The Desert Trail

"Sí," answered Bud, "for four dollars a day. But now you help me watch, so nobody comes."

"Stawano!" exclaimed the Indian, well satisfied, and after that he spent hours on the hilltop, his black head thrust out over the crest like a chucka-walla lizard as he conned the land below.

So the days went by until three weeks had passed and still no papers came. As his anxiety increased Phil fell into the habit of staying in town overnight, and finally he was gone for two days. The third day was drawing to a close, and Bud was getting restless, when suddenly he beheld the Yaqui bounding down the hill in great leaps and making signs down the cañon.

"Two men," he called, dashing up to the tent; "one of them a rural!"

"Why a rural?" asked Bud, mystified.

"To take me!" cried Amigo, striking himself vehemently on the breast. "Lend me your rifle!"

"No," answered Bud, after a pause; "you might get me into trouble. Run and hide in the rocks – I will signal you when to come back."

"Muy bien," said the Yaqui obediently and, turning, he went up over rocks like a mountain-sheep, bounding from boulder to boulder until he disappeared among the hilltops. Then, as Bud brought in his horse and shut him hastily inside the corral, the two riders came around the point – a rural and Aragon!

Now in Mexico a rural, as Bud well knew, means trouble – and Aragon meant more trouble, trouble for him. Certainly, so busy a man as Don Cipriano would not come clear to his camp to help capture a Yaqui deserter. Bud sensed it from the start that this was another attempt to get possession of their mine, and he awaited their coming grimly.

"'S tardes," he said in reply to the rural's salute, and then he stood silent before his tent, looking them over shrewdly. The rural was a hard-looking citizen, as many of them are, but on this occasion he seemed a trifle embarrassed, glancing inquiringly at Aragon. As for Aragon, he was gazing at a long line of jerked meat which Amigo had hung out to dry, and his drooped eyes opened up suddenly as he turned his cold regard upon Hooker.

"Señor," he said, speaking with an accusing harshness, "we are looking for the men who are stealing my cattle, and I see we have not far to go. Where did you get that meat?"

"I got it from a deer," returned Bud. "There is his hide on the fence; you can see it if you'll look."

The rural, glad to create a diversion, rode over and examined the hide and came back satisfied, but Aragon was not so easily appeased.

"By what right," he demanded truculently, "do you, an American, kill deer in our country? Have you the special permit which is required?"

"No, señor," answered Hooker soberly; "the deer was killed by a Mexican I have working for me."

"Ha!" sneered Aragon, and then he paused, balked.

"Where is this Mexican?" inquired the rural, his professional instincts aroused, and while Bud was explaining that he was out in the hills somewhere, Aragon spurred his horse up closer and peered curiously into his tent.

"What are you looking for?" demanded Hooker sharply, and then Aragon showed his hand.

"I am looking for the drills and drill-spoon," he said; "the ones you stole when you took my mine!"

"Then get back out of there," cried Bud, seizing his horse by the bit and throwing him back on his haunches; "and stay out!" he added, as he dropped his hand to his gun. "But if the rural wishes to search," he said, turning to that astounded official, "he is welcome to do so."

"Muchas gracias, no!" returned the rural, shaking a finger in front of his face, and then he strode over to where Aragon was muttering and spoke in a low tone.

"No!" dissented Aragon, shaking his head violently. "No – no! I want this man arrested!" he cried, turning vindictively upon Bud. "He has stolen my tools – my mine – my land! He has no business here – no title! This land is mine, and I tell him to go! Pronto!" he shouted, menacing Hooker with his riding-whip, but Bud only shifted his feet and stopped listening to his excited Spanish.

"No, señor," he said, when it was all over, "this claim belongs to my pardner, De Lancey. You have no – "

"Ha! De Lancey!" jeered Aragon, suddenly indulging himself in a sardonic laugh. "De Lancey! Ha, ha!"

"What's the matter?" cried Hooker, as the rural joined in with a derisive smirk. "Say, speak up, hombre!" he threatened, stepping closer as his eyes took on a dangerous gleam. "And let me tell you now," he added, "that if any man touches a hair of his head I'll kill him like a dog!"

The rural backed his horse away, as if suddenly discovering that the American was dangerous, and then, saluting respectfully as he took his leave, he said:

"The Señor De Lancey is in jail!"

