9

The Rio Kid was tied in the saddle of a moving horse when he came back to consciousness from the blow delivered by Pete’s .45. His eyelids were crusted with blood from cut brows, and he couldn’t see very well. He could hear other horses around him and realized the outlaw gang must be escorting him to some hide-away after the terrific fight in the saloon.

Cautiously testing the bruised muscles of arms and legs, he discovered that his feet were tied in the stirrups and underneath the horse’s belly, and both hands were lashed tightly to the saddle horn.

From the smooth easy stride of the animal beneath him he deduced that he was riding his own mount, Thunderbolt, whom they had taken from the stable and saddled while he lay unconscious.

It was irritating to be unable to open his eyes enough to look around and see where they were riding, but from the bright sunlight on his lids he felt that it was not later than noon.

Riding slackly in the saddle, hunched forward as though he were still unconscious, his thoughts went back to the savage fight with Slim-Jim in the saloon. He still couldn’t understand what had happened. If it had been the brute Mexican, Pancho, who had put up such a fight, he would not have been surprised. But it was galling to realize the terrific punishment he had taken from the fists of the dandified outlaw before landing that final lucky punch.

He had been correct, however, in assuming that they did not want to kill him. They must still think he was Steve Fisher, and they needed his help to get the gold. As long as he could keep them thinking that, he was safe enough. Once they discovered his true identity, his life wouldn’t be worth a Mexican centavo.

They were following a narrow trail upward into the mountains at a slow lope. By cautiously peering out under slitted eyes, the Kid was able to see that one rider rode in front, one beside him, and the occasional sound of voices in the rear betrayed the fact that the other two members of the gang were behind him.

That left no possible chance for escape until the ride ended, so the Kid relaxed with fatalistic acceptance of the situation and tried to keep hidden the fact that he had regained consciousness. He might hear something that would give him a hint of their plans if he could keep them thinking he was still unconscious from the blow on his head.

They continued to ride upward into the mountains at a steady gait that put miles behind them in a hurry. The Kid’s head throbbed terribly, and his eyeballs burned as though they were exposed to a searing flame. The inside of his mouth felt as dry as a sponge, and his tongue seemed swollen twice its normal size, but he resolutely fought back the inclination to indicate consciousness and ask for water. If he could just hold out until they reached their destination.

After what seemed an eternity of jolting hell in the saddle as they traveled over a boulder-strewn road, he heard the lead horse whinny at the scent of water, and Slim-Jim’s cool drawl came back to him:

“Here we are, Lem. Hasn’t that hard-headed rannie come to life yet?”

“Nope.” The voice of Lem Colter riding beside him gave the Rio Kid the positions of the four members of the gang. “Pete musta hit him harder’n he meant to.”

The horses were stopping, and the Kid heard the creak of a windmill close by. The other two riders converged on them, and Pete growled:

“You’d oughtta let me put daylight through ’im back yonder in the saloon, Lem.”

“Shut up.” Lem spoke sharply. “This yahoo’s worth a cool million to us if we kin keep him alive and bring him back to his senses. You and Pancho untie his hands an’ feet an’ drag him out of the saddle. Take him over to the water trough an’ souse his head in. I reckon he’ll come out of it awright.”

The Kid carefully relaxed every muscle and kept his eyes closed, his head lolling sideways. He felt hands roughly unroping his ankles and wrists, and he let his body slump limply from the saddle as the ropes were loosed.

The outlaws stepped back and let him fall without attempting to ease him down, and Pete laughed harshly when his head struck the ground with numbing force. As from a great distance, he heard Slim-Jim saying crisply:

“Don’t play any of your games on him, Pete. Any man that could stand up under the beating I gave him deserves a chance to keep on living.”

“Awright, Pancho,” Pete growled in suppressed anger, “grab t’other arm and we’ll drag him over to the trough. One of these days I’m gonna pleasure m’self scatterin’ Slim-Jim’s guts from here to yonduh.”

“He is bad hombre for fight with,” the half-breed warned, grabbing one of the Kid’s wrists in a ham-like hand.

“He ain’t half as tough as he thinks he is,” Pete argued. “Me, I’m gettin’ tired of his fancy ways. He kin sling his fists awright, but lead travels faster, Pancho.”

“Si. That ees right.” Each man had hold of one of the Kid’s arms and they were dragging him over the rough ground. The Kid set his teeth together hard and simulated unconsciousness as best he could under the torture of his stiff, sore muscles.

