No Quarter

CHAPTER IV. SHOWDOWN.

The main paved highway running from Los Angeles to Yuma climbs through the pass between San Gorgonio, on the one hand, and San Jacinto on the other. As the road gains elevation, the orange orchards change to cherry orchards, to apple orchards and then, so abruptly as to be startling to the tourist who is unfamiliar with the desert country, the character of the soil changes. There are isolated patches of sagebrush and cacti. Another two or three miles and the country is unmistakably desert. Vast, sandy, boulder-strewn stretches interspersed with varieties of sage and cacti.

Sam Brokay, at the wheel of the light, fast car, piloted it with deft skill along the pavement which stretched like a shimmering ribbon in the direct rays of the desert sun. Huge mountains rose in purple silhouettes against the blue-black of the sky. The tang of morning was still in the desert air, but there was a promise of intense heat.

"We turn off here," he said.

He slowed the car, turned to the left, started climbing over a dirt road which ran through a long, narrow cañon, climbed to a table-land, wound for miles along a barren stretch and then turned into a country that was wild, isolated and distinctive.

Great granite dikes had been flung hundreds of feet above the surface of the desert; this granite had been interspersed with veins of softer material that had decomposed when exposed to the weather, causing huge squares, thousands of tons in weight, to detach themselves from the main body of rock, to balance precariously upon a corner, or to tumble down into the desert.

Between these granite dikes were stretches of sandy desert. Joshua palms, yucca, sage, cholla cactus, prickly-pear and greasewood furnished a dense growth. The winding road twisted and turned along the base of the granite dikes, cutting through narrow defiles.

Brokay slowed the car, looked for some landmark which was so faint as to be indistinguishable to Bowman and Grood. The car turned abruptly and started fighting its way through the sandy desert.

"It's up in here a few miles," Brokay said.

The car began to heat up; twice they stopped to let the radiator cool. Mile after mile the wheels churned into the sandy labyrinth.

Big Jim Grood nudged his companion. Both men held their right hands near the lapels of their coats.

There was a faint wisp of smoke. A camp loomed suddenly against the dark trunk of a Joshua palm. A burro, standing in a dejected attitude, raised his head and aroused sufficient energy to cock one ear toward the approaching automobile. A man clad in ragged garments, with a white beard straggling down his face, sun-bleached eyes staring from under bushy eyebrows, appeared in the door of the tent. A gun was strapped about his waist. His clothes were glazed with dirt.

Brokay brought the car to a stop.

"Hello, dad," he said.

The man acknowledged the salutation.

"Whatcha doing in here?" asked Brokay.

"Prospectin'. Whatchu doin'?"

"Came in to look for some Indian relics," Brokay said.

"Country's lousy with 'em," the old prospector remarked, giving his pants a hitch, tightening the rope that served as a belt.

"Getting anything?" asked Brokay.

"Gettin' enough to retire on," the prospector said. "I'm going to sell out soon as I can find somebody that wants to buy ... Say, there was a fellow in here a couple of days ago that was looking for Indian relics too. The country must be getting popular. I ain't seen a human soul for nine months, and now two automobile loads come within a week."

"That's the way it goes," said Brokay, yawning. "Gosh, I envy you. I'd sure like to have a mine in here myself."

"Well, I've got one that's for sale," the prospector said.

Brokay's face lit.

"Now there," he said, "would be an idea. We could trade positions. You take our automobile and we'll take your mine."

"Heh, heh, heh!" cackled the old prospector. "You ain't seen nothing yet. I got thirty thousand dollars worth of gold."

Brokay's laugh was scornful and skeptical.

"Don't tell me," he said, "that there's any such amount of gold as that in this country."

The prospector looked around shrewdly and suspiciously, then jerked his head toward Brokay's two companions.

"These boys all right?" he asked.

"Sure," Brokay said, "they're partners of mine. They'd come in with me on any kind of a deal I made."

"Come in here and take a look," the prospector invited.

Jax Bowman's hand was on his gun as he stooped to enter the little tent, but there was no blast of gunfire to greet him. Instead, the prospector, in utter simplicity, opened a chest and disclosed a hoard of yellow metal in the form of ingots, stacked as though they had been cord-wood.

"How'd you melt it up?" asked Brokay.

