Range Ghost

by Bradford Scott

  The hours passed slowly. The great clock in the sky crossed the zenith and wheeled westward, and nothing happened. After another tedious wait, El Halcon began wondering if he was following a cold trail, if his hunch wasn’t a straight one, after all. Seemed that if the wideloopers were really active, they should have put in an appearance before now, it being imperative that they have the herd shoved well out onto the desert before daybreak were they to avoid detection.

  Then abruptly he heard a sound, thin with distance but without doubt the querulous bleat of an irritated steer. His pulses leaped exultantly; he had guessed right, a stolen bunch was being run across the Valley. He picked up his high-powered Winchester, a “special” procured for him by General Manager Jaggers Dunn, which he had leaned against the tree trunk, and made sure the mechanism was in perfect order. Then, tense and eager, he waited.

  Some minutes passed, and again the bleat came, much closer. Another ten minutes and he knew the cows were mounting the slope.

  The foremost bulged into view, blowing and snorting, and were followed by more and more. It was a good-sized herd, more than a hundred head, a heavy loss for some owner and a very lucrative haul for the rustlers. Slade moved a little farther to the front, peering through a final straggle of twigs and branches. He raised the rifle.

  The sensible thing would have been to open fire as soon as the wideloopers came into view, but he was a Texas Ranger and must give the murderous devils the chance they didn’t deserve, even at the risk of his own life.

  The last cow scrambled over the lip. Behind it streamed six horsemen. They bunched together for a moment to give the cattle a chance to catch their breath before lining them up in marching order. Slade’s voice rang out—

  “Elevate! You’re covered!”

  There was a chorus of startled exclamations, the whitish blur of faces turned toward the sound, then a clutching of weapons. Shots rang out, but Slade had instantly shifted position after speaking and none of the slugs came very close. His eyes, the cold gray of a stormy sky, glanced along the sights.

  The Winchester bucked against his shoulder, spouted flame. A man whirled from the saddle to lie motionless. Answering bullets stormed past, close, for he didn’t have time to complete his shift. One ripped his shirt sleeve and just grazed the skin of his arm. Another shredded his hatbrim. He shot again, and another saddle was emptied. A slug that barely touched his temple hurled him sideways with the shock, which may have been the best thing that could have happened, for the rustlers fired at the flash.

  A third time the heavy rifle boomed. A third man reeled and lurched sideways, clutching the saddle horn for support.

  A voice yelled an order. The rustlers, shouting curses, whirled their mounts and went charging down the slope to the valley floor, Slade speeding them on their way with lead until the magazine was empty. Swiftly he refilled it with fresh cartridges, listening intently the while against the chance that one might halt and come creeping back up the slope, hoping to catch him unawares. But his keen ears told him the four sets of hoofs kept pounding on after they thudded onto the gorge floor. Evidently the hellions had all of him they wanted.

  With caution he approached the two forms on the ground but quickly saw there was nothing to fear from them. By the aid of a match he examined the dead faces. One he had never seen before, but the other, big and bulky, with a still somewhat swollen jaw, was the leader of the trio that tried to gun him down in the lake-front saloon. Well, retribution had been swift for him.

  Turning out the wideloopers’ pockets revealed nothing of significance save a surprising large sum of money, which he replaced. He regretted that their horses had followed the others down the slope; the brands might possibly have told him something. It was unlikely, however.

  Next he turned his attention to the tired cows that had scattered and were grazing. What the devil to do with them? He did not care to sit up till daybreak with them and he did not consider it advisable to leave them where they were. Just a chance that the rustlers, after they had recovered somewhat from their fright, might sneak back for them. Not apt to happen, but such gentry sometimes did the unexpected. Abruptly he arrived at a solution.

  It was but a few miles farther west to Keith Norman’s ranchhouse. Why not drive the herd there, where they would be safe? The brands showed they were John Fletcher’s Diamond F stock. Norman would send a man to notify Fletcher and the Diamond F owner could retrieve them. Give him a chance, also, to pay Norman the visit he had promised, a bit ahead of time. With a chuckle he flipped the bit back into Shadow’s mouth and tightened the cinches. Then he rolled and lighted a cigarette, giving the purloined cattle a chance to rest a bit longer and fill their bellies.

  Getting the beefs moving in the right direction was no chore for a cowhand of El Halcon’s ability. Soon the disgusted critters were trudging west, voicing their protest against such outlandish treatment from time to time.

  Dawn was pulsing scarlet and gold in the east when he sighted the ranchhouse. Everybody was still asleep, but hammering on the front door soon brought old Keith thumping barefoot down the stairs to open it with a profane inquiry as to who was disturbing his rest.

  His irritation quickly changed to a welcome greeting when he recognized his untimely guest. Slade indicated his four-footed charges, who were continuing their interrupted meal, and explained how he came to have them in tow. Old Keith proceeded to do some really fancy swearing.

