“No legitimate citizen of El Paso would think of doing such a thing,” Slade answered quietly. “The answer is, Don Carlos, that somebody is deliberately trying to stir up strife between the two towns. Somebody motivated by greed, utterly ruthless, wih no regard for the sanctity of human life, ready to murder should it tend to advance his aims.”
“But how would such a person profit from killing me?” Gomez wondered. Slade smiled slightly.
“Don Carlos,” he said, “had you been killed tonight, here in El Paso, what would have been the reaction of the people of Juarez?”
“I fear,” Don Carlos answered slowly, “that some hotheads would have sought to wreak vengeance on the people of El Paso.”
“Exactly,” Slade said. “Which would have meant something very like open war along the Border. With our Federal government moving in and definitely taking over the Chamizal Zone. Which would have meant the Zone would become Texas State Land and amenable to purchase, and would have very likely been bought up by some individual with political connections and able to pull a wire or two over at the State Capital.”
A light seemed to dawn on Don Carlos. “I see,” he said. “Mr. Slade, tonight you saved my life, at the risk of your own. I will not forget it. If ever the time comes when I can do you a favor, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I’m going to ask one right now,” Slade smiled. “Forget this conversation. Let folks think, as they are thinking now, that the drygulcher’s bullet was meant for me. I have reasons for asking.”
“You need no reasons, all you need is to ask,” Don Carlos instantly replied. He flashed his youthful grin. “I have forgotten already,” he said. “Well, here we are at the building; now we will let the Senor Guffy take charge.”
Guffy did so, pointing out salient points of the construction for the edification of Don Carlos, who showed a lively interest in the proceedings.
“I think a little later I’ll have to borrow you boys for some building I have in mind,” he chuckled. “You sure know your business.”
“We try to make out,” replied Guffy. “Well, here comes the sheriff with a couple of his specials; thought he’d be showing ‘fore long.”
The sheriff regarded Slade accusingly. “Knew darn well something would happen, with you on the loose,” he declared. “Never a minute’s peace with you mavericking around.”
“But he’s nice to have around,” put in Don Carlos.
“Uh-huh, but darn disturbing.”
Arrangements were made to pack the body to the office. Then all four headed for Pablo’s cantina.
“Is it all right for me to tell Pablo what really happened?” the mayor asked in low tones.
“Yes, it will be okay,” Slade agreed. “He keeps a tight latigo on his jaw.”
Don Carlos did so, drawing the cantina owner aside. Pablo solemnly shook hands with Slade.
“Once again, Capitan, I am in your debt,” he said. “I would have been desolated did something happen to my amigo. Gracias Capitan! Gracias!”
Slade turned to Don Carlos. “Who all knew you planned to visit the packing house tonight?” he asked.
“Why, only Pablo, the sheriff, and the Senor Guffy, so far as I know,” the alcalde said. “We were seated at that table in the corner when I mentioned it. Of course I may have been overheard, but I think that unlikely.” Slade nodded and changed the subject.
“I think that shortly I shall return to Juarez,” Don Carlos said. “It has been a tempestuous night and I weary.”
Gordo Allendes, who had been out somewhere, was standing at the far end of the bar. Slade approached him.
“Don Carlos departs for Juarez soon,” he said, without preamble.
“Of a certainty, Capitan,” Gordo replied. He did not need to be told more. A little later, Slade said goodnight to the alcalde with a free mind.
He was seated at an isolated table, telling Carmen just what happened, when Sheriff Serby joined them. The account was repeated for his benefit.
“If he had been killed, the fat would have been in the fire for fair!” exclaimed Serby. “He’s very popular in Juarez, and elsewhere. Yes, the devil would have been to pay and no pitch hot.”
“And I’ll wager neither of you has had any dinner,” Carmen said. “Well, we’ll soon remedy that.” She trotted off to the kitchen.
“Things are quieting down a bit uptown,” Serby remarked. “Nothing bad happened, so far. A few rukuses, none of them serious. Guess you had all the real excitement to yourself.”
