Part 27 (1/2)

Some nights later, down the rough, steep sides of the Arroyo Hondo, through which trickled a ribbon of water from a recent rain, four Indians rode carefully, leading two pack animals. They were two Arapahoes, a Blackfoot, and a Delaware, and they followed the ravine and soon came in sight of the little mountain pasture, dotted with cedar bushes and spa.r.s.ely covered with gra.s.s, which sloped gently down the mountain side. In the fading twilight the so-called ranch stood vaguely outlined, the nature of its log and adobe walls indiscernible, its mill and the still house looming vaguely over the main building against the darker background of the slope. The faint smell of sour mash almost hid the mealy odor of the grist mill; hogs grunted in the little corral by the fenced-in garden, while an occasional bleating of sheep came from the same enclosure. Dark shapes moved over the cedar-brush pasture and the frequent stamping of hoofs told they were either horses or mules.

High up near the roof of the composite building were narrow oblongs of faint radiance, where feeble candle light shone through the little squares of gypsum, so much used in that country in place of window gla.s.s. As the four newcomers smilingly looked at the comfortable building the foot-compelling strains of a cheap violin squeaked and rasped resinously from the living quarters and a French-Canadian, far from home, burst ecstatically into song. Dreaming chickens cackled briefly and a sleepy rooster complained in restrained indignation, while the rocky mountain side relayed the distant howl of a prowling coyote.

The leader drew the flap over the ultra-modern rifle in its sheath at his leg and glanced back at his companions.

”Wall,” he growled, ”hyar we air; we're plumb inter it, now.”

”Up ter our scalp-locks,” came a grunted reply.

”h.e.l.l! 'Tain't th' fust time they've been in danger. They'll stand a lot o' takin',” chuckled another voice. He softly imitated a coyote and the sleepy inmates of the hen house burst into a frightened chorus.

”Hain't ye got no sense?” asked Hank, reprovingly.

”Wouldn't be hyar if I had. I smell sour mash. Let's go on.”

Hank kneed his mount, no longer the one which had become so well known to many eyes on the long wagon trail, and led the way down to the door.

At the soft confusion of guttural tongues outside the house the door opened and Turley, the proprietor, stood framed in the dim light behind him.

”'Spress from Senor Bent's,” said the nearest Indian, walking forward.

”It's Hank Marshall,” he whispered. ”Want ter palaver with ye, Turley.”

”Want's more whiskey, I reckon,” growled Turley. ”Hobble yer hosses on th' pasture. Ye kin roll up 'most anywhar ye like. Fed yit?”

”_Si, senor; muchos gracias_,” answered the Indian. ”_Senor! cary mucho aguardiente grano!_”

”Oh, ye do?” sarcastically replied Turley. ”Whiskey, huh? Wall, ye'll do better without it. What's Bent want o' me?”

”_Aguardiente de grano, senor!_”

Turley chuckled. ”He does, hey? I say he picks d.a.m.ned poor messengers to send fer whiskey! We'll talk about that tomorrow. Roll up some'rs in yer blankets an' don't pester me.” He stepped back and the door slammed in the eager, pleading face of the Blackfoot, to a chorus of disappointed grunts. The rebuffed savage timidly knocked on the door and it was flung open, Turley glaring down at him. ”Ye heard what I said, an' ye savvied it! Reckon I want four drunk Injuns 'round hyar all night? We ain't a-goin' ter have no d.a.m.ned nonsense. Take yer animals off ter th'

pasture an' camp down by th' crick! _Vamoose!_”

The picture of pugnacity, he stood in the door and watched them slowly, sullenly obey him, and then he slammed it again, swearing under his breath. ”Quickest way ter git murdered is ter give them Injuns likker!”

he growled.

”_Mais, oui_,” said the French-Canadian, placing his fiddle back under his chin, and the stirring air went on again.

Three hours before dawn Hank awoke and without moving his body let his eyes rove over the dark pasture. Then like a flash of light his heavy pistol jammed into the dark blotch almost at his side, and he growled a throaty inquiry.

”It's me, Hank,” came the soft reply. ”Take that d.a.m.ned thing away!

What's up?”

Three other pairs of eyes were turned on them and then their owners stirred a little and grunted salutations, and made slight rustlings as their hands replaced what they had held.

”Nothin', only a courtin' party,” chuckled Hank.

”Wall, I've heard tell o' courtin' parties,” ruminated Turley; ”but never one made up like Injuns and armed to th' teeth. Might know some d.a.m.ned fool thing war afoot when yer mixed up in it. Who ye courtin', at yer time o' life? Somebody's wife?”

”We're aimin' fer Santer Fe,” said Hank. ”Got ter have help ter git thar th' way we wants. Them Texans has made it hard fer us, a-stirrin' up everythin' like they has.”

”Whar'd ye git yer hosses?” anxiously demanded Turley.

”Inderpendence, Missoury,” innocently answered Hank, his grin lost in the darkness.