  “And you did for two of the sidewinders, you say?” he concluded. “Good! Good! Shut the door and sit down; I’ll rustle some coffee and a snack. Pedro will be up any minute now and he’ll lend a hand. I’ll care for your horse. Sit down, here comes Jerry; guess she heard me call your name and had to take time to make herself beautiful before showing up.”

  Glancing at her tripping down the stairs in a clinging silken robe, Slade felt if that was the reason for her delay, she had succeeded admirably, even though her curly hair was touseled enough to refute her uncle’s deduction.

  “Why should I take time to comb it?” she replied to Slade’s jocular comment. “Haven’t you seen—say! What have you been into now? There’s a hole in your shirt sleeve, your hat is all beat up, and there’s dried blood on your forehead!”

  The story was repeated, briefly, for her benefit. She shuddered, and said, “Always something nobody else would think of! I heard you knock and knew it could be nobody else showing up at this outlandish hour. Well, I’m glad you made it here so soon. I’ll give Uncle Keith a hand in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll send somebody to tell Fletcher to come and get his stock,” Norman called. “Reckon he’ll be sorta surprised.”

  “And have somebody notify the sheriff,” Slade replied. “He’ll want to pick up the bodies.”

  “Sure for certain,” old Keith promised.

  Without too much difficulty, Slade put away the coffee and the sumptuous snack, after which old Keith said, “And now to bed with you, pronto; you must be tuckered.”

  “Do feel a mite weary,” Slade admitted. “Was quite a night.”

  In the comfortable bed he had occupied before, he slept soundly until shortly after noon. When he descended to the living room, he found Jerry awaiting him.

  “Your breakfast will be ready soon,” she said. “Don’t talk till you’ve had your coffee. All men are grouchy till they’ve had their morning coffee.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, so I’ve been told,” she giggled, and whisked out to the kitchen.

  It was late afternoon when John Fletcher arrived with a couple of hands to claim his stock. He thanked Slade profusely and expressed gratification at the downing of the two rustlers.

  “All you have to do is stick around for a spell and everything will be taken care of,” he declared. “Sure we’ll spend the night, Keith; don’t feel up to night drive with those critters.”

  Still later, Sheriff Carter showed up, accompanied by a deputy and a couple of mules bearing the bodies of the two wideloopers, which
were placed in the barn for safe keeping till the next day.

  “House going to be plumb filled up tonight,” Norman chuckled. “Fine! I like company, and we got plenty of room, and I expect I can rustle a bottle or two. I figure a little celebrating is in order.”

  “If things are too crowded, I’ll sleep under a tree,” Slade told Jerry, who made a face at him.

  “You and your hunches!” the sheriff snorted after receiving the details of what happened. “Well, they always seem to pay off.”

  “He calls them hunches, but they’re really just the result of a passel of careful thinking out,” commented Fletcher.

  “I figure you’ve got something there, John,” Carter conceded.

  When he got an opportunity to talk with him alone, Slade informed the sheriff of his discovery that one of the wideloopers was a member of the trio that attempted to take his life in the lake-front saloon.

  “So that sidewinder got what was coming to him fast,” Carter exclaimed with satisfaction.

  “Yes, and I consider it confirms my belief that the bunch, well or ganized, shrewd and capable, is working out of Amarillo, with somebody of good repute heading it,” Slade said.

  “I’ve a notion you’re right,” the sheriff agreed.

  But he was as puzzled as El Halcon over the riddle of how cattle were run across the “waterless” desert.

  “It just don’t make sense,” he declared. “How do the hellions do it?”

  “I don’t know,” Slade admitted frankly, “but I intend to find out. I’ve got a couple of theories I am going to put to work. Once down in the southwest part of the state I found water on a desert where there was not supposed to be any. It was on top of what everybody considered to be a big sand dune, which in reality was a rocky hillock sheathed by wind-drifted sand over the course of ages. On top of the hillock was a wide indenture or cup that was fed by springs deep down in the earth. But I’m ready to swear there is no such formation on this desert.

  “However, there evidently is water somewhere between here and the New Mexico hills. Lots of things in this great sparsely inhabited land that are supposed not to exist. I doubted it before, but now I’ll be willing to put credence in the claim of oldtimers that the Indians knew where to find water out there. And if they could find it, why can’t I?”

  “If it’s there, you’ll find it,” Carter predicted confidently. “Let’s go in, Pedro’s yelpin’ to come and get it.”

  Dinner in the big dining room was a gala affair. After pipes and cigarettes were smoked, old Keith announced—

  “Gents, now we’re going to have some music. In front, everybody!”

  Quickly the living room was crowded. Old Keith motioned to Jerry’s grand piano.

  “Ladies and—lady, rather—and gents, the singingest man in the whole dadburned Southwest will favor us with a tune or two. Go to it, Slade!”

  With a smile and a nod, Slade sat down on the stool. His slender fingers drew booming chords from the really fine instrument. Then he sang, sang in a voice deep and powerful as the flooded Canadian thundering in its sunken gorge, sweetly melodious as the winds whispering through the cedars on a dreamy summer night. Songs of the horse and the lonely rangeland, and the men who loved both. Songs of the turbulent towns with their flow and rush of life, filled with their laughter, their anger, blood and death.