"Oh, I've got a blow-torch and a crucible. I've got lots of time and it's easier to carry that way."

"How pure is it?"

"Darn near pure. That's the way it's been running. I had some assayed. That was before I made the big strike."

"Is there much more in the mine?" asked Brokay.

The old prospector squinted his eyes.

"I'm going to be frank with you, buddy," he said. "What I struck was a pocket. There's fair wages picking around in the mine, and, of course, maybe you can strike another pocket. But I made my stake out of it and I'm going to get out. The only trouble is, I don't know how I'm going to get it out. I don't want to leave it here while I go and get a car somewhere, and there's too much to be packed on the burro. I might get it on his back, but it would bust out of anything I've got to hold it in, and then, when I hit the highway, I'd be at the mercy of all those bandits that prowl around in automobiles."

"How much is there there?"

"Oh, around thirty thousand dollars," said the prospector. "Enough to give me a good time for quite a spell."

Jax Bowman exchanged a significant glance with his companion.

"I think we'd like to come in on it with you," he said to Brokay.

"That's fine," said the affable man with the iron-gray mustache. "It sure looks good to me. Buddy, I think you've made a deal."

Brokay pulled a well filled wallet from his pocket. His face was wreathed in an affable smile. Bowman surreptitiously opened his pocket knife, suddenly bent over the chest and drew the point of the pocket knife across one of the yellow ingots.

The gilded surface crinkled under the sharp point of the scratching knife, disclosing the glint of lead.

The face of the prospector underwent a ludicrous transformation. The affable smile vanished entirely from the face of Sam Brokay.

Jax Bowman, his hand sliding under the lapel of his coat, stared steadily at the prospector. Big Jim Grood kept his eyes glued on Brokay.

"Skin-game," said Jax Bowman.

Brokay took a deep breath.

"Well, of all the nerve," he said. "My God, I should have known better! It was the build-up that got me. It was finding this old prospector out here in the desert, and all of that stuff that goes with it."

Jax Bowman nodded.

The prospector suddenly stepped out of character. He ran his hands over the white stubble and laughed.

"Well," he said, "I damn near put it over. I'll tell you what, you boys be sports and keep this to yourselves and I'll hook some other fellow. After all, it's a question of some one trying to skin me out of about half of my profits. I simply beat him to it."

Brokay's laugh was booming and hearty.

"Okay," he said, "no hard feelings. I guess when you come right down to it, we're as deep in the mud as he is in the mire. How about it, boys?"

Bowman nodded.

"Well," the prospector said, "you slickers might just as well stick around for a while. I've been in here for more than two weeks on the build-up and growing this crop of stubble. My partner is out drumming me up suckers. I'm so damn lonesome for companionship I go out and talk to the burro. Stick around and I'll cook you up some desert chow."

"Are there," asked Bowman, "any prehistoric relics around here?"

"Lots of them," the man said. "You can find them around almost anywhere. Look in the crevices of the rock."

"Suppose we take a stroll," Bowman said, "and look the place over a bit."

Sam Brokay stretched and yawned.

"You fellows have got more energy than I have," he remarked. "This drive has sort of used me up. I'll stick around here."

Bowman and his companion moved toward the flap of the tent.

"Be sure to come back when you hear me pounding a piece of iron," the gold-brick man said. "I'll have a mighty fine chow."

Big Jim Grood turned to Bowman as they trudged out through the sand in the desert. He glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder, then lowered his voice.

"Why did you scrape the gold coating off of that brick?" he asked.

"Wanted to see what they'd do," Bowman remarked, chuckling.

"What they'll do," Grood said, "is plenty. They're going to kill us."

"Others have tried to kill us," Bowman reminded him, "and haven't got very far."

"We've never been up against a combination quite like this," Grood remarked thoughtfully. "These men have got brains. They've quite probably got other confederates that they're going to get in touch with. We'll be outnumbered four or five to one. We're out here in the middle of a wild, sandy desert that is admirably adapted for their purpose. They can dig two unmarked graves. We will simply be two more men who have disappeared after winning money at Agua Caliente. The details of the disappearance will never be known because we've been in their hands almost continuously since this thing started."

Bowman said thoughtfully, "We could make a detour, get to the automobile, try and reach the authorities from the nearest telephone."

