Florence Kelly - The Delafield Affair

“Oh, well, Curt, you-all ain’t run for office yet. When you do, you’ll appreciate the fact that the greasers have got to be put where they’ll do the most good. I’m willin’ to give ’em that much, and I’m only too thankful old Vigil and his friends don’t strike for the Sheriff’s place.”

Tillinghurst chuckled, while Wilder smiled grimly and profanely reckoned he wouldn’t serve under Vigil or any other Mexican. “Mebbe that pock-marked Melgares has been up to some mischief by this time,” he added. “I hain’t set eyes on him for nigh two hours. Let’s go down to the Blue Front, have a drink, and find out if anything’s happened.”

They went down the street together, Brown Betty following with the bridle over her neck. A block farther down stream, a good-looking Mexican came out of the First National Bank and passed them. The Sheriff turned a second keen glance upon him. “That looks like Liberato Herrara,” he said to his deputy in a hasty aside. Raising his voice he accosted the man in Spanish.

The Mexican turned and replied in precise English with grave courtesy, “Did the señor speak to me?”

“Yes; ain’t you Liberato Herrara?”

“No, señor. My name is José Gonzalez.”

The Sheriff apologized, and the other bowed politely, fell behind, and crossed to the other side of the stream. Conrad asked Tillinghurst if he did not believe Herrara guilty of the murder of which he had been acquitted several months before.

“Of course he was. And it’s likely that ain’t the only one either. I’m glad this man ain’t him. If he was down here it would be on some business for Baxter, and it wouldn’t do for me to find out too much about it.”

Conrad snorted contemptuously, and Wilder said, “Dan, you’re talkin’ too damn much.”

“Oh, Curt’s all right,” replied the Sheriff, placidly. “He couldn’t hate Baxter any more than he does if he tried, but he don’t go back on his friends. This man Melgares,” he went on, “that we’re hopin’ will make up his mind to do somethin’ worth while, tells a queer yarn. He says he used to have a good ranch in the Rio Grande valley, between Socorro and Albuquerque, but he borrowed money on it from Baxter. Of course he couldn’t pay, Dell foreclosed, and Melgares had to get out.”

“Yes; I heard the other day about Baxter’s operations up there,” Conrad broke in hotly. “I understand he’s got hold of a lot of land in just that way. It’s a cursed, low-down, dirty piece of business.”

“Oh, well, better men than Baxter have done the same sort of thing,” the Sheriff responded. “From all I can find out about Melgares I reckon he was honest enough up to that time; but he’s been goin’ it pretty lively ever since. I think he’s aimin’ to work down to the border, where he can do the crisscross act.”

Conrad turned with an exclamation of sudden remembrance. “By the way! Bill Williams told me just now that Rutherford Jenkins is here, at his hotel. Have you seen him? Do you know what he’s here for?”

“I haven’t talked with him, but I reckon he’s here on some deal for Johnny Martinez.”

Curtis tied the mare to the hitching-post on the corner. “I’ve heard,” he said cautiously, “that he has a venomous tongue and uses it recklessly. Do you know whether he’s been doing any outrageous talking lately?”

“Well, I reckon nobody would believe anything Jenkins said, anyway. But I haven’t heard anything. Have you, Jack?”

Some other men came along, and they all stopped to talk together. Curtis leaned against the mare and stroked her glossy neck. She poked her nose into his coat pocket and found a lump of sugar, which she ate with much dainty tossing of her head. It was some minutes before they entered the saloon.

The “Blue Front” was a two-roomed shanty on the edge of the Mexican quarter. Gambling games of various sorts occupied the back room; and there, too, political deals were arranged and votes bargained and paid for between the American politicians and the leaders of the Mexicans. When Conrad and his friends came down the street a number of men were in the rear room, some talking and others busy at cards. At a table near a side window men of both races were engaged in a poker game. One of the players, a pock-marked Mexican with a defective eye, frequently glanced down the street. When he saw the Sheriff and his two companions approach, he rose and watched them. The others wanted to know what he was looking at, and he asked who was the man with the brown mare. A tall, dark American, with slightly stooping shoulders, looked up with interest as he heard them give Conrad’s name, and joined the group at the window. Several of the men spoke with enthusiasm about Brown Betty, and one, who said he had once worked at Socorro Springs ranch, told them that Conrad thought more of her than of anything else he owned. When the men in front entered the saloon, the pock-marked Mexican cashed in his chips and slipped out through the rear door.

The sound of Conrad’s voice in the bar-room caught the attention of the tall, dark American. An angry flush reddened his face, his beady eyes snapped, and the tip of his tongue licked his lips. Then something amusing seemed to occur to him, for his features relaxed into a smile and he glanced briskly around the room.

“See if you can find Melgares, will you?” he asked the Mexican with whom he had been talking. “Tell him I’ll wait for him outside the back door.”

He stepped out into the bright sunshine, smiling and rubbing his hands together. Back of the shanty was a high adobe wall surrounding the corral of the Mexican houses fronting on the next street. A wooden door in the wall opened cautiously, and the pock-marked face looked out.

“You sent for me, Señor Jenkins?” the Mexican asked.

“Yes. It’s all right. You needn’t be afraid. I want you to do something, Melgares.”

They stepped inside the corral and Melgares bolted the door. “You saw Conrad’s mare just now?” Jenkins began. “Fine creature, isn’t she?”

“Splendid, señor. The finest I have seen in a long time.”

“I’ll warrant it! I never saw a better myself. Looks like a good traveller, doesn’t she?”

“Si, señor.”

“And a stayer, too, I guess! It wouldn’t be hard to get to the Mexican border on her back, would it?”

Melgares grinned, then shook his head. “But my family – I could not take them with me.”

“Well – see here, Melgares. Here’s fifty dollars. If you’ll get away with Conrad’s mare you can have it for your trouble. It will take your family down there all right.”

“But you, señor, – where do you come in?” He looked suspiciously at Jenkins.

“Oh, never mind me. Conrad did me a bad turn a while ago, and I’m evening up the score. That’s all I want out of it.”

“But now, señor?”

“Yes; now’s your chance. He’s in the saloon, and the mare’s tied at the corner.”

“The Sheriff is in there, too. The risk is great.”

“Well, I’ll go in and keep them busy. I’ll raise excitement enough inside so that nobody will even look out of the windows. Get out there in five minutes, be quick about it, and ride off down the valley road.”

“Give me the money, señor. I’ll take the chance.”

Jenkins returned, and entered the bar-room with his former companion without attracting the attention of Conrad and his friends. The other spoke of the report about the Castleton money and mentioned Curtis Conrad’s name. Jenkins raised his voice in angry reply:

“Oh, damn Conrad! Martinez don’t want his help!”

Curtis heard the words and turned sharply around, his face flushing. Jenkins appeared not to see him, and went on:

“The Castletons are all right, but Conrad’s help would be a disgrace to any party. Martinez don’t want it!” His voice rang loud and shrill above the silence that had fallen suddenly upon the room.