Chapter II · DESERT DUEL.

The car with Mike and the Kid pulled into Nogales about dawn and the suave, high-priced attorney unloaded them near a little house on the outskirts. There was a light burning in the kitchen and as they walked around from the front the Kid said, with a grin, "Kentuck will be willin' to give a rattler the first two bites after he hears this sad tale of woe."

The neatly dressed, solidly built, middle-aged man, who looked like men seen around city clubs, looked up from the solitaire game, but did not stop playing.

"I know about it," Kentuck said, quietly. "Are the boys all dead?"

"We didn't get a chance to go over and hold a post-mortem," answered the Kid, with a yawn, "being in conference with three or four rangers. From where we stood they looked plenty dead."

"Who turned you?"

"A spig—one of Pedro's men."

"Any other cars on the road?"

"We didn't meet any. Langdon took off with a couple of yellow gentlemen just before we pulled out," the Kid replied.

"How much snow and chandoo were you packing?"

"About sixty grand, all told."

"That's not so good," said Kentuck. "The chief will be very much fussed up, I'm afraid."

"Yeah?" The Kid was apparently not much impressed. "Well, I'll hit the hay. If you want me I'll be over to Francisco y Herrara de Gonzales's pulperia, where I have what is known as chambers. Adios, amigo hasta mañana."

"How long has the Kid been up on this end?" Kentuck demanded of Mike, after the Kid had gone.

"Three weeks now. Clark told me that he's a game kid, but reckless as hell." Mike's mean little eyes tightened as his crafty brain, trained in race-track double and triple crossing, began to work. "Follow this through, Kentuck. Dolores Gonzales, the spig that the Kid thinks is his sweetie, is tricking him—her real sweetie is Juan Martinez."

"Well, what then?"

"This Juan was a rurale; and not long ago he was tellin' me that a United States deputy marshal named Beardsley saved his bacon for him. The Kid is a great bird for wah, wah stuff with the dames.

"Get it, Kentuck?"

"Sounds like from Evers to Tinker to Chance," said Kentuck, with a cold smile, then he played in silence for a little while. Suddenly he looked up and said, "Take the Kid for a ride."

"When, right now?" asked Mike.

"The sooner the better. Better get some sleep, Mike."

"And a rod," answered Mike, rising. "I got mine taken off me by them damn rangers. Say, Kentuck, I want to get a ranger named Earpe, Jimmie Earpe—will you give me a hand to frame on him?"

"Why, sure, only you must want to die. They're a good outfit to let alone, those Earpes. You kill one, and you've only got started. There's four or five more coming up from behind all the time. They're too heavy for you, Mike. Better lay off."

"He called me a mangy little coyote," answered Mike, his little eyes venomous as a cobra's, "and I'm goin' to get him."

"Fair enough," said Kentuck, going back to his game. "I'll help you, of course."

"Where the hell was you-all the mornin'?" demanded Mike, when he finally located the Kid in one of the pulperias.

"Why, pobrecito loco, where else would I be but with Dolores Gonzales?"

"What's that you called me?" demanded Mike, suspiciously, "the first part." His Spanish consisted of two or three oaths.

"Why, it's a sort of a pet phrase which means 'poor little crazed one.' You must be, not knowing where I generally am. What's doing?"

"Kentuck wants us to drive out to the ranch and make sure that Langdon landed O. K."

"Yeah? He said last night that Langdon reported in. Well, it's nothing in my young life. I'd just as soon drive out in the country as not. Whose car are we going to take?"

Mike, who was a fastidious little man about his clothes, had stooped to brush some dust off his trousers leg when he made his statement about Langdon, and had missed the slight tightening of the Kid's eyes. When he straightened up it wasn't there for him to see.

"I got to get me a gat," the Kid said, lighting a cigarette.

"Kentuck gave me one last night," answered Mike. "We don't need any gats along. Them damn cops might be around and look us over. If they found gats on us, maybe-so our mouthpiece couldn't spring us this time. They got us pegged as something else besides tourists, boy. I'm going to plant the one Kentuck gave me in the seat stuffin'. Let's go. We can take that car of Kentuck's."

"You get her, Mike. I'll go and get me another bonnet. This one's too heavy."

"Hurry up, then. I'll pick you up in front of Ortiz's place."

They drove out toward the Atoscos Mountains, through Tubac and across the little curving branch of the Santa Cruze River, and kept going up the eastern slope of the foothills. Mike was driving the powerful roadster absent-mindedly, smoking one cigarette after another.

It was burning hot, with absolutely no breeze, and the Kid sat with the collar of his soft white silk shirt open, his left arm along the seat, his hand just behind Mike's head. He was singing little snatches of songs and watching the ever varying desert with eager young eyes that noted every movement of the "desert people." Suddenly he stopped singing and said:

"How do you like this game, Mike?"

"What game?" demanded Mike, coming back from where he mentally had Jimmie Earpe on his knees begging for mercy.

"Why, this gay buccaneer business, being land pirates and bad men and everything, like Sir Henry Morgan. Do you get a kick out of it?"

"Aw, fer cripe's sake," Mike snarled out of the corner of his mouth. "You're goofy, feller. I'm in it for the jack, nothin' else."

"Yeah? The way you talk out of the corner of your mouth, Mike, leads me to believe you been in stir. Have you been in stir, Mike?"

"Who wants to know?" grinned Mike.

"Why, I do. I'm your buddy, am I not, Mike?"

"Sure," answered Mike, turning to the left of the trail up a little cañon. "Regular buddies."

The Kid laughed, and after a moment or so asked softly:

"What are you stopping here for, Mike?"

