Horseman of the Shadows

by Bradford Scott

  “‘The singingest man in the whole Southwest!’” she sighed. “If they took in a lot more territory, it would still be so.”

  She glanced at the clock.

  12

  AROUND NOON THE FOLLOWING DAY, SLADE SAUNTERED DOWN to the Chamizal Zone. The packing house was rising fast, Texans and Mexicans working shoulder to shoulder. Others appeared inspired by their industry, for nearby another building was being erected, which would house, of course, a saloon.

  Slade chuckled. Truly the saloon kept pace with the advance of civilization, and the West was won by a judicious mixture of gunpowder and whiskey!

  Matt Guffy, the foreman, came over to join him. “Everything hunky-dory,” he said. “Friedman and Hatch will be in business come the first of the month. And they already have enough orders to keep them running day and night. But what if the Chamizal row happens to be settled in favor of Mexico? Where’ll they stand then?”

  “That won’t happen for a while, I’d say,” Slade replied. “And if it did, they’d still be in business, with perhaps less taxes to pay. The tax rate of Juarez is quite a bit lower than that of El Paso.”

  “Never thought of that,” admitted Guffy, “but I reckon it’s so. Well, good luck to ‘em; they’re nice folks to work for. I expect to be with them for quite a while; they’ve got some more irons in the fire, uptown. Be seeing you.” He hurried back on the job, shouting orders.

  Leaving the Chamizal, Slade headed for the sheriff’s office, walking slowly and thinking deeply. Although he felt he had accomplished something, his main problem confronted him, with up to the present, no solution in sight. Still operating was the outlaw bunch, and putting a halt to their activities and bringing them to justice was still his main objective. Well, maybe he’d get a break; hadn’t been doing too bad so far.

  Serby was in the office, his feet on his table desk, smoking his pipe.

  “Ran into Nelson Evers a little while ago,” he remarked. “He was limping sorta bad. Said his horse fell with him and hurt his leg. Gathered he’d just come from his new holding, the Circle S, down to the south.”

  Slade nodded, his eyes thoughtful. “See anything of Gregory Cole of late?” he asked. Serby shook his head.

  “Hasn’t been around for the past couple of days, so far as I know,” he replied. “Reckon maybe he’s still nursing his mad spell. He’s usually got one to nurse. Now what?”

  “Now I’m going over to my hotel room to shave,” Slade replied. “After that, I don’t know. I haven’t the slightest idea what my next move will be; it’s going to take some thinking out.”

  After shaving and cleaning up, Slade sat by the window for a while, smoking and thinking. But his thoughts were like caged birds, whirling around and around and getting nowhere. He was beginning to get a vague notion, little more than one of his hunches, so-called, and was endeavoring to correlate the notion with facts as he saw them. That the head of the outlaw bunch was working out of El Paso, he was confident. And just as confident that he was no run-of-mine brush poppin’ owlhoot dependent on widelooping and robbery when opportunity presented.

  Instead, or so the Ranger believed, he was a highly intelligent and ruthlessly cunning individual who was playing for big stakes with cowrustling and larceny as necessary sidelines to meet current expenses.

  But the fact that, or so it appeared, he was forced to resort to such depredations to provide the necessary cash to hold his followers in line might well prove to be his fatal weakness. He couldn’t handle everything personally, and sooner or later, one of his henchmen, less plentifully supplied with brains, would very likely make a slip.

  Wishful thinking on his part, in a way, Slade was forced to admit; but it sometimes worked out.

  “Here we go again!” he growled disgustedly. “Around and around, and getting nowhere!”

  Pinching out his cigarette, he left the hotel and headed for Roony’s place in the hope of gleaning something of importance, there being no place like a saloon for picking up information after an abundance of redeye had set tongues to wagging.

  It was still rather early, and Slade was surprised to find the big restaurant crowded and hilarious. Then he recalled it was payday for the neighborhood ranches. Hands from the nearer spreads were already riding into town.

  Locating a small vacant table near the edge of the dance floor, from which he had a view of both the swinging doors and the windows, he ordered coffee and a sandwich, rolled a cigarette and surveyed the animated scene.