They stopped finally and lifted him up. He drew in a deep breath and held it as Pete ordered:

“Duck his head under while I hold him up, Pancho. An’ if he drownds while we’re doin’ it, it won’t be none of our fault.”

The half-breed chuckled with half-witted pleasure and transferred his grip to the Kid’s hair. His chest was suddenly slammed forward against the edge of a wooden trough and his head thrust under the surface of warm brackish water.

Tensely, he held his breath and made his muscles remain relaxed, though he opened his lips and drank in a few sips of the reviving water to ease his parched throat.

For a full minute the Mexican held his head down, then began sloshing him in and out roughly, and each time his face came above the surface he was able to get a gulp of air which enabled him to hold the pose of unconsciousness a little longer.

After a time he was dragged back from the trough and allowed to drop to the ground where his body sprawled out limply. In a disgusted voice, Pete yelled:

“Hey, Lem! This here feller’s awready dead. Ain’t no use foolin’ with ’im no more.”

From far in the background Lem Colter swore angrily and said: “You go look him over, Slim-Jim. Pete’s so damn ornery he jest hopes he’s dead.”

Pete and Pancho drew back as Slim-Jim approached and knelt beside the Kid’s recumbent body. Cool fingers, as tender as a woman’s, felt for his pulse, then dropped his wrist and pulled an eyelid back from the ball.

Instinctively, the Kid blinked against the sudden exposure of a sore, sensitive eye to the blinding glare of sunlight. Slim-Jim dropped his head back and stood up. Drawing close, Lem Colter queried anxiously:

“How ’bout it, Slim? Is he dead?”

“He has a good strong pulse,” Slim-Jim said crisply. “Have these men carry him in the house and put him in the back room. If you’ll leave me alone with him for a time, I’ll try a little experiment that will bring him around, I think.”

Pete snickered loudly and suggested: “A knife blade under his fingernails works purty good for a bringer-arounder.”

“I have my own methods and I prefer to have no witnesses,” Slim-Jim informed the bloodthirsty outlaw. “Carry him inside.” There was a clear note of command in his voice that sent Pete and Pancho forward to pick the Kid up and carry him inside a ranch house. Their heels echoed loudly in empty rooms as they carried him through to a back room and dropped him without ceremony on a pile of empty sacks in a corner.

Slim-Jim followed them in and closed a creaking door as they went out.

There was utter silence for a little time while the Kid waited tensely to see what sort of torture Slim-Jim’s imagination would devise for him.

At last he heard the crackling of a cigarette paper, then the scratch of a match.

Slim-Jim moved across the floor to bend over him, and the tantalizing odor of tobacco smoke drifted down into the Kid’s nostrils.

Slim-Jim spoke quietly: “Here’s a cigarette for you if you’re through playing dead and want to sit up and smoke it.”

Though the Rio Kid’s nerves were crying out for the solace of tobacco, he sensed the trick in time and did not move or speak.

Slim-Jim squatted down beside him and continued to blow smoke past his face.

“This won’t get you anywhere, you know. You didn’t fool me out there by the trough, Fisher. You’ve been conscious for some time, I’m sure. If I tell Colter the truth, he’ll let Pete and Pancho experiment on you with some of their primitive torture methods. And they’ll be quite unpleasant, I assure you.”

Realizing that the game was up, the Kid opened his eyes in the cool shade of the room and grinned defensively.

“You cain’t blame me for tryin’. But that cigarette smells good.”

Slim-Jim nodded. “That’s showing sense.” There was a swelling on his smooth cheek where the Kid’s last telling blow had landed. He took papers and tobacco from his pocket and quickly fashioned another cigarette while the Kid waited avidly. Leaning forward, he put the brown cylinder between the Kid’s puffed lips, and applied flame to the other end. The Kid drew smoke into his lungs and exhaled gratefully.

“How come yo’re treatin’ me human?” he asked curiously.

Slim-Jim rocked back on booted heels and took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Because I have no desire to see needless pain inflicted on a human being. I admire the fight you put up against me back in the saloon.”

“But yo’re one of the gang?” the Kid asked wonderingly.

“I joined Lem Colter for personal reasons which we needn’t go into. Turning outlaw in the Big Bend doesn’t mean a man has to revert to bestiality. If you use your head you’ll go into this thing with us and save yourself a lot of unpleasantness.”

