CHAPTER XIII
GONZALES
The Rancho Sierra had long been the rendezvous of the contrabandista, a sanctuary for outlaws of every type and description for many years. Steve Guadalupe welcomed them all, took their gold freely, and asked no questions.
Situated in the heart of the hills, half-hidden by the overhanging bluff against which it had been built, and commanding a view in three directions, it would be impossible of undetected approach, except at night.
The ranch-house was an L-shaped, one-story adobe structure, and so weathered with age that it seemed part of the bluff, which was covered with a growth of mesquite and manzanita. South of the ranch-house extended a long, low, adobe shed, surrounded on the west by a big pole corral, capable of holding many horses.
The ranch-house was roomy, with thick walls, and the windows were barred, like those of a prison. The floor of adobe had been walked upon until it was flintlike in texture, and the furnishings were of the most crude construction.
In one end of the L was the kitchen, where a frowzy old Mexican, overalled, half-shirted, barefooted, cooked food in big black kettles in an open fireplace. There was little idea of sanitation. The floor of the kitchen reeked of ancient spillings. Strings of chili peppers hung in festoons from the ceiling, a half-eaten haunch of venison on the table attracted a myriad of flies, while more of the insects buzzed about the head of the half-asleep cook.
In the angle of the L, facing each other across a rough table, on which stood a bottle of mescal and two tin cups, sat Pedro Torres and Steve Guadalupe. Big Medicine’s description fitted Guadalupe well. His dirty gray hair, matted in some spots and in others standing upright like a handful of fox-tail grass, framed a thin, evil countenance, aged to the texture of dirty parchment, almost belying the brilliancy of his two little eyes, which age had failed to dim.
His mouth was wide and the lips so thin that it appeared more like a gash than a mouth. His raiment was little better than that of his cook, except that his shoulders were draped with a bright-colored serape, and on the index finger of his right hand he wore a huge emerald ring.
His general appearance was a direct contrast with that of the dapper Torres, who was drinking almost too much of the potent liquor to suit Guadalupe. Guadalupe drank little. He swept the bottle off the table and shoved it inside his serape.
“Idiota!” he snarled.
“Ladron!” snapped Torres, reaching across the table, motioning for Guadalupe to return the bottle.
“You are a fool,” declared Guadalupe in Spanish.
“You drink so much you cannot talk sense.”
“The bottle,” ordered Torres harshly.
Guadalupe grinned and put it back on the table.
“That is as it should be,” muttered Torres, somewhat mollified. “I pay well, do I not, Steve?”
“Of that I am always sure,” grinned Guadalupe. “Few men fail to pay Guadalupe. Some have failed to pay—in gold.”
Torres gulped another drink and nodded vehemently.
“But they paid, eh, compadre? Oh, you know how, my friend. Guadalupe is no fool.”
“When you say it, I wonder,” grinned Guadalupe. “But I do not like your scheme, Torres. A priest is not a good thing to bring to the Rancho Sierra. None have ever entered, although there have been times when——”
Guadalupe crossed himself piously and grinned at Torres.
“Nor have I ever paid for many candles,” grinned Torres. “I have never felt the need. But this is different.”
“Fool!” grunted Guadalupe. “You have the girl. Marriage is only for those who are too weak to steal and keep a girl. You have stolen her. Are you afraid to hold her?”
“I fear nothing. To steal a girl is nothing. I have done it before, my friend. But”—Torres poured out a fresh drink—“I want to stand up before a priest and laugh. Ha, ha, ha, ha! I want this girl for my wife, do you understand? I want it known that she is the wife of Torres.”
“Revenge, eh?” smiled Guadalupe. “To laugh at someone, you are willing to marry what you might have without marriage. Is that it, Torres?”
“That is for me to know. I am willing to pay one hundred dollars in gold, Guadalupe. Bring me a priest. Somewhere we will find someone to play the guitar, the mandolin. We will open a cask of wine, while Lopez roasts us much meat, and we will hold a marriage fiesta at the Rancho Sierra.”
Torres staggered to his feet and slapped Guadalupe on the back.
“The first marriage in the Rancho Sierra, eh, old one? What care we for the blabbing tongues of the priests? What harm could they do to us? Send Felipe to Santa Isabella and have him bring back a mumbling priest to say his words over Torres and his bride.”
“It will not take him more than a night and a day. Drink one more cup of mescal, old wolf. Warm up your cold bones. Where is Felipe, the half-wit? Call him. We waste time, and the bridegroom waits.”
They drank another cup of the mescal, holding their cups high above their heads in a leering toast. Torres was getting drunk. Guadalupe flung his cup aside, upset the bottle to see if it contained any more liquor, and started toward the door to call Felipe.
Lopez shuffled in swiftly from the kitchen.
“Gonzales,” he said warningly.
Torres swore feelingly and leaned against the table. He did not want Gonzales to come now—Gonzales, the unprincipled pig of a ruffian, who supplied Guadalupe with the goods which were to be smuggled; Gonzales, whose mustaches reached below his chin, and who wanted to fight after the second drink of tequila.
Guadalupe swung open the door and blinked into the sunlight. The huge Gonzales, resplendent in a red silk shirt, the widest and tallest hat he had been able to purchase, leather breeches, and heavy boots, while his waist was circled by an ornate cartridge belt, which sparkled with silver trimming and brass cartridge heads, stood near, holding a weary-looking horse.
There were two more wide-hatted Mexicans with him, also heavily armed, and two mules packed.
