Max Brand

In the River Bottom's Grip

Warsaw 2017

Contents

I. THE AZATLANS

II. LEW, A MEXICAN GALLANT

III. A WARNING GOES UNHEEDED

IV. IN THE CANTINA

V. RETURNING TO THE CORDOBAS

VI. A LOAN IS SUGGESTED

VI. LEW RIDES TO THE FURNIVAL RANCH

VIII. EXQUISITE AGONY

IX. SLIM OVERHEARS

X. “A VERY GREAT CRIME.”

XI. IN THE RIVER BOTTOM

XII. SIX BAD MEN

XIII. THE FINAL BLOW

XIV. JUANITA TO THE RESCUE

XV. THE DOCTOR’S STRANGE VERDICT

XVI. MELODY LIVES

I. THE AZATLANS

LOOK, first, into the office of Cordoba, money lender of Barneytown; let me show him to you in his office, seated on a broad bench with his back to the wall and his table in front of him. But why should the rich man sit on a bench? Because he changed his position from time to time. Sometimes he sat erect upon the bench, but that was not the posture which pleased him most. He was erect now; in fact, there was a dent in his fat back, he was so erect. And his black eyes, ordinarily dull and not overlarge, were glancing brightly into the face of his visitor.

It was Señor Don Mateo Valdez who lounged in the other chair, son of the rich Valdez who owned the great cattle ranch at the mouth of Barney Valley. Outside the house, hitched to the light buggy in which young Valdez had driven to town, stood two fine-limbed horses, still sweating and trembling from the merciless fury of their trip north. He was dressed in full Mexican regalia, was Don Mateo, and his delicate fingers held the cigarette gracefully and waved away the smoke which dribbled from his lips.

“It is only last month that you came to me last,” said the money lender.

“A month is a long time,” said the spendthrift, “because it has thirty days, and money leaves me on every day!”

“That is true, then,” admitted Cordoba. “However–five thousand dollars–”

“What is that to me?” said Don Mateo. “Considering what security I have to offer–”

“Ah, but what security have you?”

”Señor!” cried Mateo, lifting his handsome, languid eyes.

“What security?” repeated the money lender.

“My father’s ranch–”

“The ranch is your father’s, however–pardon me–and not yours.”

“It will soon be mine!”

“God forbid!” exclaimed Cordoba.

“Señor?”

“I trust that your father has a long life before him.”

“He is ill.”

“That I know.”

“Then read this.” He offered a letter signed by a doctor.” It read:

My Dear Don Mateo: It is true that your father has not a month to live. However, this news must be kept secret. No one must know it. For if it comes to his ears, the shock will surely kill him at once!

The money lender lifted his eyes slowly. “He has been a great man,” sighed he. “And this, letter is to be kept a secret?”

“To a man like you–full of honor–tight-mouthed–what harm is there in showing it?”

“Well,” answered the money lender, “we each have different ways of thought. If this seems good to you, it is good. And I admit that it makes you good security. What sum will you have?”

“Ten thousand,” said Don Mateo, his eyes snapping with pleasure.

“You must be careful,” said Cordoba with an odd smile, “that your entire estate does not run into my hands–at this rate.”

“I? Careful? I shall be careful in time! But one must have money–to live like a gentleman.”

“This will cost you twelve per cent.”

“Ha? That is a double rate, Cordoba!”

“That is true, but it is a double risk.”

“In what way, then?”

“Suppose that your father should change his will and leave you nothing.”

“Tush! He loves me! Besides, what would make him?”

“The knowledge that you are showing me this letter, perhaps.”

“Well,” said Don Mateo, “let me have the money at any rate. I have no time.”

What does it cost to scratch one’s name upon a piece of paper? And bebold, the fat money lender waddled across his office, taking with him a short-barreled shotgun of large bore. He opened his safe. From a drawer he selected a parcel of money and returned with it.

“How much does that safe contain, then?” asked Mateo, his eyes glistening with hunger.

“You have almost exhausted the contents.” said Cordoba.

“Shall I believe that? Adios, señor!”

Don Mateo was gone, but there was another instantly in his place–an old man with a rigid back which crumpled over as he sat down in the chair. He was bent so that his chin was thrust out, and he peered earnestly at Cordoba through his spectacles. Cordoba, straightway, leaned back and tucked his feet beneath him. He sat cross-legged to do business with this customer.