Grood laughed, and there was no mirth in his laughter. "Not a chance on earth," he said. "Remember, these men are desperate. They're killers. They've got other murders on their consciences. They are planning future murders. They kill ruthlessly, giving no quarter."

Bowman's eyes were cold and hard as polished steel.

"Very well then," he said, "we'll give no quarter."

Without any conscious volition on their part, the pair were following an indistinct trail that led toward one of the huge granite walls.

Jim Grood stopped, sniffed the air.

"Cigar smoke," he said.

Cautiously, they started moving up-wind like two hunters stalking deer. They soon topped a little rise in the ground and looked down upon four men who were sprawled in the shade of the rocky wall, smoking and chatting.

At that moment there was the sound of a throbbing motor.

"Car coming," Bowman remarked.

Big Jim Grood gave him a significant glance.

Slowly, solemnly, as though it were some sacred ritual, the men took from the pockets of their coats the black masks with the white rings painted around the eyes. There was no need for conversation. Each knew that they were facing a showdown.

"Wait for the car," Bowman whispered.

There was a shrill, piercing whistle from the direction of the tent, a whistle twice repeated.

The effect upon the four men was magical. They jumped to their feet. The man who had been smoking a cigar tossed it away. A cigarette was ground beneath an impatient heel. The four men exchanged low words, then their hands slipped to holstered weapons, blued-steel glinted in the hot desert sunlight. Slowly, ominously, they started toward the tent.

Once more there came a whistled signal. One long and two short.

The men started to spread out.

The roaring motor of the approaching automobile could now be plainly distinguished.

Again came a whistle, sharp, shrill, menacing. This whistle sounded from a slightly different direction—much closer than the others.

"We're surrounded," Bowman said. "They're creeping up on us from behind."

The words had no sooner left his mouth than the hot desert air pulsated with the sharp crack of a weapon. A bullet whizzed past Bowman's ear, clipped a branch from a greasewood bush, and droned away like some angry hornet.

Bowman dropped to the ground. Big Jim Grood whirled and fired all in one motion.

A voice shouted from ahead of them, "Here they are, boys. Let's get 'em."

There was the sound of running steps.

Bowman raised to his knees.

"Hurt?" asked Grood.

"No, just getting down out of sight, but then we can't see anything either. Let's charge while we've got them separated."

"Let's go," the ex-cop said gleefully, his eyes lighting at the prospect of action.

Shoulder to shoulder, the two men topped a little rise, came crashing down through the sagebrush.

The four men had separated, then when they heard the sound of the shots, had concentrated on the point where the sounds indicated the location of their quarry. Now, as the two men came charging down through the crackling sage, they flung up guns and hastily fired.

There is something about overwhelming numbers which, in itself, is a handicap. Each man becomes careless, depending unconsciously upon his companions; it is like the hunter who shoots into a flock of ducks, trusting to the very numbers to eliminate the necessity of aiming.

Jax Bowman and his companion had schooled themselves by long practice to wage efficient warfare.

As the two masked men appeared in the open, they were greeted with a veritable fusillade of shots. Bullets whistled around them like hail stones pelting on a roof, and all of the bullets were wild.

There was something peculiar in the psychological reactions engendered by the black masks with the huge white rings around the eyes—a something which had a tendency to strike momentary terror. Moreover, whispers had been seeping through the underworld of these mysterious masked men who made war upon criminals, asking and giving no quarter.

"It's the White Rings!" shouted one of the men, and the words were still hot upon his lips when a bullet spun him half around. He flung up his hands, gave a sobbing gasp and pitched forward upon the hot sand.

Newspaper accounts which had, perhaps, been somewhat exaggerated, claimed that these mysterious masked men never missed a shot; that they had trained themselves to shoot rapidly and with uncanny accuracy.

The two men, their faces expressionless because of the black masks with the weird white rings about the eyes, fired with unhurried efficiency. Two more men pitched to the sand, quivered and lay still. The last of the party started to run.

As well have thought to run from an oncoming avalanche, as from this strange pair who had pledged themselves to a grim warfare upon crime, asked no quarter and gave no quarter.

Big Jim Grood's gun spoke once.

Grood turned to his companion.

Slowly he removed his mask.

"We gave them," he said, "all of the odds."

Jax Bowman's mask remained in place.

