The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Part 43

"I sure got one."

"Then we play it." And Brevoort rose. They blinked their way to the entrance, pushed through the crowd at the doorway, and started toward their room. "I didn't want to say anything in there," Brevoort explained. "You can't tell who's sittin' behind you. But what was you gettin' at, anyhow?"

"You recollect my tellin' you about that trouble at Showdown? And the girl was my friend? Well, I never said nothin' to you about it, but I git to thinkin' of her and I can kind of see her face like she was tryin' to tell me somethin', every doggone time somethin's goin' to go wrong. First off, I said to myself I was loco and it only happened that way. But the second time--which was when we rode to the Ortez ranch--I seen her again. Then when we was driftin' along by that cactus over to Sanborn I come right clost to tellin' you that I seen her--not like I kin see you, but kind of inside--and I knowed that somethin' was a-comin' wrong. Then, first thing I know--and I sure wasn't thinkin' of her nohow--there is her face in that picture. I tell you, Ed, figuring out your trail is all right, and sure wise--but I'm gettin' so I feel like playin' a hunch every time."

"Well, a drink will fix you up. Then we'll mosey over to the room.

Our stuff'll be there all right."

"'T ain't the money I'm thinkin' about. It's you and me."

"Forget it!" Brevoort slapped Pete on the shoulder. "Come on in here and have something."

"I'll go you one more--and then I quit," said Pete. For Pete began to realize that Brevoort's manner was slowly changing. Outwardly he was the same slow-speaking Texan, but his voice had taken on a curious inflection of recklessness which Pete attributed to the few but generous drinks of whiskey the Texan had taken. And Pete knew what whiskey could do to a man. He had learned enough about that when with the horse-trader. Moreover, Pete considered it a sort of weakness--to indulge in liquor when either in danger or about to face it. He had no moral scruples whatever. He simply viewed it from a utilitarian angle.

A man with the fine edge of his wits benumbed by whiskey was apt to blunder. And Pete knew only to well that they would have need for all of their wits and caution to get safely out of El Paso. And to blunder now meant perhaps a fight with the police--for Pete knew that Brevoort would never suffer arrest without making a fight--imprisonment, and perhaps hanging. He knew little of Brevoort's past record, but he knew that his own would bulk big against him. Brevoort had taken another drink after they had tacitly agreed to quit. Brevoort was the older man, and Pete had rather relied on his judgment. Now he felt that Brevoort's companionship would eventually become a menace to their safety.

"Let's get back to the room, Ed," he suggested as they came out of the saloon.

"h.e.l.l, we ain't seen one end of the town yet."

"I'm goin' back," declared Pete.

"Got another hunch?"--and Brevoort laughed.

"Nope. I'm jest figurin' this cold. A good gambler don't drink when be's playin'. And we're sure gamblin'--big."

"Reckon you're right, pardner. Well, we ain't far from our blankets.

Come on."

The proprietor of the rooming-house was surprised to see them return so soon and so unauspiciously. He counted out Brevoort's money and gave it back to him.

"Which calls for a round before we hit the hay," said Brevoort.

The room upstairs was hot and stuffy. Brevoort raised the window, rolled a cigarette and smoked, gazing down on the street, which had become noisier toward midnight. Pete emptied the pitcher and stowed the wet sacks of gold in his saddle-pockets.

"Told you everything was all right," said Brevoort, turning to watch Pete as he placed the saddlebags at the head of the bed.

"All right, so far," concurred Pete.

"Say, pardner, you losin' your nerve? You act so dam' serious. h.e.l.l, we ain't dead yet!"

"No, I ain't losin' my nerve. But I'm tellin' you I been plumb scared ever since I seen that picture. I don't feel right, Ed."

"I ain't feelin' so happy myself," muttered Brevoort, turning toward the window.