The Rio Kid could scarcely believe his ears as he listened to the assured, cultured tones of the outlaw arguing the point with logic instead of force. Somehow, he sensed that Slim-Jim was actually the most dangerous member of the outlaw quartet. Although he ostensibly took orders from Lem Colter, it was quite evident that he wasn’t dominated by the brutal leader of the gang.

“You mean … robbin’ the old Mexican and his kid of the gold?” he asked after a time.

The outlaw dandy flicked ashes from his cigarette onto the bare floor. “Call it robbing them if you will. They’re Mexicans, and the gold is in the United States. We have as much right to it as they.”

“Not if they find it,” the Kid protested.

“I shan’t argue the legalities with you. We intend to have that treasure. If you help us, I guarantee you a split. Otherwise …” Slim-Jim shrugged his handsome shoulders to indicate the alternative.

The Rio Kid’s mind was working like lightning. Already the other man who called himself Steve Fisher was on his way to the Navarros. He had heard Pop Judkins and Joe Elliot cold-bloodedly plan to kill the Mexicans as soon as the secret of the treasure was revealed to Elliot. They were already in the greatest possible danger, disregarding the Colter gang altogether. Nothing the Kid could do would make their position any worse. He might be able to help them by pretending to fall in with Colter and Slim-Jim.

“You don’t leave me much choice,” he muttered.

“Exactly. You have no choice at all. You should have realized that back in the saloon before jumping us.”

The Kid felt of his sore chin thoughtfully. “I’d be in better shape right now, all right. But I figgered I had a chance, with you fellers not wantin’ tuh kill me.”

“Then you agree to throw in with us to get the treasure from the Navarros?”

“I ain’t said for shore,” the Kid protested. “How you gonna work it? What’ll happen to them?”

“Nothing needs to happen to them,” Slim-Jim assured him cheerfully. “As soon as they lead you to the gold, their usefulness is ended. They’ll be allowed to go back to Mexico if they make no trouble.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Just play square with us. Go to them as though nothing had happened. Let them take you to the gold. We’ll do the rest.”

“I’ll have to have my guns back,” the Kid protested. “They’ll think it’s funny if I come ridin’ up without no guns. And Juliano Navarro is dependin’ on me tuh pertect him an’ the gold against fellers like you.”

“You’ll be given your guns when you go to the Navarros. You’ll be covered all the time by rifles just to make sure you don’t get any foolish ideas and try to run out on us.”

“How do I know you won’t send a rifle bullet through my head as soon’s the gold is in sight?”

“You don’t,” Slim-Jim admitted calmly. “You have only my word for it.”

“The word of one of Lem Colter’s bunch ain’t much tuh go by,” the Kid answered cautiously.

“My word’s as good as any man’s in the Big Bend.”

The Rio Kid grinned and waved his cigarette. “Damned if I don’t believe yuh, Mister Slim-Jim.”

He came to his feet slowly, the grin fading from his puffed lips. “Don’t try tuh push me too far at the point of a gun, though. I know yo’re not goin’ tuh trigger it. Dead, I ain’t worth a damn to you-all. The only way I can help you to get the gold is by staying alive an’ in one piece.”

Slowly, Slim-Jim relaxed. There was a gleam of admiration in his eyes for the lanky Rio Kid.

“You are smarter than I thought,” he acknowledged. “It is true that it would be a mistake for us to kill you, but that doesn’t mean you can get away with insulting me any time you want to. I don’t need a gun to handle you.”

He did not speak boastfully, but in the way of one who states a self-evident truth. Balanced on the balls of his feet with fists doubled, he was reminding the Kid of the bare-handed beating he had administered to him back in the saloon.

“With Pancho and Pete to help you finish up the job after I’d laid you out,” the Kid taunted.

If he could get Slim-Jim mad enough … here in the back room alone … there might be a chance to get out of this yet.

Slim-Jim moved forward with his poised, catlike tread, balled fists swinging low and pinpoints of flame lighting his eyes.

“You’re plenty tough, aren’t you?” he asked sibilantly. “Don’t know when you’ve had enough, eh? Just because you landed one lucky blow, you think you know how it’s done now. All right, try this.”

His left darted out with the speed of a striking snake and opened a cut beneath the Kid’s left eye. The Kid laughed harshly and rushed him with swinging fists that tried to batter down Slim-Jim’s guard, but again the experienced and trained boxer eluded every sledgehammer blow while his left kept poking the Kid’s face, opening the old cuts and inflicting new ones.

