"The hell you say!" I sat straighter. "What goes on?"
"That I don't know," Jeff frowned. "I didn't like it."
"And the stuff was being freighted to Heraldica? What sort of place is Heraldica?"
"It's about ten miles below our southern boundary line. Used to be a quiet little village, but the past year it has grown, driving most of the Mexican residents out, to be replaced by a large number of men from the U.S. side. Funny thing is, they pretend to be Mexicans, dress as they do, steeple-crowned hats and so on. They seem to be the dark swarthy type, and those who didn't speak Spanish are picking it up fast. Mostly they raise a lot of hell, drinking and wenching, in new places that have started up."
"After the wagonwheel had been replaced and the boxes reloaded, the wagon continued on. I thought about the business a couple of days, then I sent Mateo down to see what he could pick up from the few former residents left in Heraldica."
Jeff tossed a cigarette butt into the glowing embers in the fireplace, and continued, "Mateo didn't learn much. There seemed to be a feeling that, perhaps, some sort of revolution against the Mexican Government was being planned, but that was rumor. He could get no proof. Anyway, I didn't like the looks of things and I rode into Onyxton one morning and told Webster he'd have to find some other method of delivering his crates and boxes to Heraldica. I didn't say why, but maybe he guessed I had a hunch about something. We argued some, but I held firm. He got damn mad and I walked out on him. That afternoon he rode out here and asked what I'd take for my outfit. I told him I refused to sell. Two days later he was back with an offer. I gave the same answer. He's made three offers since, damn good ones too, so there's money back of him, I reckon. To get rid of him, I finally explained I couldn't give clear title, until I could locate a pardner whose whereabouts were unknown to me. I didn't get any more offers from him, but each time I go to Onyxton now, I feel lucky to leave without getting shot. One night they tried to smuggle a wagon through, but one of the boys, up late, heard 'em coming. That roused us and we grabbed rifles and made the wagon turn back."
"You've cleared up your end of the deal," I frowned, "but damned if I can see how Webster switches those crates—sending munitions instead of Senator Whitlock's sewing machines and ploughs and so on."
"It's got me beat," Jeff admitted.
We spent an hour speculating on what was going on, but couldn't arrive at any answer to the problem. Finally, Jeff suggested bed, and I was ready to agree. Mister, I hadn't slept in a bed like that for a year, and for the first time in many a night, I slept like a log in a room of my own. On my own spread! I still couldn't believe it.
XIII
Early next morning, right after breakfast, Jeff insisted we ride out and look over the spread I'd fallen heir to. I was high as a drunk with delight, as we rode over rolling grasslands, with live oak trees and mesquite dotting the terrain. Not far from the house there was a meandering stream which Jeff said had never run dry, regardless how high the temperature. The white-faced cows looked sleek and in prime condition. I tried to tell Jeff that after all the care he and his father had put into the place, the building up of herds and so on, it didn't seem right I should have a half-share in the Box-CT, but he wouldn't listen.
He protested earnestly for five minutes, ending, "Put it this way, Johnny. My family owed your father a very great deal, and you've inherited. And it's about time you got a break, anyway." He smiled. "And I'm going to be damn disappointed if you won't have me for a pardner."
Hell, what can you do with an hombre like that?
We returned to the house and after dinner I announced my intentions of riding into Onyxton. Jeff and I were standing on the wide gallery that fronted the house. He said, "Do you think it's necessary?"
I nodded. "I want to see what's going on. Anyway, maybe I can get Shel Webster to raise the ante for your head. I might work him up to a thousand."
Jeff laughed. "If you insist, okay. I'll split with you if you can make it." Then he frowned. "That Topaz girl hasn't anything to do with the ride, has she?"
I could feel my face getting hot. "We-ell, not exactly—"
"Dammit, Johnny," he protested. "Leave it alone. You're just flirting with dynamite—"
"Jeepers!" I stated a trifle hotly, "I've been taking care of myself for a long time now, Jeff—"
"Okay, of course you have," he said quickly. "I'm sorry I spoke."
"I'm sorry too, if I sounded a mite proddy for a minute, Jeff. I'll stay, if you'll feel better about it."
He grinned and shook his head. "You'll be safe enough, I reckon, so long as Webster thinks you're on his side. By all means, ride. Maybe you can learn something I don't know about—a planned revolution in Mexico, for instance."
So that breech was healed before it had a chance to open far. We were even better friends after that; I felt he was really concerned about my welfare, as I was about his.
"Your pony looked sort of fagged, ribs beginning to show a mite," he said next. I mentioned the horse had covered a lot of territory for me. "He needs a long rest," Jeff went on. "Mateo and I were talking about it, and he's picked out a nice gelding for you to try out. Call it a sort of coming-home present."
At that moment, Mateo came around the corner of the house leading a trim buckskin pony. Lord, it looked good. It was already saddled. I thanked them both, and leaving my rifle at home, climbed up and kicked the pony in the ribs. "Adios," I called over my shoulder.
We just got acquainted for a couple of miles as I tried out his gaits. Damned if that pony didn't seem to have everything. I was in love with it before we'd gone a mile. We made good time through the canyon and emerged into open country once more. Mounting the first rise of ground, I could see the roofs of Onyxton, not too far distant.
I entered town by way of the railroad tracks. I could see three more pine crates stacked on the platform. The T.N. & A.S. freight must have come through that morning. Farther along there was a frame freight-shed, and I could see several men moving a big box inside.
I drew rein and dismounted. A worried looking station man stood staring at one of the crates, chewing moodily on a straw. I said "Howdy," and he gave me a civil "Day to you." I said, "Looks like the train dumped off some freight?"
"When doesn't it?" he scowled.
"Receiving quite a lot, eh?"
"Too much for me to handle," he grouched. "I don't know what I'm going to do."
While I talked I took a squinney at the label on the nearest box. The label, as well as stenciling, told me it contained sewing machines and had been consigned to Heraldica; consignor, some manufacturing company in Connecticut.
"Used to get rid of these things right prompt," the station man grumbled, "and they could be loaded and took'n straight through the canyon, but some trouble has come up about a right-of-way through, and now this stuff just piles up here. My freight shed's nigh to overflowin' full."
At that moment several men approached from the freight-shed. One of them in overalls, pushing a hand-truck, growled at the station man, "Plumb full, mister. Can't get no more in. What do we do?"
"You go back and tell Shel Webster he better damn quick rent somebody's barn, then. I can't take no more. Cripes A'mighty—sewing machines—ploughs! What's the fool Senator Whitlock tryin' to do, figure he can get votes from all Mexico. Somebody should tell him Mexes don't do electin' in this country. And him havin' to pay storage rates too on everythin' that ain't moved prompt." He didn't wait for a reply, but entered the depot, slamming the door behind him.
The overalled men looked at each other, shrugged and began to head back toward the main street of the town. One of them joined a man leaning against a telegraph pole, farther on. I saw only the man's back, but for a moment it looked like Hondo Crowell. I figured he'd been sent down here to boss the laborers, then the matter slipped from my mind.