20 Western Novels You Should Read

Chapter 21

Chapter 16

THE JACK OF SPADESLUIS MARIEL, profiting by the example of the Americanos, stood

up to "Dirty" Cheetim's bar and drank cheap whiskey.

'Wot you doin', Kid?' asked Cheetim. "Nothing," replied

Luis.

"Want a job, or hev you still got some dinero left?"

"I want a job," replied Luis. "I am broke."

"You got a hoss, ain't you?"

"Si, Senor."

"Come 'ere," he motioned Luis to follow him into the back

room.

There Luis saw a tall man with sandy hair sitting at a table,

drinking.

"Here's a good kid fer us," said Cheetim to the sandy haired

man. "He aint been up here long; an' nobody don't know him, an' he

don't know nobody."

"Does he savvy U. S.?" demanded the man. "Si, Senor," spoke up

Luis. "I understand pretty good. I speak it pretty good, too."

"Can you keep your mouth shut?"

"Si, Senor."

"If you don't, somebody'll shut it for you," said the man,

drawing his forefinger across his throat meaningly. "You

savvy?"

"What is this job?" demanded Luis.

"You aint got nothin' to do but herd a little bunch o' cattle

an' keep your trap closed. If anyone asks you any questions in

United States you dcn't savvy; and if they talk Greaser to you, why

you don't know nothin' about the cattle except that a kind old

gentleman hired you to ride herd on 'em."

"Si, Senor."

"You get thirty five a month an' your grub — twenty five fer

ridin' herd an' the rest fer not knowin' nothin'. How about

it?"

"Sure, Senor, I do it."

"All right, you come along with me. We'll ride out, an' I'll

show you where the bunch is," and the sandy haired man gulped down

another drink and arose.

He led Luis north into the reservation, and at last they came to

a bunch of about fifty head grazing contentedly on rather good

pasture.

"They aint so hard to hold," said the sandy haired man, "but

they got a hell of a itch to drift east sometimes. They's a c'ral

up thet draw a ways. You puts 'em in there nights and lets 'em

graze durin' the day. You wont hev to hold 'em long." He took a

playing card from his pocket — the jack of spades — and tore it in

two. One half he handed to Luis. "When a feller comes with tother

half o' this card, Kid, you let him hev the cattle. Savvy?"

"Si, Senor."

"Oncet in a while they may a couple fellers come up with some

more critters fer you. You jest let 'em drive 'em in with your

bunch. You don't hev to say nothin' nor ask no questions.

Savvy?"

"Si, Senor."

"All right. Let' em graze til sundown; then c'ral 'em and come

down to the Hog Ranch fer the night. You kin make down your bed

back o' the barn. The c***k'll feed you. So long, Kid."

"Adios, Senor." Luis Mariel, watching the tall, sandy haired man

ride away, tucked his half of the jack of spades into the breast

pocket of his shirt, rolled a cigarette, and then rode leisurely

among the grazing cattle, inspecting his charges.

He noted the marks and brands, and discovering that several were

represented, concluded that Cheetim and the sandy haired man were

collecting a bunch for sale or shipment. Impressed by the

injunction to silence laid upon him, and being no fool, Luis opined

that the cattle had come into their possession through no lawful

processes.

But that they had been stolen was no affair of his. He had not

stolen them. He was merely employed to herd them. It interested him

to note that fully ninety percent of the animals bore the Crazy B

brand on the left hip, a slit in the right ear, and a half crop off

the left, the remainder being marked by various other brands, some

of which he recognized and some of which he did not.

The Crazy B brand he knew quite well as it was one of the

foremost brands in that section of Arizona. He had tried to get

work with that outfit when he had brought the pinto stallion up

from the border for El Teniente King. At that time he had talked

with Senor Billings, who had since been killed by Apaches; but he

had been unable to secure employment with him. Later he had learned

that the Billings ranch never employed Mexicans, and while

knowledge of this fact aroused no animosity within him neither did

it impose upon him any sentiment of obligation to apprise the

owners of the brand of his suspicion that someone was stealing

their cattle.

Luis Mariel was far from being either a criminal or vicious

young man. He would not have stolen cattle himself, but it was none

of his business how his employers obtained the cattle that he was

hired to herd for them. Since he had come up from Mexico he had

found means of livelihood through many and various odd employments,

sometimes as laborer, sometimes as chore boy, occasionally in

riding for some small cow outfit, which was the thing of all others

that he liked best to do. It was the thing that Luis Mariel loved

best and did best.

More recently he had been reduced to the expedience of

performing the duties of porter around the bar of "Dirty" Cheetim's

Hog Ranch in order that he might eat to live and live to eat. Here,

his estimate of the Gringoes had not been materially raised.

Pedro Mariel, the woodchopper of Casa Grande, was a poor man in

worldly goods; but in qualities of heart and conscience he had been

rich, and he had raised his children to fear God and do right.

Luis often thought of his father as he watched the Gringoes

around "Dirty" Cheetim's place, and at night he would kneel down

and thank God that he was a Mexican.

Many of the Gringoes that he saw were not bad, only fools; but

there were many others who were very bad indeed. El Teniente King

was the best Americano he had ever seen. Luis was sorry that El

Teniente had no riding job for him. These were some of the thoughts

that passed through the mind of the Mexican youth as he rode herd

on the stolen cattle

Up from the south rode Shoz-Dijiji. From the moment that he

crossed the border into Arizona his spirits rose. The sight of

familiar and beloved scenes, the scent of the cedars and the pines,

the sunlight and the moonlight were like wine in his veins. The

Black Bear was almost happy again.

