The Smoking Iron (15 page)

“I reckon that's natural … in the Big Bend. He a neighbor of yores?”

“Yes. His ranch joins the Katie. He's … not always this way. But I guess you … noticed his jaw.”

Pat nodded gravely. “Looked like he'd run into somethin'.”

“A man's fist,” she told him succinctly. “In Hermosa this morning. Another stranger. That's why he was so much on the prod about strangers.”

“He acts like a tough hombre.”

“He is. That's why he feels so badly about this morning. He not only got knocked on his back in front of me, but if I hadn't stopped it the man would have killed him, too.”

Pat said cheerfully, “He was just tryin' to work off his peeve on us. That's all right, ma'm, we can handle his kind.”

“Did you say you're from Colorado?” she asked after they'd ridden on a little way in silence.

“That's right.”

“I wonder if you happen to know a town named Dutch Springs?” she asked impulsively. “It's in the southern part of the state, I think. In a place called Powder Valley.”

Pat said, “Lemme see,” and looked coldly across at Ezra who was making a strangling noise. “Powder Valley,” he mused, “ain't so far from where we're from. You know, Ezra,” he looked over at the scar-faced man with a wink. “You've been there, ain't you?”

Ezra nodded in bewilderment, not in the least understanding why Pat was acting so funny. “Shore,” he grunted. “Not more'n …”

“Why'd you ask?” Pat interrupted him to ask the girl.

“I wondered if you might know a man there. His name was Ben Thurston. I was expecting him in on the stage this morning,” she went on in a low voice. “The stage from Marfa that got held up and the passenger killed.”

“Why shore …” Ezra began excitedly, but Pat cut him off again:

“We know old Tom Thurston,” he told her. “Seems like he did have a boy!”

“That's the one! Tom Thurston was his father. My father's old friend. I wrote him a letter a month ago asking him to come and help me on the K T, and he wrote back saying he'd be in on this morning's stagecoach. Then it got held up and wrecked and … he was killed.”

“Why no,” Ezra put in strongly. “I don't reckon he did, ma'm. Not less'n there was two passengers on the coach.”

She turned to look at him strangely. “There was only one passenger and he was killed. Lon Boxley told me about it. He knew I was expecting Ben …” Her voice trailed off hopelessly.

“Must be some mistake,” Ezra boomed before Pat could stop him. “Must be Ben wasn't on the stage, 'cause we
know
a friend of ours caught it in Marfa, don't we, Pat?”

Pat nodded cautiously, “We know he got on the stage at Marfa. If there was only one fellow killed, it must of been him.”

“Oh, I'm so glad.” Katie Rollins' face was radiant with new-born hope. “Perhaps he missed a connection and will be in tomorrow. You see, I gave up all hope when I heard about the accident,” she went on. “Oh, if I'd only kept that other man here! The two of them might have been able to do something. But I sent him away.”

“What other fellow is that?” Pat asked patiently.

“The one who knocked Lon Boxley down in Hermosa this morning. He heard me say I needed some hands and he offered to hire out to me. It was mostly my fault, the fight I mean,” she added honestly. “He looked so funny in his striped shirt and city suit that I made the mistake of saying I needed a
man
on the Katie. That's when he knocked Lon down. To prove that his funny clothes didn't mean anything.”

“Wait a minute,” Pat pleaded. “I don't get the rights of this.”

“You think I'm crazy to be telling it all to you, but I happened to think that you might see him if you ride over to Boracho. That's where he went, I'm pretty sure. I left him at the ranch when I rode away with Lon,” she went on, to Pat's increasing bewilderment. “I knew there'd be trouble if Lon found him there, so I rode away with Lon and left him. And if you see him in Boracho you might tell him T wish he'd come back now, because I've got another man coming and the two of them can work together to stop the rustling. You understand, don't you?” Her dark eyes pleaded with him.

“Not quite,” Pat admitted uncomfortably. “No'm. Not altogether. This fellow in the striped shirt an' city clothes. What'd he look like an' where'd
he
come from?”

