White Wolf's Law. Dunning Hal
yellow, from the neck down and feet up,” Tad Hicks hiccuped.
Ten minutes later Bill Anderson stepped into the cantina. He hesitated for a moment when he saw the group at the table; then he nodded to them.
“Boss in the back room?” he asked of Maria.
“Si, si, señor.”
Anderson walked quickly to a door in the back, glancing over his shoulder at the five at the table. Apparently they were too interested in themselves to note his actions. Quietly he passed through and closed the door after him.
Jim Anson insisted on buying one last drink here, despite his comrades’ urging to try the liquor elsewhere. Maria brought the drinks. Kennedy, the dude laughed as he watched them. He leaned over the bar and whispered something to Maria, then left the cantina.
The cow-punchers began to sing, and the woman came forward and ordered them to leave.
“All right, we’ll go,” Jim Anson said with drunken dignity. He staggered to his feet and swayed toward the rear door. He turned the handle and kicked it open. It led to a storeroom.
“That’s not the way, stupid.” The woman gave him a violent shove after the others. He grinned drunkenly at her and staggered out.
About ten that evening Bill Anderson swung in at Judge Ransom’s gate and knocked at the door. When he and the judge were comfortably installed in easy-chairs before a fire, he looked squarely at Ransom.
“What are you going to do about the trial to-morrow?” he asked bluntly.
“My duty,” the older man replied with equal bluntness.
“Judge, don’t think I’m asking you to do anything else,” Anderson added quickly. “You know I’m not in politics for my health. When I came here a couple of years ago, every one was at odds. The leaders of the party were fighting among themselves. I’m not flattering myself when I say that all stopped when I took hold. Judge, you understand that I’d soon lose my leadership if I nominated men who were not elected.”
The judge had hoped against hope that Bill Anderson would back him because of his record, even if the Mexican vote was against him. He was sure, if he could get the nomination, he would be re-elected. Now his heart sank.
“Let’s be frank, judge. If you insist on bearing down too heavily in the trial to-morrow, you lose the Mexican vote, and, much as I want to, judge, I don’t see how I can propose you for renomination.”
The judge pulled thoughtfully at his goatee. For the first time since he had known Bill Anderson, he detected a certain sinister quality beneath his bland air of good fellowship.
“But, Anderson, this Pete Cable isn’t a Mexican,” he said.
“That’s not the question,” Anderson replied. “For some reason the Mexican vote is interested in him. Now, why not be sensible? Go easy at the trial. Cable was drunk, he made a mistake and killed this Easterner. Other men have killed in this town and gotten away with it. Why not be reasonable? Remember, you are not being asked to do anything dishonorable. All these people ask you to do is to sit quiet – to do nothing.”
“You ask me to do nothing – nothing but pervert justice,” the judge said quietly.
The political boss’ good nature and blandness dropped away. A stranger to the judge stood before him, with a face that was hard and cruel.
“This house is mortgaged, isn’t it?” Anderson snapped.
This hit home, for the place was mortgaged to the hilt, and the notes were due the following month. Ransom paled, but his eyes were steady as he gazed into Anderson’s granitelike brown ones.
“Is that a threat?” he asked.
“Only a reminder,” Anderson said savagely. The next moment the judge heard the front door slam, and he was alone.
Slowly he paced the floor. He and his wife had struggled for his present position, for this home. What sacrifices she had made to allow him to finish law school, and through the years of poverty that had followed his graduation! Little by little, after that, came success, until recently they had dreamed of the time when he would go to Washington, a United States senator. All that rosy future had seemed assured – until last month.
Now, not only the future, but the present, might be wiped out. Their savings were wasted; his hope of reëlection crumbled; their home would go next. All because of a murder trial with its mysterious ramifications. There would be no college for Mary, no ease in old age for his wife.
Rebellion and temptation seized him. What right had he to bring ruin on his family? All he had to do was to let events take their course, as Anderson had directed. His credit would be good once more; his dreams of Washington might come true. Back and forth he walked and struggled with the devils of temptation.
A door opened gently, and Snippets stood before him.
“Uncle,” she said softly, “I heard. I couldn’t help it.”
“You heard?” he said, and his voice was harsh. “Then what shall I do? Ruin my wife and child?”
“No. Make them proud of you,” she said firmly.
The judge’s face cleared, and he smiled. “Thank Heaven for you, my child,” he said. “You’re right. That’s the one thing I must do.”
Anderson left the judge’s house in a high rage, but the moment he was in the open his anger gradually left him, and he was once more his cool, calculating self.
“That’s the first time I lost my temper in nine years,” he told himself. “Now what’s to be done? First thing to-morrow I’ve got to see the judge and apologize. I guess I better go and talk it over with my dear brother. How pleased he would be if he knew I’d lost my temper!”
He laughed and strode briskly down Main Street toward the Red Queen. Across from the Lone Star he saw Toothpick, Tad Hicks, Windy Sam, and Jim Anson, staggering along, arm in arm. They had left Kansas asleep at the Lone Star. Anderson waved at them; he was once more the politician.
“Come on, boys, I’ll buy you a drink,” he called.
They staggered after him into the Red Queen and lurched against the bar. The place was filled with shouting, singing men. The back of the long bar shone ornately with polished glasses, mirrors, colored bottles, and other glittering paraphernalia.
Anderson ordered the drinks, and his four guests drank thirstily, with profuse thanks. He nodded to them, told them he would see them later, and pushed his way through the milling crowd toward the gambling room. Unseen, Jim Anson slipped through the crowd in his wake.
The gambling room of the Red Queen was on the left of the dance hall. Here Francisco Garcia, the owner, could be found on any night. The Toad, as he was called by some, but always behind his back, acted as lookout for a big game. He sat on a raised platform between the two faro tables. He was so powerfully built that he looked squat despite his height. Heavy jowls, thick lips, and protruding eyes relieved the monotony of his full-moon face. His swarthiness hinted at Mexican blood. Garcia himself never carried a visible weapon; he relied on his two paid killers for protection – “Yuma Kid” and “Baldy” Flynn. And because his enemies had a strange habit of disappearing or ending violently, he was more feared than any other man along the border.
Bill Anderson, with Jim Anson, still unnoted, at his heels, sauntered to the table and watched the play for a moment. Then he smiled to Garcia.
“Having a big game?”
The Toad grunted.
“I wanted a word with you, but to-morrow will do.” Anderson turned away.
Jim Anson, that ubiquitous hobo, flopped drunkenly at a near-by table. From beneath his tattered hat brim he studied the gross Mexican and the two killers who lounged against the wall behind him. “Gosh! The Devil on Horseback,” murmured Anson to himself. “And he had four sons! Horned lizards. Rattlers. Coyotes, mixed up with tiger and Spanish bull.”
He wandered out to the dance hall,