  Looked like it was going to be a big night. The long bar was lined, most of the tables occupied. The chink of bottle necks on glass rims, the cheerful clang of gold-pieces on the “mahogany” and the thumping of boots and the click of high heels on the dance floor provided a sprightly undertone to the babble of conversation.

  The orchestra and the dance-floor girls had come on early. There were two extra floor men and several more waiters than usual. Roony was circulating like hot water and had his hands full.

  However, he found time to join Slade for a few minutes, ordered a drink for both and grinned.

  “Things are liable to be hopping ‘fore the night’s over,” he predicted. “Will keep me hoppin’, too, but darn it, I like it! That’s why I’m in this business — it has a pull for me. I like to see folks having a good time, and I don’t mind a mite of excitement now and then, so long as it’s not too exciting. Doesn’t set well with me to see anybody hurt, but a scuffle now and then just sort of livens things up, and my boys can usually take care of anything that cuts loose and bust it up ‘fore it gets serious. Hey, look! here comes old wet blanket himself; that face would stop a clock. But darned if he don’t ‘pear almost human for a change.”

  El Halcón had already noticed the entrance of Gregory Cole of the dour visage. He was inclined to agree with Roony that Cole didn’t look as cantankerous as usual; he actually smiled at the bartender who poured his drink.

  Roony regarded him speculatively. “Somehow though when he grins he sorta remind me of a cat that’s just stole a helpin’ of cream and sees the door to the canary’s cage open,” he observed. “Oh, well, takes all kinds to make a world, and maybe he ain’t so bad if you manage to get under his shell. Be seeing you; have a good time. I got to be toddlin’ back on the job.” He beckoned a waiter.

  “On me, whatever Mr. Slade orders,” he said. Slade settled for another cup of coffee.

  The sun had set in flaming splendor. The blue dusk was sifting down from the mountain tops. El Paso’s street lights were winking, and bars of radiance streamed over the swinging doors and through the windows of Texas Street. Night hovered over the wastelands, farms, and river like a nesting bird. All things seemed to be drawing a deep breath, preparatory to what was to come.

  Already the sidewalks were crowded. Troops of whooping cowhands raced their horses up and down the street, kicking up clouds of dust, cursed jovially by skipping pedestrians. Although reaching out, tentatively, to the dignity of a city, El Paso was still a frontier river town and plenty woolly at times. This looked to be one of the times.

  Sipping his coffee, Slade gazed about him with pleasurable anticipation. Young, vigorous, brimming with lusty life, he liked such nights, promising as they did, excitement and variety. Also, such a night might well provide opportunity. Most anything could happen during the hours of darkness and certain gentlemen in whom he was interested might also sense opportunity to replenish the exchequer.

  They hadn’t much luck of late and would doubtless welcome a chance to make a haul. But how and where? He endeavored to put himself in their place. What would he do under the circumstances?

  Another reason why Walt Slade was of the first of the Rangers — his unique ability to think as the outlaws thought, to react to a situation as they would react, and, in consequence, anticipate their moves. What tonight would be a good prospect, from the outlaw viewpoint?

  Every saloon was doing a roaring business, for the payday bust was an institution and the citizens of El Pas
o turned out en masse to assist in the celebration.

  But the saloons were not easy prey, guarding as they did against just such eventualities. If one doing an unusually big business, like Roony’s place, was singled out for attention, the attempt must be made with shrewdness and originality.

  Trying to pull a conventional style holdup in such a one as Roony’s place, for example, would be like barging head-on into a herd of javelina pigs on the prod. Something novel and very much out of the ordinary would be necessary.

  The outlaws would take advantage of opportunity, in a most unexpected manner, totally at variance with anything Slade anticipated.

  • • •

  Banishing his various cares for the time being, Slade relaxed comfortably and proceeded to enjoy himself. He had just ordered more coffee and another sandwich when Sheriff Serby and Nelson Evers came in, the grapeman walking with a decided limp. Slade caught Serby’s eye and waved them to join him.

  “Well, how’s the cow business coming along, Mr. Evers?” he asked as they sat down and gave the waiter their orders.

