine."
Pete nodded.
They watered their horses at the thin trickle of water in the canon-bed and then rode slowly past a weirdly fenced field. Presently they came to a rude adobe stable and scrub-cedar corral. A few yards beyond, and hidden by the bushes, was the house. A pock-marked Mexican greeted Malvey gruffly. The Spider's name was mentioned, and Pete was introduced as his friend. The horses were corralled and fed.
As Pete entered the adobe, a thin, listless Mexican woman--Flores's wife--called to some one in an inner room. Presently Flores's daughter appeared, supple of movement and smiling. She greeted Malvey as though he were an old friend, cast down her eyes at Pete's direct gaze, and straightway disappeared again. From the inner room came the sound of a song. The young stranger with Malvey was good-looking--quite worth changing her dress for. She hoped he would think her pretty. Most men admired her--she was really beautiful in her dark, Southern way--and some of them had given her presents--a cheap ring, a handkerchief from Old Mexico, a pink and, to her, wonderful brush and comb. Boca Dulzura--or "pretty mouth" of the Flores rancho--cared for no man, but she liked men, especially when they gave her presents.
When she came from her room, Malvey laughingly accused her of "fixing up" because of Pete, as he teased her about her gay rebosa and her crimson sash. She affected scorn for his talk--but was naturally pleased. And the young stranger was staring at her, which pleased her still more.
"This here hombre is Pete," said Malvey. "He left his other name to home." And he laughed raucously.
Pete bowed, taking the introduction quite seriously.
Boca was piqued. This young caballero did not seem anxious to know her--like the other men. He did not smile.
"Pete," she lisped, with a tinge of mockery in her voice. "Pete has not learned to talk yet--he is so young?"
Malvey slapped his thigh and guffawed. Pete stood solemnly eying him for a moment. Then he turned to the girl. "I ain't used to talkin' to women--'specially pretty ones--like you."
Boca clapped her hands. "There! 'Bool' Malvey has never said anything so clever as that."
"Bool" Malvey frowned. But he was hungry, and Flores's wife was preparing supper. Despite Boca's pretty mouth and fine dark eyes, which invited to conversation, Pete felt very much alone--very much of a stranger in this out-of-the-way household. He thought of his chum Andy White, and of Ma Bailey and Jim, and the boys of the Concho. He wondered what they were doing--if they were talking about him--and Gary. It seemed a long time since he had thrown his hat in the corner and pulled up his chair to the Concho table. He wished that he might talk with some one--he was thinking of Jim Bailey--and tell him just what there had been to the shooting. But with these folks . . .
The shadows were lengthening. Already the lamp on Flores's table was lighted, there in the kitchen where Malvey was drinking wine with the old Mexican. Pete had forgotten Boca--almost forgotten where he was for the moment, when something touched his arm. He turned a startled face to the girl. She smiled and then whispered quickly, "It is that I hate that 'Bool' Malvey. He is bad. Of what are you thinking, senor?"
Pete blinked and hesitated. "Of my folks--back there," he said.
Boca darted from him as her mother called her to help set the table. Pete's lips were drawn in a queer line. He had no folks "back there"--or anywhere. "It was her eyes made me feel that way," he thought. And, "Doggone it--I'm livin'--anyhow."
From the general conversation at the table that evening Pete gathered that queer visitors came to this place frequently. It was a kind of isolated, halfway house between the border and Showdown. He heard the name of "Scar-Face," "White-Eye," "Sonora Jim," "Tio Verdugo," a rare assortment of border vagabonds known by name to the cowboys of the high country. The Spider was frequently mentioned. It was evident that he had some peculiar influence over the Flores household, from the respectful manner in which his name was received by the whole family. And Pete, unfamiliar with the goings and comings of those men, their quarrels, friendships, and sinister escapades, ate and listened in silence, realizing that he too had earned a tentative place among them. He found himself listening with keen interest to Malvey's account of a machine-gun duel between two white men,--renegades and leaders in opposing factions below the border,--and how one of them, shot through and through, stuck to his gun until he had swept the plaza of enemy sharp-shooters and had then crawled on hands and knees to the other machine gun, killed its wounded operator with a six-shooter, and turned the machine gun on his fleeing foes, shooting until the Mexicans of his own company had taken courage enough to return and rescue him. "And he's in El Paso now," concluded Malvey, "at the hospital. He writ to The Spider for money--and The Spider sure sent it to him."
"Who was he fightin' for?" queried Pete, interested in spite of himself.
"Fightin' for? For hisself! Because he likes the game. You don't want to git the idea that any white man is down there fightin' just to help a lot of dirty Greasers--on either side of the scrap."