“I can do with a little less of that sort,” Slade replied. “Gives me the creeps to think about it. I sort of played a hunch when I decided to accompany Gomez. It paid off.”
“It sure did,” Serby agreed soberly. “But then your blasted hunches, as you call ‘em, always do.”
“An element of luck accompanied that one,” Slade said. “Just at the right moment, somebody held up a flare on the second floor of the packing house. The light fell in that doorway and I saw movement there. I took no chances.”
“Except the one of getting your comeuppance saving Gomez from getting his,” the sheriff observed. “Well, your pet devil looked after you, per usual. Let us drink!”
Before their dinner arrived, Serby asked, “Still no notion as to who’s back of what’s been happening?”
“I’m getting a vague idea,” Slade admitted. “Not quite ready to talk about it, for so far I have only suspicions, certainly no proof.”
“If you run true to form, you’ll get it,” the sheriff predicted confidently.
“And I’ve a notion there’ll be some surprised folks when you do turn it up,” he added.
“Quite likely,” Slade conceded. “Well, here comes Carmen with a waiter.”
“And about time,” grunted Serby. “My stomach’s beginning to think my throat’s been sewed up.”
After they finished eating, Carmen said, “I’m going to change — things are quieting down. You about ready to call it a night, Walt?”
“Yes, I think so,” Slade replied. “Doubt if there’ll be any more action tonight, at least not here.”
“Kansas Street usually is sorta quiet, sometimes,” the sheriff observed irrelevantly.
Carmen wrinkled her nose at him and flounced off.
14
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, SLADE VISITED THE RAILROAD telegraph office. “Want to send a message, Mr. Slade?” asked the operator who knew him well.
“Yes, and I want you to forget it,” Slade replied. The operator grinned.
“Done forgot it,” he declared. Slade wrote it out and handed it to him.
The operator stared at the name mentioned but offered no comment. The message was addressed to James S. Hogg, the former governor of Texas, Beaumont, Texas.
“There should be an answer in a few hours, if Hogg isn’t gallivanting off somewhere,” Slade told the operator. “Hold it for me.”
“Certain,” replied that worthy.
Late that evening, the return message arrived. It read —
Associate of Tim Billings. Mixed up
in his schemes. Dropped out of sight
a while back.
Slade read the message, tore it into small bits and stowed them in his pocket to burn later. He had learned all he needed to know.
Tim Billings was a political boss, notorious for the questionable deals he managed to put across, but with plenty of influence in certain quarters.
“But I think, Mr. Billings,” Slade apostrophized the non-present boss, “that your field man has gotten completely out of hand. No matter what you have or haven’t done, I don’t believe you would knowingly countenance murder and robbery as side lines. Well, folks who play with pitch are liable to get their fingers sticky.
“And I think that before all is said and done, you may well be eliminated from the political scene for some time to come. Another example, perhaps, of good, indirectly, from evil.”
Still later that evening, while Slade was present, Sheriff Serby had a
visitor. Old Sime Judson, owner of the Tumbling J spread, which lay between Charley Arbaugh’s Bar A on the north and Nelson Evers’ Circle C on the south, stormed in, and his temper was anything but angelic. With him was Wimpy Hawkins, the reformed gambler and sleeve-gun artist.
“I’m losing cows!” Judson barked. “I’m losing plenty. Where do they go? How the blankety-blank-blank do I know where they go! Nobody seems to know. But they’re going. Just little bunches at a time, but plenty of bunches.”
Before the sheriff could answer the diatribe, Slade spoke.
“Mr. Judson,” he said, “while you may not be able to state specifically where your stock went, you certainly should have been able to ascertain in which direction they were driven.”
“Well, we did track some of ‘em for a ways,” Judson admitted. “‘Peared to be headin’ sorta south by west. But it’s mighty heavy grass down there and a small bunch don’t make much of a mark. We always lost the tracks in a little while.”