"Hear that canary? I've been hearin' it ever since we started. I told Kentuck yesterday he had one in this damn car.

"Get out and see if you can find it, will you, Kid? I'll run the engine, maybe-so you can locate it. I hate like hell to drive with a squeak."

"I don't mind it," said the Kid lazily, "and you needn't bother about it, Mike. You're not going to hear it any longer."

Mike's left hand, which had been down at his side, stopped abruptly in the pocket where it had slipped with the ease and quickness of a snake in its hole. Once again in twenty-four hours he felt a cold, round little circle pressing against the top of his spine.

"You poor fool," the Kid was saying softly, his body in the same position as before, his head turned a little toward Mike, his left arm now a little bent—"you poor ignorant little fool! As wise a guy as you think you are, to let a man ride along with his left arm back of you! If you move, Mike, you're dead. This .25-caliber steel-jacketed automatic bullet isn't so very big, but I've got her where she can go through what little brains you pack. Sit still, Mike, and listen, so's you can tell all the pretty angels—or, rather, all the little imps—just how come you got yours."

"Aw, hell," sneered Mike, "cut her loose, feller, an' quit that damn kiddin'. I ain't afraid to go. Cut her loose if you feel that way."

"Scarfaced Tony Mareno taught me how to pack a little automatic up my sleeve on a spring, Mike. You know, the lad that Federal agent knocked off last year. It's like one of those telephone things that stretches out. I'm telling you this, Mike, so your crooked soul won't go to hell worrying how come."

"Doin' a little torturin' first, ain't you?" sneered Mike. "Go ahead and talk your head off. You ain't got me goin' yet."

"That'll be all, Mike. Get ready to say good morning, God—Oh, damn it all, I can't pull trigger with you sitting still that way. Draw your gun, Mike; this is too much like killing a baby."

"I won't," said Mike calmly. "You would pull then, and I'd have no chance."

The Kid's reckless laugh echoed among the hills. "It's a stalemate," he said. "I can't kill you like this. Mike, did you ever hear of a duel—a regular duel?"

"Yeah," answered the game little gangster, "I seen two fellows fight one once down in the Argentine."

"Well, only one of us can drive out of here, Mike. I could kill you, take this car and pull for the north—if I weren't born and bred otherwise. Here is what we'll do. Listen carefully now. You take your left hand out of your pocket and your right from the wheel and raise them up over your head. I'll take your gat as soon as you raise your hands, then you get out and walk the forty paces.

"I'll come after you until I've stepped off twenty; then I'll put your rod down on the ground and walk back. When I holler 'Halt,' you turn and walk back to your gat. I'll have mine on the ground also. When I say 'Go,' we'll help ourselves from then on. Got it, Mike?"

Mike's answer was to raise his hands.

The Kid naturally couldn't see the cruel, exultant gleam in his little pig-like eyes.

"That's the boy," said the Kid, reaching in Mike's left pocket and taking out the automatic. "You haven't another on you, by any chance?" He slapped Mike's shirt under the armpits and felt his trousers legs.

"I ain't got no gun," growled Mike. "You're givin' me a break, Kid; I'll play square."

"I doubt if you know the meaning of the word," answered the Kid. "I'm the one that's playing square—with myself. I ought to kill you like a rat, and I know it. Go on, get started."

Mike walked the forty paces, stopped when the Kid called, turned and walked slowly back to where his gun lay on the hot alkali.

The Kid stood, a smile on his young face, the little .25 caliber automatic at his feet. This was a bigger thrill than he had ever experienced. This watching a man walk slowly toward a gun and knowing that in another half moment he would have it in his hand, spitting out death. This was the spirit in which the knights of old used to fight.

Mike reached the gun and halted, his right hand spread out like a claw.

"Ready?" called the Kid cheerfully.

"Wait a minute. I'm as game a guy as you are, Kid; you ain't got an even break with that little .25 from there. You pick your gat up, and I'll walk back a little. You come and get my rod and drop it again ten paces closer. Then we'll go."

The Kid laughed. "Mike, you've some good blood in you somewhere. I never thought of that. All right, start back."

When the operation of getting the duelists to within thirty feet of each other had been completed and once more they faced each other, the Kid again called:

"Ready?"

"Yeah," called back Mike, an evil sneer on his twisted lips. "I'm—" His right hand flashed back of his neck, then out, and his arm straightened. A flicker of steel like a lightning flash passed between him and the Kid, shoulder high, and lost itself in the Kid's chest, in spite of the instantaneous swerve of his body as his eye caught the motion.

Mike stood and watched the body as it pitched forward.

"There's another thing I learned in the Argentine, Mr. Wise Guy Kid," he said. "That's as good as that sleeve stuff."

He went to where the Kid lay, his face to the hot sand, and turned him over with his foot. The deadly throwing knife of the tropics was buried to the hilt in the Kid's gallant young heart, and he had met the great adventure like the officer and gentleman he had once been.

"Not so bad," he said as he stooped to draw out the knife. "I'm still good."

The whine of a high-powered rifle bullet came to his ears as his hat jumped from his head. A second later and he felt a searing pain in his left shoulder. He straightened up without the dagger and ran for the car, the bullet-whines following him, little spurts of sand jumping up around him. He made it, threw himself in, started the motor and turned. As he did he heard the thud, thud of bullets against the car body. As he stepped on the gas a bullet grazed his ear, making a neat hole in the windshield, then no more, as the car leaped down the cañon.

Mike sprinted for the car, bullet-whines following him, and sand spurting up all around him.

"Magazine empty," Mike grunted aloud. "This is sure my lucky day. Wonder who the hell that was and how much he seen?"