“The interest was due me yesterday,” said Cordoba.

“Ah, yes, God knows!” said the old man.

“And I know,” said Cordoba sternly. “What has happened?”

“I have brought you in–only half the money.”

“So?”

“Ah, Señor Cordoba–you are great in wisdom,” said the old Mexican. “You know how the blackleg struck on my little ranch, and the cattle died like flies! I have been stripped. I have been beggared. I bring you this money. You may take a larger mortgage on my ranch for the rest of your money.”

“You have three sons,” said Cordoba, more coldly than ever.

“By the mercy of God, I have three sons. It is true.”

“They have left you, I suppose, now that your little ranch is like a poor-house?”

“Left me? No, no, no! They stand beside me; they work like three dogs. My eldest boy said this morning: ‘You shall not be shamed by going to confess to Cordoba. Let me go and take the brunt of his tongue!’”

“Ha!” said Cordoba. “Did he say that?”

“Ten thousand, thousand pardons! You are angry, then?”

“I am very angry–that people should think I would use my tongue like a whip. Well, my friend, cattle are cheap, now, since the drought has made them so lean.”

“They are like dirt. One names a price–the cow is yours! But mine are not lean. I have pasture enough!”

“That is true. How many could you fatten of those lean ones? Ah, three hundred, at least.

“Here is a note from me. Show it where you please. Go buy, and send them to Cordoba for their money. When you have bought two hundred, come back to me and I shall take your note for the money which I have loaned you. As for this other interest money–it is forgotten. Take it back to your three sons, Santiago, and tell them that you surely will not starve for this winter!”

Then he jumped from his bench and rushed Santiago from the room before the rancher could shower him with thanks. He had barely returned to his bench–with the shotgun beside him, when a third man entered, very different from the other two–a broad-shouldered, brown-faced Yankee, wreathed in an immense smile.

“Well, Fatty,” said he, “I knew that I could not lose if I got you into the game with me, and I was right. I hit it quick. It come off like cream off the top of the bottle. Then a sucker offered me twelve thousand for the claim. I’d taken out three thousand. I grabbed the twelve; and here I am with the hard cash. Well, Fatty, your grubstake gives you seventy-five hundred! Count it out!” And he slammed down a potbellied waliet on the table.

The Mexican opened it without a word. He counted out a thin sheaf of bills.

“The horse, the tools–everything, cost me only five hundred,” said he. “I shall take two thousand. And the rest is yours.”

“Hey!” barked out the American. “Are you gunna cheat yourself out of fifty-five hundred that belongs to you?”

“I have four hundred per cent. It is very much,” said Cordoba, “And adios, friend.”

“Is that all? Why, Cordoba, this ain’t right–and–”

A panting youth ran through the door.

“Don Luis–” he gasped out in a trembling voice.

Cordoba rolled with surprising rapidity to his feet. “What of Don Luis?” he cried. “Adios, adios, señor! I am very busy, as you see!”

And the prospector, feeling that he had just been in the midst of a happy dream, hurried out into the day to make sure that this generosity was not in fact the stuff that dreams are made of.

“Now you speak of my son, of Don Luis?” cried the money lender to the youngster. “What is there to say of him?”

“May he always be fortunate,” gasped out the boy, recovering his breath as fast as he might. “But I have just heard through my cousin that Miguel and Cristobal Azatlan–”

“What are they?”

“It was a year ago, señor, that Don Luis met with their brother, a very famous fighter from Mexico–”

“And killed that man?”

“Yes.”

“Quick, boy! And tell me if they have come to revenge his death?”

“It is that–yes!”

Cordoba wrung his fat hands. “The Lord bring them to a wicked end!” cried he. “But now, boy, do not let a word of this come to the ears of Señor Don Luis Melody.”

“Señor Cordoba!. Will you not warn him?”

“Warn him?” echoed Cordoba. “Name of heaven, no!”

“But they are dreadful fighters! Miguel Azatlan on a day in Juarez–”

“Do not tell me! Do not tell me! Foolish boy, do you not know that the more dreadful they are, the more my son will wish to meet them?”

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