“But how about along the river bank?” Slade persisted. “For a quarter of a mile and more inland from the river the grass is sparse and there are plenty of places where hoof marks would show.”
Judson looked blank. “Never thought of that, but by gosh, you’re right,” he admitted. “But they’d have had to cross Nelson Evers’ holding to get to the river. Looks like they would have been spotted.”
“Not necessarily, especially if the stealing was done at night, which was probably the case,” Slade said. “I recall Mr. Evers saying that so far as cattle were concerned, the Circle S was very nearly depleted, only a few old longhorns roaming about, to which he paid no mind, his intention being to run in improved stock. So there would be no reason for his hands, if they have already joined him, to be riding the range after dark. Nor even in the daytime, for that matter, except to possibly examine waterholes to see if they need digging out, and so forth. At the moment it is an ideal setup, for running wet cows in the direction of the Rio Grande.”
“By gosh, you’re right again,” said Judson. Wimpy squeaked agreement.
Only the sheriff noted that Slade said “in the direction of the Rio Grande,” not to the Rio Grande, and wondered a little, but held his peace.
“When we get back to the spread tomorrow, I’ll have the boys scour the river bank and see if they can learn something,” Judson said. “Now I crave nourishment.”
“And a drink,” wailed Wimpy. “Say, Mr. Slade, won’t you show me how you spun my sleeve gun like you did that day out on the trail?” He spatted the little arm against his palm and handed it to Slade.
“Really nothing to it,” the Ranger said. “Done with the wrist and the thumb. Watch closely now.”
He extended the sleeve gun toward Wimpy, butt to the front. But as Wimpy reached for it, it spun like an arc of light and the twin black muzzles glared at Wimpy.
“I see,” squealed Wimpy. “Now I can do it; let’s have it.”
He took the gun, held it as Slade directed, his muscles tensed.
“Don’t cock it!” Slade roared, but too late.
There was a wild scattering as Wimpy spun the derringer. It spun, all right, but missed Wimpy’s hand by a foot to hit the floor.
“Bang!” said the derringer, jumping back with a recoil like a living thing.
“You loco horned toad!” howled Judson, shaking his fist in Wimpy’s face. “You ain’t fit to be trusted with a kid’s cap pistol! Put that thing in your pocket and keep it there. Don’t let me see you take it out!”
“But I spun her!” Wimpy squawked triumphantly. “She’s got a hair trigger, but I spun her!”
“And I’d oughta spun you through the window!” snorted Judson. “Come on, let’s go eat. You fellers coming along?”
Intercepting a glance from Slade, the sheriff spoke.
“We’ll be along a little later. Expect a message any minute from Doc McChesney, saying when he wants to hold an inquest on that carcass we packed in last night.”
“Okay,” said Judson, “be seeing you.”
When the door was closed, Serby turned expectantly to Slade.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked.
“I think,” the Ranger replied, “that a smart gentleman made a slip that may well cost him dear. That is, if things work out as I hope them to.”
“Ready to mention who the gentleman is?” Serby asked.
“Yes,” Slade answered. “I figure it’s time for you to know. Nelson Evers.”
The sheriff stared. “Nelson Evers!” he stuttered. “What in blazes! I figured you were keepin’ an eye on Gregory Cole.”
“Gregory Cole,” Slade replied, “is just a harmless old moneylender, with apparently a grouch on the world. Even were he dishonest, which he isn’t, at least not according to his own code of ethics, he hasn’t the brains, imagination, energy, or personality to concoct such a scheme as the hellion, with able assistance from others, is trying to put into effect here. I telegraphed Jim Hogg, giving Evers’ name, which happens to be his real one, and a description. Hogg replied that he was an associate of Tim Billings over to the capital, a shrewd and adroit political boss of dubious reputation who has influence. It is possible that Billings first hit on the idea, although I doubt if we will be able to prove it, unless we manage to take Evers alive and he talks to save his own neck. Nobody has ever been able to prove anything against Tim Billings. Evers is his field man and, I would say, has gone far beyond anything Billings had in mind. He’s utterly ruthless.
