It didn't seem to worry him too much at first, not until he had gone into Tenango City to see old skinflint Banker Clarence Kirby. Then he returned downcast, telling us in Spanish:
"Banker Kirby insists on foreclosing. Almost I begged him on my knees to give me a few more days until I raise the dinero, but he was like a rock. No and no, he said. If I could not pay, then we must leave—"
I started to swear, but Dad Pablo cut me short. "Enough, Juan," he said sternly. "This is no time for a display of temper. I will have the handling of this problem. I have the cows. In the adjoining county I have a man who will buy. If I only had a little more time."
"How much more time?" I asked.
"Until noon tomorrow," the old man answered somberly. "If the money is not paid then, we shall have to make plans to move."
"The dirty damn robbin' old miserly skinflint—" I burst out. "He knows right well you can't raise that much, not around here. Practically everybody around here owes the bank money, just like you, and greedy Clarence Kirby would bop down on anybody who tried to help you. So help me—"
But again the old man shut me up, saying again something about a hot temper being a bad thing to have but a good thing to keep.
"By the hornswoggled steers I'll do something about it. Wait until I see Miguel. Where'd he go?"
"Miguel has gone hunting again. He promises to bring back a splendid buck," Mama Josefa replied. Her eyes were teary. "He should return in two-three days."
"And neither Miguel nor you will intrude in my problems," Papa Pablo stated determinedly.
I shrugged shortly and went up to our bedroom in the old ranch house. I knew Miguel didn't have any money, to speak of, but searching through his bureau drawer, I found something under fifty dollars. I'd been saving more of the money Dad Pablo paid us for working the cows. By the time I'd added my money to Mike's I was still three hundred dollars short.
I came back downstairs and found Mama Josefa placing supper dishes on the table. The beef and onions cooking in the kitchen smelled good. We ate supper in silence, though none of us put away much. Down in the bunkhouse the crew was making the usual noises, little realizing they'd probably be out of a job this time tomorrow. Skinflint Kirby would never keep 'em on; he hated Mexicans and most of our crew were Mexicans, and better rope-men I've never seen anyplace. And the same goes for riding.
After supper I helped Mama Josefa with the dishes, then dropped into a chair to glance at some old newspapers. There was something in one paper that had something to do with some big politico from the East who was some sort of do-gooder. Senator Cyrus Whitlock, it appeared, was interested in doing something to help the poorer class of Mexicans along the border, as well as other folks. He was donating money, while out here on one of his frequent trips. Being interested in the Southwest country, stating he wanted to see it built up. He'd already bought various parcels of property near the Border and spoke of plans tending toward a better living for the poorer classes. Right then Senator Cyrus Whitlock rose a heap in my estimation, but I couldn't keep my mind on what I was reading. I tossed down the paper, rose and reached for my gray Stetson. I kept hearing Mama Josefa's muffled sobs from another room, and I couldn't stand it any longer.
Old Pablo was slumped hopelessly in a rocking chair, gazing blankly into space, forehead creased in a frown. He glanced up at my movement. "You plan to go out, Juan?" he asked.
"I'm aiming to see if I can catch up with Miguel. I'm right sure I know where he's heading for that prime buck." I buckled on my cartridge belt and .44, snatched my Winchester from a stand in one corner.
Pablo Serrano nodded and I detected a certain sigh of relief in his voice. "Perhaps it is better so that you are not here to lose more of the so hot temper and make of bad trouble. Vaya con Dios—go with God—Juan, my son."
"Hasta luego—until I see you," I jerked out, called an "Adios!" to Mama Josefa, seized my coat and slammed out the door.
Down at the corral I slapped a saddle on my pony, led him outside and closed the gate. The moon was still low and there were a few stars riding herd on some drifting clouds. From the bunkhouse came the plunking of a guitar. I wanted to say good-bye to the crew, knowing with what I planned it would be long before I saw them again, but decided against it. The fewer who knew of my actions, the better. I touched spurs to my horse and moved out to the trail running to Tenango City.
The town was less than ten miles, so there was no hurry. A mile out of town I pulled rein, unsaddled and, rolling myself in the saddle blanket, stretched out beneath the spreading branches of an old live oak tree. I fell asleep.
III
The sun was already high when I awakened. I didn't carry a watch, but guessed it must have been around six-thirty. For a moment I felt fine, rested, ready to enjoy the coming day, then I remembered what had happened and what I intended to do and I could feel the indignation boiling up within me again. Damn and blast Banker Kirby for the grasping skinflint he was! I could feel the hair rising at the back of my neck the instant I thought of him.
Well, it looked like I'd have a long hard day ahead, so I'd better get started. Resaddling and shoving the Winchester into my saddle boot, I climbed up and reined the pony in the direction of town. It was only a short time later I was loping into Tenango City.
City? That was an exaggeration if I'd ever heard one. There was just a single winding street, twisting between rows of high false-fronts and adobe buildings, a street dusty in the hot seasons and muddy in the rainy periods. A couple of cross streets. Two restaurants, three saloons, a general store, livery and so on. Oh, yes, and Kirby's bank. Some plank sidewalks or uneven paths on either side of the road. There weren't many people abroad. A few loungers were already seeking the shade between buildings. Three chickens picked at the rutted roadway, and a mongrel dog hurried along sniffing and catching up on the news regarding previous canines. Three men, clumping along on high-heeled boots, nodded and I gave them a civil "Good mornin'" before pushing on to the livery stable.
At the livery I stopped and told the man in charge to give my bronc such water as needed, and a good-sized feed of oats. Then I made my way to the general store, where I got a box of forty-four cartridges, stuffed enough in my belt loops to fill it, then jammed the rest of the box in one coat pocket. Leaving the general store, I headed for the first restaurant I came to and stowed away a breakfast of ham, eggs and fried potatoes, rice pudding and two cups of coffee completing the meal. While I was eating I had the counterman wrap me up some slices of beef and tortillas. He asked if I expected to be away for a time. I explained briefly I was heading north to the Sawtooth Range to join Mike in some deer hunting.
The horse was ready for me when I got back. I tossed a half dollar to the livery man and led the pony outside. He followed me out with some idea of talking a minute. I answered in monosyllables. The sun was commencing to pour down heat by this time. I stripped off my coat and wrapped the beef and tortillas package inside, then rolled the whole and tied it behind my saddle.
"Looks like a lunch you was packin'," the livery man said.
"You guessed right," I answered shortly. "I'm heading up to the Sawtooths to see if I can get me a buck."
A buck? Hell, it was three hundred bucks I was after. I climbed back to the saddle, reined the horse in the direction of the bank. Here, I again halted and tossed reins over the hitchin' pole. I checked my saddle cinch and made certain everything was ready. While I was busy, Banker Kirby mounted the steps to the single doorway of his edifice of usury. He was a wizened mean-looking cuss with squinty eyes and a mouth that reminded me of a rat trap, dressed in shiny black, celluloid collar and a derby hat. He shot a sour glance in my direction and passed on inside.