Felipe, the half-wit, was waiting for Gonzales to hand him the bridle reins. The air was dusty from the trampling animals.
“Buenos dias,” greeted Guadalupe.
“The day is good enough,” replied Gonzales gruffly, as he flung his reins to the waiting Felipe and strode up to the doorway.
“Get us food and drink,” he ordered.
His wide shoulders brushed the sides of the doorway as he entered.
“Food and drink you shall have,” grinned Guadalupe. “You come at a good time, Gonzales.”
“Any time is good,” replied Gonzales, catching sight of Torres.
He chuckled deeply in his throat and tossed his hat to the table.
“Tequila,” he grunted. “Tequila first and then food. Good day, Torres.”
“Good day,” said Torres unevenly.
There was little friendship between them. Lopez entered, bearing several bottles of the white liquor, and placed them on Gonzales’ table, together with some empty cups.
Gonzales smashed the neck from a bottle across the edge of a table and poured a cupful.
“Come and drink, Torres,” he ordered.
Torres came to the table and accepted a cup. He knew it would not be well to refuse Gonzales.
“What is the news?” asked Gonzales, turning to Guadalupe.
“News is never plentiful at the Rancho Sierra,” replied the old Mexican. “But you come in time for our little fiesta. Felipe leaves at once for Santa Isabella to fetch a priest.”
“Madre de Dios!” swore Gonzales. “And why a priest, old man? Is it that someone is dying?”
Guadalupe laughed and shook his head.
“A priest for the wedding of our Torres, Gonzales.”
Gonzales threw back his head and stared at Torres, stroking his black mustaches violently.
“For the wedding of Torres, eh? Ho, ho, ho, ho! A fiesta for the wedding of Torres at Rancho Sierra! Now and then he must have his little joke. And who would marry Torres?”
Torres squirmed in his chair. He was less drunk now.
“And why not?” he demanded. “Have I not the right, Gonzales?”
“My question is not answered,” reminded Gonzales. “Does he marry some flat-faced daughter of a peon, or a dancing girl from the dives of the south?”
“A gringo bride,” laughed Guadalupe. “She came to him across a saddle, roped, that she might not fail to be here at the wedding. And”—Guadalupe laughed softly, silently—“on another horse came the mother, also roped. Have you a musician, Gonzales?”
Gonzales roared with laughter and opened another bottle, while Torres scowled heavily and fingered the knife in his sleeve.
“A musician?” queried Gonzales, after he recovered from his fit of merriment. “I have Manuelo, who is never far from his beloved guitar. But that is of little importance. Where is the bride?”
Torres scowled and helped himself to another drink, while Guadalupe waited for him to speak. Gonzales grew impatient.
“Have you hidden her away where she may not look upon men?” he demanded. “Let us see if she is worthy of you, ladron.”
“She is worthy of any man,” grunted Torres. “Let us drink and forget the women.”
But Gonzales was not to be put off. He surged to his feet and flung a broken-necked bottle at Guadalupe’s head. Fortunately for Guadalupe, Gonzales’ aim was very poor.
“Bring her out, Guadalupe,” he ordered. “Hell, do I have to make my request more plain?”
Torres slumped in his chair, glowering at the bottles, while Guadalupe shuffled to the end of the room against the bluff, where he drew aside a cow-hide-covered bunk, which concealed a trap door. Flinging this back, he disappeared down a short flight of stairs.
Gonzales drank gulpingly and laughed at Torres. “So, you stole a gringo girl, eh?” he mocked. “Fool! When you go back across the line they will cut off your ears.”
“Who spoke of going back?” demanded Torres. “The world is wide. Anyway”—Torres shrugged his shoulders—“what is one girl, more or less?”
Gonzales’ two men came in and he motioned them to sit down at another table. Garcia came in, his scowling face half-concealed in the dirty serape, and sat down against the wall.
Gonzales tossed a bottle of tequila across to his men, who thanked him profusely and proceeded to empty it. Voices came from within the trap door, and a moment later Wanna Hawkworth came slowly up the ladder, closely followed by Guadalupe.
The girl was not bound now. Her wealth of blueblack hair hung in profusion about her face, which was slightly pale. Her calico dress had been badly torn, but she never looked more beautiful than standing there at the edge of the trap door, her hands clenched at her sides, staring her hate at Torres.
Gonzales half-rose from his chair as he stared at her. He had expected nothing like this. Torres reached for another bottle.
With a mighty oath, Gonzales attempted to bow and almost struck his forehead on the table. He shoved it roughly aside and went toward Wanna, who backed away.
“Let her alone,” ordered Guadalupe. “She belongs to Torres.”
Gonzales stopped and leered at Guadalupe.
“Belongs to Torres!” he roared. “To that?” He pointed at Torres, who was shakily pouring a drink. “Dios! Here is a mate for a man!”
But Gonzales did not advance farther. He seemed content for the moment merely to look at her. It was Lopez who broke the spell, as he shuffled quickly in from the kitchen.
“Vaqueras!” he said shrilly, pointing toward the north. “Americanos!”
“Diablo!” swore Guadalupe. “Who can this be?”
He grasped Wanna by the arm, whirled her around, and hurried her down the ladder, while Gonzales turned and walked drunkenly back toward the doorway, passing Torres, who had slumped at the word Americanos. He was too drunk to flee, and he felt sure, deep in his crooked soul, that retribution had overtaken him.