“I’ll admit I wondered a little about Cole in the beginning, especially after seeing him hurrying away from the wharfs right after the rukus between those two riverfront gangs, Texans and Mexicans, both admitting that the row was instigated by a tall man with a black beard. But he just didn’t fit the picture right; he was too transparent in his dislikes and his grudges. Evers was just the opposite.”
“When did you first get a real notion about Evers?” Serby asked.
“I first got to thinking about him when he visited the office for a look at the bodies of those two wideloopers who tried to run off Arbaugh’s cows,” Slade replied. “He didn’t even glance at their faces but carefully examined their wounds. Trying to learn if they possibly lived long enough to talk a little before cashing in. When he saw that they couldn’t possibly have, his relief was apparent. That set me wondering about Senor Evers. Why should he be so interested? Then it was one little thing after another. He was always around just before something happened, and so forth. Of course he cinched the case against himself when he tried to have Carlos Gomez killed last night.”
“How was that?” asked the sheriff.
“So far as I was able to learn, Evers was the only person aside from Pablo, Guffy, you, and myself who knew Gomez intended to visit the site of the packing house,” Slade explained. “And right after you mentioned in Roony’s place what Gomez planned to do, he got up and left. It was too darn pat to be put down to just coincidence. So I sent my message to Jim Hogg, and his reply told me all I needed to know.
“Incidentally, Evers’ cock-and-bull yarn about his horse falling and hurting his leg strengthened my belief that Evers was the hellion I needed to keep an eye on. I was positive that I nicked one of the stage robbers, the one with the black beard. In the leg, I figured, from the way he limped to his horse. See?”
“Yes, I see,” the sheriff replied wearily. “But the way you tie things up and make each little piece fit together to make the picture is beyond me.”
“Training,” Slade smiled. “The Rangers teach you such things.”
“Uh-huh, but not everybody can swallow all the teaching and come up with the right answer.”
Which, Slade thought, was about as neatly scrambled a sentence as he had ever listened to. However, he “got” what the sheriff meant.
“And now what?” Serby asked.
“Now we can only await developments and hope for the best,” El Halcón answered. “So far, I haven’t a thing on the devil that would stand
up in court, especially against the kind of lawyers Tim Billings would be able to provide. In the meanwhile, I’m looking forward to what Sime Judson’s hands will learn when they comb the Rio Grande River bank down to the south. Tell you about that later, after they report their findings. Judson will ride to town and tell us.”
“And then?”
“And then I’ll do a little investigating of my own.”
The sheriff nodded, and asked no questions, knowing it would be but a waste of time.
At that moment the messenger arrived with word that Doc McChesney, the coroner, planned to hold the inquest on the dead drygulcher early the following afternoon.
“Carlos Gomez said he’d come over and testify,” observed Serby. “I’ll send him word. Let’s go eat.”
The inquest, incidentally, absolved Slade of blame and congratulated him on a good chore.
15
THREE DAYS LATER, SIME JUDSON WAS BACK IN THE OFFICE, and his temper had not improved.
“I’m still losin’ ‘em,” he declared. “Another small bunch from around a waterhole last night. Nelson Evers rode up to the casa and asked if there was anything anybody could do to help. I told him there didn’t seem to be anything anybody could do. That we were guarding the bunches that fed down to the south. He thought that was a good notion and said some of his hands had arrived and that he’d have two or three of ‘em sorta patrol that section, too. Nice of him.”
“Very nice,” Slade agreed, with a sarcasm that was lost on Judson.
“How about the river bank I told you to comb?” he asked.
“We combed it,” growled Judson. “For miles in both directions, and never found a hoof mark. No cows stray down that way, of course, because the grass isn’t good, and a bunch being driven across to the river would sure have left some marks. I’m beginning to wonder if the hellions don’t circle around and head for the New Mexico Line, though Charley Arbaugh is keeping an eye out there.
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