Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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over his right eye George saw all was lost. He and the few men left, mounted their ponies, broke through the enemy’s line and rode for Santa Anna, fifty miles away. They had a running fight of it for a few miles but their pursuers soon turned back to loot. As the sun rose over the mountains on the right, Charlie paused lor a moment and gazed back at his burning hopes. His eyes flamed, bloodshot with hate. His face went white, then black with the hot rush of blood. Driving his rowels deep into his pony ' s flank, he leaped on toward Santa Anna, where he knew his enemy would be waiting the results of the raid. Charlie winged him just as he dashed f or the shelter of the water-tank. Securing fresh horses and some provisions, he started north into the mountains—the mountains that will always hide haters of the Mexican law. He knew that he could not expect jus¬ tice in a Mexican court and that he would have no chance to flee the country until the excitement quieted down. He was undoubtedly hiding somewhere near Santa Anna. The news did not surprise George very much but it angered him. He wanted to wreak a little vengeance upon the detective, but he knew that would onl ymake matters worse. For a moment per¬ plexity clouded his steel gray eyes, then he spoke: “Sir, I am sorry; but when I told you I knew nothing of Goree, I lied. I know much.” The Mexican’s eyes blazed, his hand darted for the dirk hidden in his jacket. But George was quicker and seized his hand. The little fellow’s brown face paled, he choked with rage. “Diablo ! Til kill you, you pig of a spy.” His teeth glistened. “Shut up, you fool,” hissed George. “Listen, or Til smash your locoed brain. I am not a friend of Goree, not by any means; I am hunting him, too. He is charged with killing a man in L T tah fifteen years ago. Our agency learned of his whereabouts only last week. You are no more anxious to capture him than I am. Now, if you will act like a man and help me, when he is caught you will receive the praise and may turn him over to your government first.” The fellow became calm again and readily agreed. He wrote a note to the sheriff who was scouring the hills for the fugitive, and gave it to George, saying, “A few pesos and this are all the argu¬ ments you will need.” George was thanking him warmly when suddenly the train gave a few short ierks and stopped with a grinding squeak from the break- shoes. Everybody climbed out and walked forward to find the trouble, and trouble it was. A connecting-rod had snapped and only one cylinder could be used. The engineer sputtered around for a 28

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gun (respectable citizens wore only one in Texas) and took the little Mexican train that runs south through Sonora. After they crossed the line at Nogales he was the only American on the train. They left the valley of the dry Nogales and entered the brown, scorched Sierra Madres. George did not mind the heat, the glare, the monotony of the cactus, greasewood and mesquite; he was used to heat; he had cradled in monotony. But he was im¬ patient of delay and the train coughed along more and more slowly. The lazy smoke of the lazier Mexicans filled the dirty car, the sight of them irritated him. He swore; the drive-wheels slipped a time or two and he swore again. Then, the man across the aisle leaned over, and in spite of his fierce-looking mustache, smiled. ‘‘The senor enjoys the scenery, no?” George swore again, but the Mexican did not mind; he prefer- led to take it for an invitation. He smiled and rattled on, his eyes twinkling with that true Spanish friendliness. He was a pompous, self-important little fellow. “Si senor, I am an official, a detective; at present I am watching the train for an American murderer, Charlie Goree.” George started slightly but collected himself immediately The Mexican noticed the betrayal, however, and looked at him suspic¬ iously. “Ha! Do you know him?” “No. I have heard his name somewhere, but I have forgotten where. Your mentioning it startled me. Whom did he kill? The detective was reassured and soon told all he knew. Charlie had been in trouble sure enough. For seven or eight years he had been undisturbed. He and his partner, Sanderlain, had done well. They owned several thousand head of cattle and were using the valley of the upper Del Altar for range. Jose Bustamante, a rich and jealous hidalgo, friend of Porfirio Diaz, claimed most of northeastern Sonora. None dared dispute his claim and he generally had things his own way. He paid little attention to the two partners at first, but when he saw they were becoming wealthy he determined to drive them out. They warred for several years. Bustamante stole their cattle and killed their peons until they were facing ruin. Then the end came. A night- herder rode in one midnight with the news that a force of Busta¬ mante’s men had stampeded the herd and were sweeping down on the ranch-house. The two Americans with their handful of men sheltered themselves in one of the huge ’dobe barns. They kept up a fusillade for several hours, but when Sanderlain fell with a bullet 27

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little while and finally decided to run on with the engine alone. He would bring back another one from the yards in Hermosillo, three hundred miles down the line. George knew time was valuable, so he determined to go along. The engineer disliked Americans—he would be in the way. George only smiled and reached for his hardware. The Mexican ' s tone changed immediately. “Si senor., there is lots of room, the senor will be pleasant com¬ pany.” He smiled hospitably, “Here, sit on this leather cushion. George thanked him and they puffed jerkily away. They rolled into Santa Anna at ten the next day. As he climbed down from the cab his eyes glanced over the place and he wondered how in the world his brother had had the grit to stay in such a lorsaken, sun-scorched country for a dozen years. There was no visible excuse for the town’s existence. There was only the depot, a small postoffice and store combined, and two long rows of houses, forming two unbroken walls on either side of the street. Doorway without doors were cut in the thick dobe walls, and the small win¬ dows were unglazed. The dirty half-naked children and dogs were romping in the filthy street, or lying in the shade catching fleas. 1 he women were working about, some carrying wood, some w ater, while others seemed to have nothing to do but chew mesquite beans. One, he noticed especially. She was sitting against the wall holding a dirty, brown kid on one knee, while she patted out tortillas on the other. He did not spend much time in gazing about, however. He strode over to the postoffice, where the men were enjoying their mid-day siesta in the shade, and asked where he could find the sheriff. The information was very indefinite, but he bought two burros, and some provisions, and started north. All day long he rode across the hot, dry hills, seeing only an occasional cow, a coyote or two, and numbers of rattlesnakes. 1 he rest was cactus and sand and alkali. I he prickly pear rose higher than his head, at times he was lost winding through vast stretches of it. There was very little grass, while here and there, rose tall, rough mesquites. There was no breeze and the dry, thirsty air sucked the very life out of everything. Occasionally he would fire his gun three times rapidly, the sig¬ nal of the desert. At last he was answered. The sheriff received him with a warm welcome and without suspicion. “I believe we are near Goree,” he said. “I have captured one of his men, and I shall make him lead the way to the fugitive tomorrow. They built no fire when they camped that night in the shelter 29