Larry and Stretch 13, стр. 19

“Quite a show you gave ’em,” drawledStretch. “But I’m wonderin’ if it’ll make any difference. Supposethem Apaches got that shipment cached somewhere on the reservation.They might’ve tested a few already. Or they could start testin’rightaway. Hell, runt, you showed ’em how to do it.”

“That was a chance I had to take,” growledLarry. “Anyway, it’s my hunch they don’t have the rifles yet.”

“Well,” frowned Stretch, “your hunches ’mostalways pay off.”

“And,” said Larry, “I got me anotherhunch.”

“Such as what?” prodded Stretch.

“I’d bet every dollar of our bank-roll—thewhole three thousand,” said Larry, “that the hijackers have alreadypropositioned Gayatero.”

“Maybe so,” shrugged Stretch.

“I was watchin’ him close,” said Larry.“When that rifle exploded, he wasn’t just surprised. He was sore,amigo. Fightin’ mad.”

“Hey now!” breathed Stretch. “Could beyou’re lightin’ a fire under them hijackers. If the chief figuresthey’re tryin’ to double-cross him ...”

“Uh, huh,” Larry nodded grimly.“Kind of aninterestin’ thought.”

Back in the mesquite, they made short workof shedding their stolen finery and redonning their own clothing.The two uniforms, all the equipment purloined by Stretch, had to bedisposed of. They scooped out a sizeable hole, piled everythinginto it and covered it with loose soil, stones and dry brush.

From the mesquite, they rode away in aneasterly direction, bound for the scene of the hijacking. Afteralmost two weeks, Larry wasn’t deluding himself as to his chancesof cutting sign or picking up any clue to the identity of theambushers, but he felt compelled to check that section of thetrail. For a while, he would put himself in the position of thehijackers, and ask himself the big questions. How do you hide alarge shipment of rifles and ammunition? Having decided upon ahiding place, how do you transport the shipment to that hidingplace? The size and weight of the shipment must have beenconsiderable, as indicated by the fact that it had to be moved intwo freight wagons.

They encountered no patrols on their wayto that isolated corner of Bosworth County. Reaching it, theyreined up to roll cigarettes and to study the terrain, trying tovisualize the sudden carnage of that fateful day.

They squatted face to face inGayatero’s lodge—the old chief and his enraged, vengeful son. Mochita spokequickly and bitterly. His father sat eyeing him impassively, onlyhalf-listening.

“He would have betrayed us,” Mochitaasserted. “This white-eyes that hungers for gold—and seeks todeceive us. These guns he would exchange for gold—they are useless!It has been proved!”

“Be calm, my son,” muttered Gayatero. “Noman tricks Gayatero—and lives to boast of it.”

“Our weapons are old,” complained Mochita.“Without the guns that shoot many times, we dare notattack.”

“We may never attack again.”The chief sighed heavily, but not in resignation. The furystill smoldering in his eyes. “But this promise I make to mypeople. The white-eyes will suffer for his treachery.”

“Tomorrow, I am to meet him in council,”Mochita reminded him.

“You will meet him.” Gayatero’sunprepossessing visage wrinkled in a crafty grin. “At the time and place agreed to, youwill meet him. But you will not go alone, my son. You will take twobraves.”

“And there will be no council,” breathedMochita.

“No council,” said Gayatero. “No talk—exceptto accuse him. He will be your prisoner. You will bring him to me.”He nodded slowly. “And then—he will begin to pay for histreachery.”

They talked on, the sly old wolf and thebloodthirsty cub. And, had Webb Collier been present and able tounderstand the Apache language, he would swiftly have learned themeaning of real fear, the agony of apprehension and nakedterror.

As the crow flew, Collierwasn't many miles away. He was seated outside the cabin on themassive shelf high in the Santa Rosas, in conversation with thehulking Rube Sunday. Two of Sunday’s cronies were perched on the toprail of the pole corral that housed the mules, to the north end ofthe shelf. The other three were inside the cabin, playingpoker.

Abandoned years ago by its founders, theLucky Dutchman Mine had been forgotten by the citizens of BosworthCounty. Any time a local did mention it, he spoke of it as a whiteelephant. Later, when Sunday and his cohorts had arrived toregister on the old claim, Bosworth folk had derided them asill-advised optimists, never imagining that these raggletalenewcomers were case-hardened outlaws masquerading as prospectors.Collier had planned the whole operation on a long-range basis.There had been four shafts opening off the shelf, their entrancesshowing in the rock wall.

Now, only three of those openings werevisible. The new cabin had been built against the fourth,effectively concealing it.

An army patrol had checked the LuckyDutchman, and had been accorded a cheerful welcome by Sunday andCompany. Collier had rehearsed his accomplices well. They knewexactly what to say and how to say it. The troopers, afterpartaking of the miners’ hospitality, had conducted their routinesearch, probing deep into the only visible tunnels and findingnaught but the routine mining gear.

“One real smart hideout-hole,” Sunday nowremarked. “We fooled ’em all, Webb. The local law, thearmy—everybody.”

“But Gayatero grows impatient,” drawledCollier, “so I’m bound to organize the transfer as quickly aspossible.”

“Can you figure a way it can be done,”wondered Sunday, “by tomorrow mornin’?”

“I’ve figured it already,” muttered Collier.“There’s only one way, Rube. Tomorrow, I’ll meet the chief’s proddyson on schedule and give him the message.”

“Only one way?” demanded Sunday. “Whatway?”

“The long way around,” saidSollier, “working in darkness. Tomorrow night would be the besttime. How else can we dodge those patrols? It’ll mean driving themules north, then west, clear around to the far side of themountain, where there are no patrols. A long, hard haul, Rube,but it can be done—it has to be done.”

“Take us most of the night,” opinedSunday.

“All of the night,” Collier predicted.

“Well, come to think of it,” mused Sunday,“we could quit the mesa by that same route and just keep headedwest. Me and the boys, we’re plumb partial to California.”

“California it is,” nodded Collier. “Firstwe visit San Matias to convert the gold into cash. Then on north to’Frisco.”

“’Frisco,” breathed Sunday, withhis eyes gleaming. “Now there’s a place I always hankeredfor.”

“Plenty of entertainment in ’Frisco,”grinned Collier, “if you can afford it. And, for us, the sky’s thelimit. There’s a fortune in gold waiting us on thatreservation.”

“Just