A quick and significant glance shot from Boca's eyes to her mother's. Old Flores ate stolidly. If he had heard he showed no evidence of it.
"'Bull' Malvey! A darn good name for him," thought Pete. And he felt a strange sense of shame at being in his company. He wondered if Flores were afraid of Malvey or simply indifferent to his raw talk. And Pete--who had never gone out of his way to make a friend--decided to be as careful of what he said as Malvey was careless. Pete had never lacked nerve, but he was endowed with considerable caution--a fact that The Spider had realized and so had considered him worth the trouble of hiding--as an experiment.
After supper the men sat out beneath the vine-covered portal--Malvey and Flores with a wicker-covered demijohn of wine between them--and Pete lounging on the doorstep, smoking and gazing across the canon at the faint stars of an early evening. With the wine, old Flores's manner changed from surly indifference to a superficial politeness which in no way deceived Pete. And Malvey, whose intent was plainly to get drunk, boasted of his doings on either side of the line. He hinted that he had put more than one Mexican out of the way--and he slapped Flores on the back--and Flores laughed. He spoke of raids on the horse-herds of white men, and through some queer perversity inspired in his drink, openly asserted that he was the "slickest hoss-thief in Arizona," turning to Pete as he spoke.
"I'll take your word for it," said Pete.
"But what's the use of settin' out here like a couple of dam' buzzards when the ladies are waitin' for us in there?" queried Malvey, and be leered at Flores.
The old Mexican grunted and rose stiffly. They entered the 'dobe, Malvey insisting that Pete come in and hear Boca sing.
"I can listen out here." Pete was beginning to hate Malvey, with the cold, deliberate hatred born of instinct. As for old Flores, Pete despised him heartily. A man that could hear his countrymen called "a dirty bunch of Greasers," and have nothing to say, was a pretty poor sort of a man.
Disgusted with Malvey's loud talk and his raw attitude toward Boca, Pete sat in the moon-flung shadows of the portal and smoked and gazed at the stars. He was half-asleep when he heard Boca tell Malvey that he was a pig and the son of a pig. Malvey laughed. There came the sound of a scuffle. Pete glanced over his shoulder. Malvey had his arm around the girl and was trying to kiss her. Flores was watching them, grinning in a kind of drunken indifference.
Pete hesitated. He was there on sufferance--a stranger. After all, this was none of his business. Boca's father and mother were also there . . .
Boca screamed. Malvey let go of her and swung round as Pete stepped up. "What's the idee, Malvey?"
"You don't draw no cards in this deal," snarled Malvey.
"Then we shuffle and cut for a new deal," said Pete.
Malvey's loose mouth hardened as he backed toward the corner of the room, where Boca cringed, her hands covering her face. Suddenly the girl sprang up and caught Malvey's arm, "No! No!" she cried.
He flung her aside and reached for his gun--but Pete was too quick for him. They crashed down and rolled across the room. Pete wriggled free and rose. In a flash he realized that he was no match for Malvey's brute strength. He had no desire to kill Malvey--but he did not intend that Malvey should kill him. Pete jerked his gun loose as Malvey staggered to his feet, but Pete dared not shoot on account of Boca. He saw Malvey's hand touch the butt of his gun--when something crashed down from behind. Pete dimly remembered Boca's white face--and the room went black.
Malvey strode forward.
Old Flores dropped the neck of the shattered bottle and stood gazing down at Pete. "The good wine is gone. I break the bottle," said Flores, grinning.
"To hell with the wine! Let's pack this young tin-horn out where he won't be in the way."
But as Malvey stooped, Boca flung herself in front of him. "Pig!" she flamed. She turned furiously on her father, whose vacuous grin faded as she cursed him shrilly for a coward.
Listless and heavy-eyed came Boca's mother. Without the slightest trace of emotion she examined Pete's wound, fetched water and washed it, binding it up with a handkerchief. Quite as listlessly she spoke to her husband, telling him to leave the wine and go to bed.
Flores mumbled a protest. Malvey asked him if he let the women run the place. Boca's mother turned to Malvey. "You will go," she said quietly. Malvey cursed as he stepped from the room. He could face Boca's fury, or face any man in a quarrel, but there was something in the deathlike quietness of the sad-eyed Mexican woman that chilled his blood. He did not know what would happen if he refused to go--yet he knew that something would happen. It was not the first time that Flores's wife had interfered in quarrels of the border outlaws sojourning at the ranch. In Showdown men said that she would as soon knife a man as not. Malvey, who had lived much in Old Mexico, had seen women use the knife.
He went without a word. Boca heard him speak sharply to his horse, as she and her mother lifted Pete and carried him to the bedroom. _