William MacDonald - Shoot Him On Sight

I was roused from a sort of numb stupor by the sound of hoofbeats. Glancing up, I saw a rider on a big gray horse just turning in to the ranch yard. He pulled to a walk, then dismounted a few yards from the gallery. He nodded curtly and said "Howdy," and I gave him a short "Howdy," in return.

I sized him up as he approached. A big man with a thin, highly-arched nose, tight lips and penetrating gray eyes. Probably in the vicinity of forty years, I judged. He wore a flimsy vest and flannel shirt, brown corduroys tucked into knee-length boots, a big-buckled belt about a slim middle. The dark hair above his ears had touches of gray beneath the somewhat battered low-crowned black sombrero. I noted the holster, with its big Colt's six-shooter, was bound to his thigh with buckskin thongs, often the sign of a gun-fighter. He looked hard as nails and I figured him right then as a hard customer to deal with. I had a hunch right then that he was looking for me.

Warily, I got to my feet, my own right hand straying down toward my .44 Colt. I noted the corners of his lips twitch a little. He hadn't missed my movement. My heart began to beat a little faster. I didn't think I was going to like this.

He wasn't waiting for an invitation to "Sit and rest your saddle a mite," either, but came steadily on, full of confidence, his gray eyes boring into mine. Steady as hell they were too, and my heart began to pump a little. He said quietly enough, "I'm Trent Taggert."

I answered rather coldly, sounding inhospitable as the devil, "So?"

"So," he replied, "I'm looking for John Cardinal." That threw a jolt into me, particularly when I caught the gleam of a gold badge on his vest. Now I knew where I'd heard the name. Trent Taggert. Probably the greatest man-hunter in the country of that day. U.S. Marshal Trent Taggert.

Oh, I knew what was coming, I figured. After running and running, the minute I found a place to stay, I'd been caught. Well, feeling as I did right then, it didn't matter.

I was sunk, anyway. No use putting up a fight now. I didn't feel like fighting any more.

I held my voice steady as possible. I said, "I'm John Cardinal. So it looks as if the law had caught up with me at last."

XIX

U.S. Marshal Trent Taggert eyed me steadily a minute. "The law has caught up with you for the second time," he replied.

"How do you mean?"

"Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan had you once, but you ducked out on him."

I said a bit hotly, "Would you expect me to stay?"

"Now, cool down, Cardinal. I'm not holding that against you. It was natural under the circumstances. Neither does Webb Jordan hold it against you—"

"How do you know? Webb Jordan's dead."

He shook his head. "Just say he had a narrow escape, though it was mighty close. He's still in the hospital."

"That's the best news I've had today," I burst out. Then stopped. "Here's something that may be news to you, Marshal Taggert. I finished off the scut who shot Jordan in the back."

"So?" he said. "I heard that, too. It's something—a great deal in your favor, I'd say."

I shrugged. It hadn't occurred to me to ask where Taggert had heard I'd killed Hondo Crowell. I was just so damn glad to hear Webb Jordan still lived, that I felt a sudden lift. Some of my fight was returning.

"You're needed back across the border, Cardinal," he said next.

"And that's not news." I forced a laugh.

"I reckon not, but—"

"I suppose, Marshal, you realize this is Mexico."

He looked steadily at me a moment, his penetrating eyes boring deep. "Cripes A'mighty!" he smiled thinly. "Border lines never made any difference to me."

"So you've got extradition papers, I suppose."

Again that steady look from gray eyes. Now, he almost smiled. "I don't reckon extradition papers will be necessary, Cardinal."

"I suppose not," I conceded. Hell, why fight any further? I said, "Look, I'll go with you. There won't be any trouble. But let's do it quietly, eh? I've got friends in the house. I don't want to get them upset."

"That's all right with me," he nodded, then, "Say, don't you ever ask a man to sit in this country?"

I hadn't thought. We were both still on our feet. I apologized and shoved a chair in his direction. "There's what's left of a bottle, too," I told him. "I'll get a glass if you'll let me out of your sight, and tell the folks we have a guest for supper. Okay?"

"Okay," he responded. He was lifting the bottle to his lips as I turned toward the door. Then I caught his voice, "Oh, Cardinal, don't get any ideas about slipping out the back door. It wouldn't be very smart on your part."

"Hadn't even thought of it," I answered, wondering at the same moment if that was entirely true. A sort of mocking laugh followed me.

Halfway across the big room I encountered Jeff. "Somebody out front?" he asked.

I nodded and told him what had happened. "Where's Mike?"

"Down at the corral with Mateo. Look here, that marshal hombre can't take you back. This is Mexico, not the States. We'll get Mike and Mateo and the rest—" His face was darkening as he talked.

I cut him short. "I've said I'd go without trouble, Jeff. I didn't want to upset Mama Benita. We'll let him pose as an extra hand at supper."

We argued about that for a time, but Jeff finally gave in. "All right, I'll find Mateo and Mike, and explain things, but I still don't like it."

"Neither do I, but I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Maybe it's best." Jeff left the room. I hurried to get a clean glass, and returned to the gallery. By this time the bottle was empty. I offered to get another quart, but Taggert just laughed. "I see you used sense."

"Maybe I got smart for once. Come on in and shake hands with my friends."

Well, we got through supper somehow. Nobody talked much. Taggert complimented Mama Benita on her food. Always liking company, Mama had done herself proud and couldn't understand why no one, except Taggert, had asked for second helpings. Taggert could really stow away food. Once he'd learned that his pony was being taken care of, he really sailed into the fodder. I judged he was the sort of individual who took his eating seriously, and didn't want to have any talk intruding on his nourishment.

Supper finished and Mama Benita departed for her kitchen, I said, "How soon you want to start back, Taggert?"

He replied lazily, "I'm in no particular rush. If there happened to be any bourbon around here, I'd like to talk a mite and get things squared around."

That gave me another idea. Apparently, the man liked to stow away his red-eye. Perhaps, if he took too much, I'd be able on the way back to the border to, once more, show a clean pair of heels to the pursuit. I could see that Mateo and Mike and Jeff also caught something of the same idea, as Mateo instantly produced two bottles when we pushed back chairs from the dining table and got seated before the big fireplace taking the chill from the evening air.

There wasn't much talk at first. Lord, how that man Taggert could put away liquor. He had a bottle to himself and drank three to our one. My heart dropped a little when I realized the whisky wasn't having any adverse effect on him. So there any ideas I'd had of making an escape went glimmering.

I finally grew impatient. "Look here," I said, "Marshal Taggert says I'm needed back in the States. So long as I'm under arrest, we might as well get started back."

No one said anything for a moment. Smoke from cigarettes and Mateo's pipe swirled lazily in the room. Mesquite roots cracked and blazed in the fireplace. My heart dropped a little lower; I was going to miss all this.

Trent Taggert chuckled. "Who said anything about arrest, Cardinal? Looks like you jumped to conclusions."

"You said I was needed back in the States—" I began.