  “Nothing to complain about, except my horse put a foot in a gopher hole and took a tumble,” Evers replied. “I managed to get from under as he went down, but strained a muscle in my leg. Not too bad, but pretty sore; be all right in a few days. Nothing to worry over.” But he winced as he straightened his leg, under the table.

  “I just came up from Pablo Montez’s place and met Evers on the street,” the sheriff volunteered. “Carmen asked if I’d seen you and I told her I was going to meet you here and that the chances were you’d be along shortly. Pablo was hob-nobbin’ with an old amigo of his, Don Carlos Gomez, the mayor of Juarez. He said he wanted you to meet him, to tell you they’d wait for you. No hurry, they’ll be jabberin’ together half the night. Gomez said he figured to walk over to where the packing house is going up, after meeting with you — they’re working a night shift. Seems he knows the owners, and I’ve a notion he’s sorta interested in the building there, against the chance the rukus over the Chamizal might be settled in Mexico’s favor. A fine feller, Gomez, the folks over at Juarez think mighty high of him.

  “Let us drink!”

  They proceeded to do so. Evers ordered another round, then announced —

  “I’m going to call it a night; darn leg doesn’t feel so good and I expect I’ll be better off it. Be seeing you, Mr. Slade.”

  Serby’s gaze followed him to the door. “I’ve a notion he hurt it more’n he lets on,” he remarked.

  “Everything quiet?” Slade asked.

  “So far, except for a lot of noise,” Serby replied. “A good chance that something will bust loose ‘fore morning, especially down around the river. The boys are getting fortified.”

  After a little more desultory conversation, Slade pushed back his empty cup.

  “Guess I might as well mosey down to the cantina,” he said. “Don’t want to keep Don Carlos waiting too long.”

  “Chances are I’ll see you there later,” Serby replied. “I’m going to have another snort before I go out to look things over.”

  Texas Street was even more crowded than earlier in the evening. The same applied to the other principal thoroughfares. But as Slade drew near the bridge, the crowd thinned considerably. Now he walked warily, paying strict attention to his surroundings. However, he reached the cantina without incident.

  Pablo’s place didn’t lack for patronage and everybody seemed in a cheerful mood. Laughter accompanied the babble of conversation.

  Carmen, standing at the edge of the dance floor, hurried to greet him.

  “Come along to the end of the bar,” she said. “Uncle Pablo is anxious for you and Don Carlos, the Juarez alcalde, to meet. He’s an old and valued friend.”

  Carlos Gomez proved to be a tall, well set-up man with a darkly handsome face and kindly dark eyes. He shook hands warmly when Pablo performed the introductions and his smile was also warm.

  “It is the honor to meet with El Halcón,” he said with emphasis.

  “Thank you, Don Carlos,” Slade replied. “And it is an honor to meet with one so highly regarded by his fellow citizens.”

  “Gracias!” smiled Gomez. “I do the best I can.”

  He and Pablo began talking over old times and their experiences together, some of them highly humorous. Slade mostly listened. The cantina was gay and lively and a generally friendly atmosphere prevailed. But gradually Slade developed an unpleasant feeling of uneasiness, a very disturbing presentiment of evil. Didn’t seem to make sense, but it persisted. He studied various groups at the bar and at the tables, and saw nothing to arouse suspicion, nothing that appeared to justify his growing apprehension.

  13

  IN MEN WHO RIDE MUCH ALONE, THERE DEVELOPS A SINGULAR and inexplicable sixth sense that warns of peril present or impending, though none apparently exists — a warning he had long since learned not to disregard. And now that voiceless monitor was setting up a clamor in his brain, refusing to be downed. Blast it! Something was going to happen, something not good!

  Gomez suddenly glanced at the clock and announced, “I’m going to walk over to where they’re building that packing house. Want to see how they’re getting along.” He grinned at Slade in a friendly fashion.

  “You see, Mr. Slade,” he said, “that if the dispute over the Chamizal happens to be settled in our favor, the more buildings and businesses in the Zone the better for Juarez.”

  “I can see that,” Slade admitted. “And just possibly it might be the better for the businesses, lower tax rate, and so forth. Mind if I walk with you?”