"You forget," he said, "that we have another chore."

He pointed with his gun toward the place where the fake prospector maintained his tent.

Big Jim Grood thrust extra shells into the magazine clip of his automatic.

"Some one's coming," he said.

There was the sound of light, quick feet.

"A woman," said Grood.

Jax Bowman whisked off his mask, slipped the weapon into its holster a scant half second before Evelyn Brokay swung around a clump of greasewood, running with head down, elbows close to her sides, a nickel-plated revolver in her right hand.

Bowman's face was stern.

"Stop," he said.

She snapped her eyes to his. Instant relief flooded her face, tears were streaming from the eyes.

"Thank God," she said, "that you're safe! I never knew before."

"Never knew what?" asked Big Jim Grood, in the solemn voice of a judge pronouncing a death sentence.

"What happened to the men that I contacted for them," she said. "I knew it was some form of swindle. I wasn't foolish enough to think that they didn't have some ulterior motive, but I thought it was a gambling game and that I was getting victims for that. It was only after I reached San Francisco that I found out."

"Found out what?" Bowman inquired.

"What happened to the men."

"Who told you?"

"Rita Coleman," she said. "It was she who wired me to come to her."

"Then the wire wasn't a fake?"

"No, the wire was genuine enough, only Rita wasn't sick. She wanted to warn me."

"And so?" asked Bowman.

"And so," she said, "I flew back, tried to reach you in time. I found that you'd left. I found a letter in Sam's study which contained a map with full directions for getting here."

"And, of course," Grood said, "Sam isn't your father?"

"Of course not," she said. "His name's not Brokay at all, no more than mine is. He is Sam Belting. They called him 'Baloney' Belting, a confidence man. I'm Evelyn Mayer. I served a term in the penitentiary."

She stared at them defiantly.

Jax Bowman nodded. "I know about it," he said. "And tell me about Rita."

"Rita," she said, "warned me. She's on the dodge herself. There was some crime in New Orleans that she was mixed up in. She..."

The girl swayed.

Jim Grood jumped forward.

"Look here," he said, "you're wounded."

She turned a white face to his, smiled with bloodless lips, took a staggering step toward him. The gun dropped from her hand. A tremulous sigh escaped her lips. She dropped to the hot desert sand.

"Wait a minute," Big Jim Grood said gruffly as Bowman scooped the girl into his arms. "You forget those other two who are between us and the highway. They've heard the shooting, and they're laying for us. They'll probably ambush us somewhere, and they're the ones who shot the girl when she came out to warn us. I thought I heard shooting back there toward the tent."

Bowman started toward the tent, carrying his burden nestled in his arms.

"We haven't got any time to waste," he said. "This girl has got to get to a doctor. Get her gun and bring it along."

Jim Grood scooped up the gun which the girl had carried.

"Shoot," Bowman said grimly, "and shoot to kill."

He started walking, striding through the desert in a direct line for the automobile, heedless of any danger which might lie in his path.

Jim Grood snapped open the gun which the girl had carried, gave a quick look at the cylinder, clicked it shut.

"There's just a chance," he said, "she may have come on the two men sneaking up on us. There are four exploded shells in this revolver."

Bowman broke into a staggering run, plunging through the hot sand.

"Keep your guns ready," he said.

The two men reached the place where the cars were parked. There were no more shots. Far overhead, in the blue vault of the sky, a black speck wheeled into a circle. The circle became a spiral. Another black speck far off toward the east swung into motion.

Grood pointed.

"Turkey buzzards," he said, "the scavengers of the desert."

Bowman merely nodded. With tender fingers he pulled away the girl's sodden garments.

"In the back," he said. "I think it missed the kidney. They must have shot her when she tried to warn us. Then she turned and had it out with them in a finish fight."

He held her tenderly in his arms, smoothed the hair back from the damp forehead.

"Poor little kid," he muttered. "If she pulls through, I'm going to see that she has all the breaks that money can give her."

Big Jim Grood swung himself in behind the steering wheel of the car.

"There's a doctor at Banning," he said. "Brace yourself."

Bowman braced his feet, cushioned the girl in his arms.

The car lurched forward, the wheels throwing up a great cloud of sand as the car skidded for the first turn.

Overhead, the lone vulture had now been joined by three more. They dropped down in purposeful spirals.