“He was young and … handsome.” Katie blushed prettily. “Sort of tall, and he had eyes that looked right through you.”

Pat set his teeth together firmly. He was recalling Ben Thurston's striped shirt and city suit. But he couldn't imagine any girl calling Ben handsome. Still and all, you never could tell about girls. Some of the ugliest men he'd ever known were married. But how had Ben gotten to Hermosa?

“Where'd you say he was from?”

“I don't know. He didn't tell me. He … didn't tell me much about himself. He walked into Hermosa. Claimed his horse had got snakebitten down the road a piece. And he claimed he had traded clothes with a man, just for the fun of it.”

Pat was further bewildered now. None of it made sense. There couldn't be
two
men dressed the same way, wandering around the Big Bend at the same time. But if it was Ben, arrived on foot in some inexplicable manner, why hadn't he told the girl who he was? She was expecting him. It didn't sound like Ben Thurston to've kept his name from her. Still, it didn't sound like the Ben Thurston he knew in Powder Valley, either, to've knocked Lon Boxley down. He began to wonder if he had sadly underrated the young man. Maybe there was more of Tom Thurston's blood in the boy than. Pat had thought.

He could see Ezra's one eye glaring at him from beyond the girl who rode between them, and he knew that Ezra had finally added up two and two and made four out of it; that Ezra now realized he must have known about Ben Thurston's coming before he ever left Powder Valley. He was going to have some explaining to do when they got off to themselves.

They were nearing the shaded ranch house under the spreading trees, and Katie told them, “You must stop and eat before you ride on to Boracho. And I'll find out for sure if Dusty had ridden on …”

“Dusty?” Both men choked out the single word in unison.

Katie looked at them in surprise. “That's what he said his name was. The rider I was telling you about.”

Pat looked across at Ezra helplessly. “An' you say he was wearin' a striped shirt an' a city suit, ma'm?”

“That's right. What
is
the matter with you?”

Pat said, “I dunno. I reckon maybe it's this here Texas sun. We ain't used to it. You feel funny too, Ezra?”

“I feel like I'd et loco weed,” he said tersely.

“That's it, ma'm. I reckon we won't stop to eat. We'll just push on to the river …”

“Nonsense! Not in this hot sun if it affects you that way. You must stop and rest. You can go on to Boracho in the cool of the evening. You've got to remember,” she told them with severity, “neither of you are young men any more. I'm afraid the change of altitude is bad for you.”

“Yes'm,” Pat agreed hollowly. “I reckon maybe it is.” He didn't protest further. They stopped for Katie to dismount at the house and then took all five horses to the barn to turn them over to Miguel.

13

As he rode toward the Rio Grande from the Katie Ranch, Dusty Morgan was definitely positive that he was through with all women forever. He kept swallowing down a taste of bitterness in his throat.

First Rosa and now Katie. Well, he was sure learning about women fast. He'd never be fooled again. Ridin' off with Lon Boxley like that! Leavin' word for him to get the hell off her ranch and go on to Boracho!

All right. He'd go to Boracho if that was the way she wanted it. That's where he belonged anyway. Along with the rest of the outlaws and fugitives. He'd been a fool to think he could change things just by changing clothes with a dead man.

He wondered, now, why he hadn't also taken over the dead man's identity. Why hadn't he told Katie he was Ben Thurston? That was what he had planned to do when he put on Ben's clothes inside the wrecked stage.

But something had kept him from it. He wasn't sure just what. After meeting Katie, he hadn't been able to go through with his original plan. Deep down in his heart he knew it was because he'd wanted her to like him for himself; to accept him as Dusty Morgan. It would have been easy to gain her confidence by introducing himself as Ben Thurston … the man whom she had sort of planned to marry.

He felt hot and funny, riding along away from the ranch, thinking how she might of throwed her arms around his neck and kissed him right there in the buckboard if he'd told her that lie he had planned to tell.

It would have been best to do it. He could see that now. She had been prepared to trust and love a Ben Thurston whom she had never seen. Well, he'd held all the winning cards in his hand, and he hadn't called. Right at the last minute he'd lost his nerve and thrown the winning hand away.