  “I’d be greatly pleased to have your company,” Gomez instantly answered.

  Pablo shot Slade a questioning glance. Carmen, when Slade waved to her, looked worried. But she usually did when he went out, so he thought little of it.

  Don Carlos chatted animatedly as they walked, but Slade was mostly silent, watchful and alert, for the warning clamor in his brain was intensifying. He breathed relief when they left the straggle of unlighted buildings and the dark alley mouths behind. Now the packing house, where flares winked and flickered was no great distance away. Closer still was the shadowy loom of the rising structure that would house the saloon. The darker rectangle of its doorless doorway was apparent as they drew near. And now the voiceless monitor was storming.

  Suddenly Slade’s long arm shot out. That arm, rigid as a bar of steel, swept Don Carlos from his feet a scant second before a gun blazed from the doorway and a bullet whined through the space his body had occupied an instant before.

  In the same ripple of movement, Slade went sideways as the unseen gun flashed again. The slug fanned his face. Whipping both Colts from their sheaths, weaving, ducking and slithering, he answered the hidden gunman shot for shot, the big sixes booming a veritable drumroll.

  He heard a gasping cry, then the thud of something falling. Still weaving from side to side, he glided forward, thumbs hooked over the cocked hammers. He could dimly make out a form lying motionless just inside the doorway.

  From the nearby packing house sounded a volley of yells. Flares were held aloft, their bearers drawing nearer.

  “It’s Mr. Slade!” a voice bawled. “Come on, boys, he may need help!”

  The workers rushed forward, waving crowbars, hammers, lengths of scantling.

  “Quiet!” Slade snapped to Don Carlos, who had scrambled to his feet. “Let me do the talking.”

  Foremost of the advance was Matt Guffy, bellowing encouragement. The two guards, guns drawn, brought up the rear.

  “Where’s the blankety-blank?” howled Guffy. Slade gestured to the doorway.

  “I think he’s dead, but be careful, he might not be.”

  “If he ain’t, he will be!” roared Guffy. There was a concerted rush for the doorway, a thudding of blows.

  “If he wasn’t already dead, he is now,” Slade observed dryly to Don Carlos, who shuddered.

  A moment later, a badly battered corpse was dr
agged into the light.

  “He was dead, all right,” Guffy said cheerfully. “You got him dead center, twice, Mr. Slade. We just wanted to make sure.”

  “Anybody recognize him?” Slade asked.

  The workers and the guards squatted around the body, straightened up and shook their heads. Mike Thompson, who was bossing the night shift, hobbled up on his crutches.

  “Blankety-blank-blank leg!” he swore. “Made me miss all the fun!” He also took a look and responded in the negative.

  “How about you, Don Carlos?” Slade asked.

  The alcalde peered at the dead face, what was left of it. “Yes, I have seen him before,” he replied without hesitation. “You know I own a cantina on Avenue Lerdo Norte, across the river. He was in the place several times, I recall, usually talking with a big man with a black beard. I know nothing more of him.”

  “I see,” Slade said thoughtfully. “Matt, send somebody for the sheriff, will you, please?”

  “Sure,” replied Guffy, and dispatched a man on the errand. “And now, if you’d like to look things over, Don Carlos,” he added, “just wait till I get these work dodgers back on the job and I’ll show you around. That’s one of the reasons I left the cantina and came over here for a while. Wanted to see how things were going, anyhow, though.”

  Th workers trooped back to their chores. Slade and the alcalde followed, a little to the rear. Guffy held back a moment before joining the others.

  “What was it all about, Mr. Slade, do you know?” he asked.

  “It would seem somebody doesn’t like me,” Slade replied.

  “I don’t doubt it, the way you’ve been handing it to the scuts of late,” Guffy growled. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that one any more.” He hurried ahead to join the others. Don Carlos gave Slade a strange look.

  “Mr. Slade,” he said, “that bullet was intended for me, not you.”

  “So I assume,” the Ranger replied.

  “But what in heaven’s name does it mean?” demanded the bewildered mayor. “I admit there have been differences of opinion between the two towns of late, but I cannot conceive of any citizen of El Paso seeking to murder me.”