They whirled their horses at that and galloped off down the cañon, and as Bud gazed after them he burst into a frenzy of curses. Then, with the one thought of setting Phil free, he ran out to the corral and hurled the saddle on his horse.

It was through some chicanery, he knew – some low-down trick on the part of Aragon – that his pardner had been imprisoned, and he swore to have him out or know the reason why. Either that or he would go after Aragon and take it out of his hide.

It was outside Bud's simple code even to question his pardner's innocence; but, innocent or guilty, he would have him out if he had to tear down the jail.

So he slapped his saddle-gun into the sling, reached for his quirt, and went dashing down the cañon. At a turn in the road he came suddenly upon Aragon and the rural, split a way between them, and leaned forward as Copper Bottom burned up the trail.

It was long since the shiny sorrel had been given his head, and he needed neither whip not spurs – but a mile or two down the arroyo Bud suddenly reined him in and looked behind. Then he turned abruptly up the hillside and jumped him out on a point, looked again, and rode slowly back up the trail.

Aragon and the rural were not in sight – the question was, were they following? For a short distance he rode warily, not to be surprised in his suspicion; then, as he found tracks turning back, he gave head to his horse and galloped swiftly to camp.

The horses of the men he sought stood at the edge of the mine-dump and, throwing his bridle rein down beside them, Bud leaped off and ran up the cut. Then he stopped short and reached for his six-shooter. The two men were up at the end, down on their knees, and digging like dogs after a rabbit.

So eager were they in their search, so confident in their fancied security, that they never looked up from their work, and the tramp of Hooker's boots was drowned by their grubbing until he stood above them. There he paused, his pistol in hand, and waited grimly for developments.

"Ha!" cried Aragon, grabbing at a piece of quartz that came up. "Aqui lo tengo!" He drew a second piece from his pocket and placed them together. "It is the same!" he said.

Still half-buried in the excavation, he turned suddenly, as a shadow crossed him, to get the light, and his jaw dropped at the sight of Bud.

"I'll trouble you for that rock," observed Bud, holding out his hand, and as the rural jumped, Aragon handed over the ore. There was a moment's silence as Bud stood over them – then he stepped back and motioned them out with his gun.

Down the jagged cut they hurried, awed into a guilty silence by his anger, and when he let them mount without a word the rural looked back, surprised. Even then Bud said nothing, but the swing of the Texan's gun spoke for him, and they rode quickly out of sight.

"You dad-burned greasers!" growled Bud, returning his pistol with a jab to its holster. Then he looked at the ore. There were two pieces, one fresh-dug and the other worn, and as he gazed at them the worn piece seemed strangely familiar. Aragon had been comparing them – but where had he got the worn piece?

Once more Bud looked it over, and then the rock fell from his hand. It was the first piece they had found – the piece that belonged to Phil!

XV

When the solid earth quakes, though it move but a thousandth of an inch beneath our feet, the human brain reels and we become dizzy, sick, and afraid. So, too, at the thought that some trusted friend has played us false, the mind turns back upon itself and we doubt the stability of everything – for a moment. Then, as we find all the trees straight up, the world intact, and the hills in their proper places, we cast the treacherous doubts aside and listen to the voice of reason.

For one awful moment Hooker saw himself betrayed by his friend, either through weakness or through guile; and then his mind straightened itself and he remembered that Phil was in jail.

What more natural, then, than that the rurales should search his pockets and give the ore to Aragon? He stooped and picked up the chunk of rock – that precious, pocket-worn specimen that had brought them the first sure promise of success – and wiped it on his sleeve.

Mechanically he placed it beside the other piece which Aragon had gouged from the ledge, and while he gazed at them he wondered what to do – to leave their mine and go to his friend, or to let his friend wait and stand guard by their treasure – and his heart told him to go to his friend.

So he swung up on his horse and followed slowly, and as soon as it was dark he rode secretly through Old Fortuna and on till he came to the jail. It was a square stone structure, built across the street from the cantina in order to be convenient for the drunks, and as Bud rode up close and stared at it, some one hailed him through the bars.

"Hello there, pardner," called Hooker, swinging down and striding over to the black window, "how long have they had you in here?"

"Two days," answered Phil from the inner darkness; "but it seems like a lifetime to me. Say, Bud, there's a Mexican in here that's got the jim-jams – regular tequila jag – can't you get me out?"

"Well, I sure will!" answered Bud. "What have they got you in for? Where's our friend, Don Juan? Why didn't he let me know?"