Where there were no trails he went unseen. No longer were the

old water holes guarded by the soldiers of the pindah- lickoyee.

Peace lay upon the battle ground of three hundred years. He saw

prospectors and cowboys occasionally, but they did not see

Shoz-Dijiji. The war chief of the Be-don- ko-he knew that the

safety of peace was for the white-eyed men only — he was still a

renegade, an outlaw, a hunted beast, fair target for the rifle of

the first white man who saw him.

He moved slowly, and often by night, drinking to the full the

joys of homeland; but he moved toward a definite goal and with a

well defined purpose. It had taken days and weeks and months of

meditation and introspection to lay the foundation for the decision

he had finally reached; it had necessitated trampling under foot a

lifetime of race consciousness and pride in caste; it had required

the sacrifice of every cherished ideal, but the incentive was more

powerful than any of these things, perhaps the greatest single

moral force for good or evil that exists to govern and shape the

destinies of man — love.

Love was driving this Apache war chief to the object of his

devotion and to the public avowal that he was no Apache but, in

reality, a member of the race that he had always looked upon with

the arrogant contempt of a savage chieftain.

In his return through Arizona he found his loved friend,

Nejeunee, an obstacle to safe or rapid progress. A pinto pony,

while perhaps camouflaged by Nature, is not, at best, an easy thing

to conceal, nor can it follow the trackless steeps of rugged

mountains as can a lone Apache warrior; but, none the less,

Shoz-Dijiji would not abandon this, his last remaining friend, the

sole and final tie that bound him to the beloved past; and so the

two came at last to an upland country, hallowed by sacred memories

— memories that were sweet and memories that were bitter.

Luke Jensen was riding the east range. What does a lone cowboy

think about? There is usually an old bull that younger bulls have

run out of the herd. He is always wandering off, and if he be of

any value it is necessary to hunt him up and explain to him the

error of his ways in profane and uncomplimentary language while

endeavoring to persuade him to return. He occupies the thoughts of

the lone cowboy to some extent.

Then there is the question of the expenditure of accumulated

wages, if any have accumulated. There are roulette and faro and

stud at the Hog Ranch, but if one has recently emerged from any of

these one is virtuous and has renounced them all for life, along

with wine and women.

A hand-made, silver mounted bit would look as well and arouse

envy, as would sheep skin chaps, and a heavy, silver hat band. A

new and more brilliant bandana is also in order. Then there are the

perennial plans for breaking into the cattle business on one's own

hook, based on starting modestly with a few feeders to which second

thought may add a maverick or two that nobody would miss and from

these all the way up to rustling an entire herd.

Thoughts of Apaches had formerly impinged persistently upon the

minds of lone cowboys. Luke Jensen was mighty glad, as he rode the

east range, that he didn't have to bother his head any more about

renegades.

He was riding up a coulee flanked by low hills. Below the brow

of one that lay ahead of him an Apache war chief watched his

approach. Below and behind the warrior a pinto stallion lay

stretched upon its side, obedient to the command of its master.

Shoz-Dijiji, endowed by Nature with keen eyes and a retentive

memory, both of which had been elevated by constant lifelong

exercise to approximate perfection, recognized Luke long before the

cowboy came opposite his position — knew him even before he could

discern his features.

"Hey, you!" called Shoz-Dijiji without exposing himself to the

view of the youth.

Luke reined in and looked about. Mechanically his hand went to

the butt of his six-shooter.

"No shoot!" said Shoz-Dijiji. "I am friend."

"How the hell do I know that?" demanded Jensen. "I can't see

you, an' I aint takin' no chances."

"I got you covered with rifle," announced Shoz-Dijiji. "You

better be friend and put away g*n. I no shoot. I am Shoz-

Dijiji."

"Oh!" exclaimed Jensen. The one thousand dollars reward

instantly dominated his thoughts.

"You no shoot?" demanded the Indian. Luke returned his revolver

to its holster. "Come on down," he said. "I remember you."

Shoz-Dijiji spoke to Nejeunee, who scrambled to his feet; and a

moment later the pinto stallion and its rider were coming down the

hillside.

"We thought you was dead," said Luke.

"No. Shoz-Dijiji been long time in Sonora."

"Still on the war path?" asked the cowboy.

"Geronimo make treaty with the Mexicans and with your General

Miles," explained the Apache. "He promise we never fight again

against the Mexicans or the Americans. Shoz- Dijiji keep the treaty

Geronimo made. Shoz-Dijiji will not fight unless they make him.

Even the coyote will fight for his life."

"What you come back here fer, Shoz-Dijiji?" asked Luke.

"I come to see Wichita Billings. Mebby so I get job here. What

you think?"

Many thoughts crowded themselves rapidly through the mind of

Luke Jensen in the instant before he replied and foremost among

them was the conviction that this man could not be the murderer of

Jefferson Billings. Had he been he would have known that suspicion

would instantly attach to him from the fact that Wichita had seen

him near the ranch the day her father was killed and that on that

same day the pony he now rode had been stolen from the east

pasture.