Again, the Rio Kid felt helpless, blinding rage, as he swung blow after blow at the mocking face that was never where he expected it to be.

There was silence in the back room, with only the shuffling of booted feet on the floor, the Kid’s heavy breathing, and the faint thud of Slim-Jim’s fists beating a tattoo on his bruised flesh.

The Kid realized he had to grapple with his lighter opponent if he expected to get anywhere. At close quarters, his extra weight would have some effect. And there was that holstered gun at Slim-Jim’s hip. If he could get his hands on that …

He began concentrating on forcing his opponent back into a corner where he might rush in and grab him. He kept on swinging heavy blows, but with a definite purpose now. Without hoping to connect solidly, he watched which way Slim-Jim sidestepped and feinted, and he kept pressing forward in the face of an oncoming barrage of blows, maneuvering the outlaw dandy by slow but inexorable degrees backward toward the corner where he would have a chance to put his plan into execution.

A curious look of puzzlement came over Slim-Jim’s face as the Kid continued to come forward … refused to give ground. It didn’t seem possible for a man to continue to take such terrific punishment as his fists were inflicting and yet keep boring in for more.

He had never seen anything like it, and for the first time in his life, Slim-Jim felt a twinge of uneasiness, of uncertainty concerning his own fist-fighting prowess.

That one lucky blow of the Kid’s back in the saloon had not worried him half as much as this relentless forward movement of a man who should have long ago gone to his knees in defeat.

Any clumsy lout can occasionally land a lucky blow in a fight, but there was something superhuman in the dogged way the Kid refused to give ground.

Slim-Jim’s breath was coming hard and irregularly now. In perfect physical condition, his arms were beginning to tire under the terrific strain of keeping them pumping in and out like pistons with no appreciable effect.

The Rio Kid’s face was a mask of raw flesh, but his smashed lips still snarled defiance and a gleam of triumph was beginning to show in his swollen eyes.

He knew Slim-Jim was tiring, too, and as his opponent tired a strength beyond physical strength seemed to flow through the Kid. The dandy’s blows were becoming weaker, his dancing feet less agile, the smile of mockery had departed from his lips which were swelling from one of the Kid’s lucky punches.

He was close to the wall now, backing slowly toward the corner which the Kid had selected, and he kept pressing in without landing blows, setting himself for a final spring that would bring him to grips with his slender, lighter foe.

He leaped forward with outstretched arms when Slim-Jim was in the position he had maneuvered for, took a solid blow flush on the chin, then his shoulders crashed Slim-Jim against the wall and his arms closed about him in a bear hug.

They stood like that, cheek to cheek and chest to chest for a long moment, both of them actually being supported by the wall.

Then, soundlessly, their bodies slid to the floor inertly.

Overtaxed muscles refused to answer the bidding of either brain. In a curious tangled embrace, they lay in the corner with only the sound of rasping breaths to indicate that life remained in them.

The Kid opened his eyes first, stared around in dazed comprehension.

Slim-Jim’s relaxed body was lying partly on top of him, and as his gaze went to the butt of the revolver which was not more than six inches from his right hand, he concentrated all his strength in an effort to worm his hand free from beneath his opponent’s body and get a hold on the weapon.

Slim-Jim sighed and rolled aside. His eyes stared into the bruised mask of the Kid’s face.

Instinctively realizing the danger of his position, his hand went to his hip and his fingers curled about the butt of the gun which the Kid coveted so greatly. Rolling farther aside, Slim-Jim sat up weakly and the Kid did likewise, scourged by the knowledge that again he had failed to win against Slim-Jim’s fists.

“How about it?” Slim-Jim asked with a wry grimace. “Are you going to keep on being a damned fool and getting yourself beaten to a pulp? You can’t change the way things are. Let me go in and tell the boys you’ve agreed to come in with us.”

There was something akin to pleading in Slim-Jim’s voice … and apology. Real admiration for the Rio Kid’s indomitable spirit.

The Kid nodded slowly, his eyes on the gunbutt beneath Slim-Jim’s fingers. “Yeh. I reckon there ain’t no other way out,” he agreed. “I’ll join you.”

The Kid spoke sincerely in so far as his words were concerned. It was, he knew, his only chance to help the gallant youth and his aged father. He would have to bide his time.