Pete, sitting on the edge of the bed, noticed that Brevoort's face was tense and unnatural. Presently Brevoort tossed his cigarette out of the window and turned to Pete. "I been thinkin' it out," he began slowly. "That hunch of yours kind of got me goin'. The best thing we kin do is to get out of this town quick. We got to split--no way round that. We're all right so far, but by to-morrow they'll be watchin'

every train and every hotel, and d.o.g.g.i.n' every stranger to see what he's doin'. What you want to do is to take them sacks, wrap 'em up in paper, put ole E. H. Hodges's name on it--he's president of the Stockmen's Security Bank here, and a ole pal of The Spider's--and pack it over to the express company and git a receipt. _They'll_ sure git that money to the bank. And then you want to fan it. If you jest was to walk out of town, no'th, you could catch a train for Alamogordo, mebby, and then git a hoss and work over toward the Organ Range, which is sure open country--and cattle. You can't go back the way we come--and they'll be watchin' the border south."

"Where is that express outfit, anyhow?"

"You know that street where we seen the show? Well, if you keep right on you'll come to the Square and the express company is right on the corner."

"All right, Ed. But what you goin' to do?"

"I'm goin' to git a soogun to-morrow mornin', roll my stuff and head for the border, afoot. I'm a ranch-hand lookin' for work. I know where I kin get acrost the river. Then I aim to hit for the dry spot, bush out, and cross the line where they won't be lookin' for a man afoot, nohow."

"Why don't you git to movin' right now?" Brevoort smiled curiously.

"They's two reasons, pardner; one is that I don't want to git stood up by a somebody wantin' to know where I'm goin' at night with my war-bag--and I sure aim to take my chaps and boots and spurs and stuff along, for I'm like to need 'em. Then you ain't out of town yet."

"Which is why you're stickin' around."

"If we only had a couple of hosses, Pete. It's sure h.e.l.l bein' afoot, ain't it?"

"It sure is. Say, Ed, we got to split, anyhow. Why don't you git to goin'? It ain't like you was quittin' me cold."

"You're a mighty white kid, Pete. And I'm goin' to tell you right now that you got a heap more sense and nerve than me, at any turn of the game. You been goin' round to-night on cold nerve and I been travelin'

on whiskey. And I come so clost to gittin' drunk that I ain't sure I ain't yet. It was liquor first started me ridin' the high trail."

Brevoort had seated himself on the bed beside Pete. As the big Texan rolled a cigarette, Pete saw that his hands trembled. For the first time that evening Pete noticed that his companion was under a high tension. He could hardly believe that Brevoort's nerve was really shaken.

The street below had grown quieter. From below came the sound of a door being closed. Brevoort started, cursed, and glanced at Pete.

"Closin' up for the night," he said. Pete quickly shifted his gaze to the open window. He did not want Brevoort to know that he had noticed the start, or those hands that trembled.

They rose early, had breakfast at the restaurant across the street, and returned to the room, Brevoort with a sogun in which he rolled and corded his effects and Pete with some brown paper in which he wrapped the sacks of gold. Brevoort borrowed a pencil from the proprietor and addressed the package.

"But how's the bank goin' to know who it's from?" queried Pete,

"That's right. I'll put The Spider's name here in the corner. Say, do you know we're takin' a whole lot of trouble for a man that wouldn't lift a hand to keep us from bein' sent up?" And Brevoort weighed the package thoughtfully. "By rights we ought to hang onto this dough. We earned it."

"I sure don't want any of it, Ed. I'm through with this game."

"I reckon you're right. Well, next off, you git it to that express office. I'll wait till you git back."

"What's the use of my comin' back, anyhow?" queried Pete. "We paid for our room last night."

"Ain't you goin' to take your stuff along? You can pack it same as mine. Then when you git to a ranch you are hooked up to ride."

"Guess you're right, Ed. Well, so-long."

"See you later."

Brevoort, who seemed to have recovered his nerve, added, "I aim to light out jest as quick as you git back."

Pete was so intent on his errand that he did not see Conductor Stokes, who stood in the doorway of the El Paso House, talking to a man who had a rowdy rolled under his arm, wore overalls, and carried a dinner-pail.

The conductor glanced sharply at Pete as he pa.s.sed, then turned abruptly, and stepped to a man who stood talking to the clerk at the desk.

"I jest saw one of 'em," said the conductor. "I never forget a face.

He was rigged out in town-clothes--but it was him--all right."