I followed the station man into the depot. He glanced up from behind a small ticket window with a grilled front. "You, again," he grunted. "Whatcha want?"
I made up a phony story. "Did a valise arrive for me? I had it shipped through from El Paso."
"Ain't no valise been shipped through for nobody," he snapped irritably. "Most folks come here don't have no valises nowdays. Whatcha name?"
"John Cardinal."
His eyes widened. "You that gun-fighter I been hearin' 'bout all over town."
"I haven't been all over town yet," I said shortly.
"I'll look, Mister Cardinal, yessir I'll look." He seized a bunch of bills, riffled 'em through. "No, sir. Ain't nothing here. When'd you send it?"
"It was supposed to have been sent last week."
His face cleared. "Wouldn't have time to get here yet, then." Then clouded again. "Anyway, nothing much comes 'ceptin' booze for Shel Webster's place. That and sewing machines and ploughs, ploughs and sewin' machines. It's enough to drive a man crazy! I wisht ter Gawd, just once, somebody would consign a nice shiny buckboard, or a new saddle. T'would lighten my day, I swear it would."
"How long all these sewing machines been coming here now?" I asked idly.
"Nine-ten months, anyway."
"Must be nigh enough to equip an army."
"Army?" He looked startled.
"Army of dressmakers," I finished smoothly.
He scratched his head. "Sewin' shirts for soldiers, mebbe?"
"I hadn't figured that. Doesn't seem that sort of thing would fit into Senator Whitlock's idea. Forget it."
"Yeah, yeah," he said, not quite understanding. "You mentionin' an army, made me remember somethin'." I asked a question and he went on to explain, "'Bout eight months back, one of them boxes arrived, with a board comin' loose at one end. I tooken my hammer and tried to fix it, but the nails was bent, so I took the board off, so's I could do a complete job. What do you think I found inside?"
"Mice?"
"Naw." He looked disgustedly at me. "Boxes of ca'tridges. Now what do you figure Senator Whitlock was sendin' them to Mexico for?"
I shrugged. "The Senator like's not figures that the Mexicans can do some hunting, bring home meat for their families. That reasonable?"
"Yeah, that could be it." He looked as though some weighty problem had been solved. I could have told him it hadn't.
I said "S'long," and started for the door. He called after me, "I'll keep a look-out for that valise of your'n."
"Thanks," I called back. "I'd hate to lose it. It holds a collection of my guns, and a pack of those reward bills, which same I keep for souvenirs."
His jaw dropped so far, I expected to hear it strike the ticket window counter. Idiot that I was, I had to admit I was getting a big thrill out of this tough-gunman bluff I was running—instead of doing all the running in another way.
I opened the door and stepped out of the station, glancing both ways along the T.N. & A.S. tracks. My new buckskin was standing at the edge of the raised-dirt station platform, nibbling at a weed sprouting from the earth. I noticed a few men standing fifty yards away, to my left, but thought nothing of it. I crossed the platform and was preparing to swing a leg over my saddle when I heard a sudden wild yelclass="underline"
"John-n-ee! Look out!"
I had no chance to look out or in any other direction, for in the next instant I heard two sharp gun explosions, coming practically together, and I caught the nasty whine of a slug as it flashed a few feet from my body.
XIV
My hand shot swiftly to my .44 Colt, as my gaze searched ahead for the direction from which the shots had come. Several men were yelling excitedly and heading in the direction of one of the telegraph poles, where Hondo Crowell was cursing and clutching frantically at his forearm, near a pole behind which he'd been hiding, waiting for my appearance from the station.
And a short distance beyond Hondo Crowell, now surrounded by a half dozen men, was—Great Guns!—Miguel Serrano, six-shooter still in hand! Where had he come from?
"Mike!" I exclaimed loudly and broke into a sprint to meet him.
We arrived at about the same instant where Hondo Crowell was sagging back against the telegraph pole, blood soaking one shirt sleeve, and moaning for somebody to get a doctor before he bled to death.
"Ain't no doc here, as you well know, Hondo," one of his pals was saying. "Just that drunken vet."
The men were looking warily at Mike and me. A couple of them slunk away. Mike and I exchanged quick greetings. We didn't dare let go our guns long enough for more than that. Powdersmoke still drifted in the air. Crowell's six-shooter lay on the earth, where he'd been forced to drop it when Miguel's shot tore into his arm.
I turned to Crowell. "What in hell did you think you were doing, Crowell? If you crave to draw on me, let's do it in the open, with fair warning to both sides."
"Wa'n't shootin' at you," Crowell groaned. "Just doin' some target practice, when—"
"He lies, Johnny," Miguel interrupted. He switched to Spanish: "I had been seeking you, when I saw this cabrone leveling his gun in your direction, just as I saw you. I called a warning, but it came of a tardiness. I could not stop this hombre's firing, but my shot made a distraction of his aiming. And so he missed."
So now I had to run a bluff for Mike, too. "But you just struck his gun-arm, Miguel. Never have I seen you do such poor shooting." I switched to English for the benefit of the others. "Mike, that's the worst shot you ever made. I'm surprised when you throw down on a man and can't come closer than that to wiping him out. Probably you're using some defective ca'tridges."
Mike's jaw dropped. "But, Johnny, I aimed—"
"At his body, sure," I cut in. "I've never known you to do anything else. Just say that Crowell's lucky. If he lives long enough, he'll be able to boast to his grandchildren that he was once thrown down on by the famous Fanner Serrano, and lived to tell the tale."
Mike looked bewildered, but before he had a chance to talk further, a fat man with a marshal's badge pinned to his shirt came waddling up. "What's the trouble here?" he demanded pompously.
"No trouble for my pal," I stated easily. "He just shot the gun out of Hondo Crowell's fist, when he saw Crowell trying to pot-shoot me from behind a telegraph pole. You'd best run Crowell in, Marshal."
"Who are you?" the marshal asked.
"Name's Cardinal. This is my friend, Fanner Serrano. The famous gun-slinger from Texas. You've heard of his speed."
Mike blinked puzzledly, but didn't say anything. The fat marshal drew back a little. "Heard of you, too, Mister Cardinal," he said respectfully, nodding. He swung on Crowell. "This true, Hondo?" he demanded sternly.
But Crowell could only groan. "Get me to the Doc. I'm bleedin' to death."
Grunting, the fat marshal stooped, retrieved Crowell's gun and stuck it in holster. He acted as though he didn't know what to do next. "Shel—Mister Webster, ain't goin' to like this a bit. He wants a peaceful town and I'm supposed to—"
"Slam Crowell in a cell, if you know your duty," I snapped tersely. "I don't figure he's as bad hit as he makes out—"
"I dunno—" The marshal shoved the sombrero to the back of his head and scratched uncertainly. "Hondo is supposed to be Mister Webster's—that is, he's on Mister Webster's payroll—"
"You any proof I'm not?" I snapped.
At that moment I saw Shel Webster striding toward us. Somebody must have carried news to him of what had happened. He was wearing a black, flat-crowned sombrero now, and beneath his unbuttoned jacket I spied the bulge caused by his under-arm gun. He looked hot, angry.