He was a fool, all right. He didn't deserve any luck with women. They liked a man who pushed his luck to the limit. Like Lon Boxley. Dusty wondered if Katie would marry Lon. He thought maybe she would. It was about the only way she could see to save her ranch.

If she didn't intend to marry him, why had she ridden off with him like that? There was only one other possible answer. And Dusty discarded it. She had been fooling him there in the dining room. Pretending she was worried about him and makin' him stay behind while she went out to give Lon Boxley her sweet talk an' then ride off with him. It was enough to make a man sick to his stomach.

And he noticed he didn't feel very good in his stomach. Looking back over what had happened, he could see that he'd been a plain damned fool all the way.

He was nearing the river now. The boundary between the United States and Mexico. When a man crossed that river he left a lot of things behind him. Few men came back. It was too easy to stay on the other side; beyond the reach of the law. Well, that wouldn't be so bad either. A man would know where he stood. There'd be other men like him over there.

The grassy plain sloped down gently to a willow-lined stream. A barbed wire fence followed the line of willows, and a wire gate blocked the road Dusty was following.

He edged his range-wise horse around sideways to the gate, leaned from the saddle and lifted the wire loop from the post. He dragged the gate open a few feet and the horse stepped through, stopped on the other side and turned to let Dusty close it from the saddle.

The road led down a sandy beach to a hundred feet of rippling water. There were more willows on the other side of the ford, and a steeper bank leading up from the water's edge. It was very quiet and very hot here between the rows of willows. Dusty let the horse wade out and stop in knee-deep water, loosened the reins to let him lower his head and drink from the shallow stream.

He had a funny feeling inside him sure enough now. Right on ahead of him was the other bank. It didn't look any different from the side he'd just quitted. But it
was
different. It was Mexico. The land of
mañana
. “South of the Border where there ain't no law.” With a start, Dusty realized that he had uttered the words aloud.

In the past they'd only been a phrase to him. Now, they had become stark reality. He was leaving a lot of things behind him. All because of Rosa. He was young enough to feel sorry for himself.

His K T mount snorted and lifted his head, plodded on across the shallow ford. He shook the water from himself as he drew up on dry land.

Dusty turned and looked back over his shoulder. He felt like saying good-by or something like that, but the words stuck in his throat.

The horse climbed up the bank and the road turned to the right. The double line of willows was behind him now, blocking out the sight of American soil.

There were poorly tended farms between the river and the foothills. Rows of cotton and straggly fields of corn, some of them being cultivated by barefooted peons wearing huge straw sombreros. They stopped work and leaned on their hoes and watched the gringo ride by. None of them spoke to him. After he had passed they spoke among themselves and resumed their hoeing.

A little town of sun-baked adobe huts lay against the bank of the river half a mile ahead. Dogs woke up and trotted out to yap at the heels of his horse as he trotted past. The Mexican town of Boracho didn't look very glamorous in the hot afternoon sun. It was dozing through the siesta hour like any other Mexican village.

Dusty hardly knew what he had expected, but he was vaguely disappointed as he pulled up in front of a
cantina
that had four saddled horses dozing at the hitchrack. Two Mexicans squatted in the shade in front of the building. They glanced at him as he rode up, then politely turned their attention away from him.

He swung out of the saddle and strode past them through the door of the saloon. It was dim inside and very cool after the blistering border heat outside. The air was heavy with the sweetish smell of
mescal
and
sotol
.

An unshirted bartender eyed him moodily from behind the bar. He had hairy forearms and the complexion of a halfbreed. Four men were sprawled out in chairs at the back of the saloon. Three of them were Americans and the other was a native. All were unshaven and had the appearance of being long unwashed. They all turned their heads to look at Dusty. Nobody said anything.

Dusty pushed against the bar and said, “
Tequila.
” He had never tasted Mexican liquor, but had heard that
tequila
was the best of the native drinks distilled from cactus.

The bartender placed a bottle and glass in front of him, said “
Dos reales,
” in a bored voice.