  And as the great metallic baritone-bass pealed its magic under the low ceiling, something of it all passed through the minds of the entranced listeners, and many a thought of lonely men turned elsewhere as he concluded with a hauntingly beautiful love song of his own composition; and Jerry Norman’s beautiful eyes were not the only ones that were misty.

  The piano crashed its vibrating chords, and was still. Slade flashed the irresistible smile of El Halcon at his audience and left the stool. And old Keith repeated what had been said before—

  “Why the devil does he ever have to shoot anybody? All he needs to do is sing to them and owlhoots turn into little harmless puppy dogs!”

  “Ai,” murmured old Pedro, the cook. “He sings as sang the Heavenly Host. But when he sings, some evil one will weep!”

  Prophetic words.

  Chapter Seven

  As he and Carter and the deputy started for town, leading the grimly burdened mules, Fletcher following with the retrieved cows, Slade turned and gazed westward to where loomed Tucumcari, the mountains that looked like the breasts of a sleeping woman, and Mt. Capulin, the last of the active volcanoes of the southwestern United States. Somewhere on the gray desolation between the fertile rangeland and those shadowy peaks lay the answer to the tantalizing riddle that defied him. Somewhere out there was water, or all signs failed. Well, it was up to him to find it and by so doing smash the widelooping bunch that was plaguing the section. He turned back in the saddle, the concentration furrow deep between his black brows, a sure sign El Halcon was doing some hard thinking.

  Did the devils confine their activities to cow stealing it wouldn’t be too bad; but they undoubtedly also went in for such nice sidelines as robbery and murder.

  The mystery of the hidden water was intriguing, but a much more important problem confronted him, that of learning the identity of the head of the outlaw organization, who made the plans and directed operations. Slade felt pretty sure he was somebody thoroughly familiar with the section and its possibilities. According to old Estaban, the Valley dweller, he knew of a crossing other than the one utilized the night Fletcher’s cows were stolen, one that Slade himself did not know about. Also, Slade shrewdly suspected he was somebody in a position to garner information and take advantage of opportunities thus provided. Once again the new type of criminal that was invading the West, employing the methods of big city malefactors, staying in the background as much as possible and directing operations from under cover.

  Slade wondered if he had been one of the widelooping bunch whose plans he had frustrated. Somebody had certainly spoken with authority when the order to get the blankety-blank out of there was shouted. That denoted fast and accurate thinking, for unless a chance shot had downed him, holed up in the brush as he was with his targets in the brilliant flood of the moonlight, he would have killed every member of the bunch did they remain in the open and endeavor to shoot it out with him. Somebody realized that and reacted accordingly.

  Well, he had gone up against that sort before, and so far had always come out on top. He rode on with a tranquil mind.

  Progress with the laden mules was slow and the afternoon was well along when the cortege reached Amarillo. The XT hand who, the day before, brought the word to Sheriff Carter had spread the tale around and very quickly a crowd of the curious and the interested trailed along to the sheriff’s office. The latter included several cattlemen who had recently lost stock and their satisfaction was great. One and all they shook hands with Slade and showered him with congratulations.

  “Carter’s been needin’ a deputy like you for quite a spell, now,” one oldtimer remarked. “Ain’t the first time you’ve been in this section, is it? I recall hearing what you did to some rapscallions the last time you were here. Keep up the good work!”

  Among those who visited the office was big, irascible Neale Ditmar, who had recently bought his Tumbling D spread, and of whom Sheriff Carter did not overly approve. He looked Slade up and down with his arrogant eyes, then solemnly shook hands.

  “Be seeing you again,” he said, and left. The sheriff’s gaze followed him.

  “I can’t make that hellion out,” he confided in an undertone to Slade. “He sorta makes a feller feel that he’s laughing at you, inside. Sure don’t talk much. Nobody knows for sure just where he came from. From over east is about all he’s ever said.”

  Slade himself had not made up his mind relative to Neale Ditmar. He was something in the nature of an enigma, and enigmas always interested El Halcon, although it had been his experience that they usually turned out to be on the commonplace side. He reserved judgment on Ditmar until he learned
more about him and had a chance to study him a bit.

  A more congenial visitor was Tobar Shaw, the Bradded H owner to the west of Keith Norman’s holding. After complimenting Slade, he chatted amicably with the sheriff.

  “I just got in town and heard of Mr. Slade’s exploit,” he observed. “It was good hearing to me. I’ll have to admit that of late I’ve been getting a mite worried. Big fellows like Fletcher and Norman can take it, for a while, but the little fellow, like myself, can’t. Did I lose a shipping herd, I’d find myself in straitened circumstances. Even a small bunch now and then hurts.”

  Which Slade knew to be true. Even the big owners could not for long withstand a steady drain on their resources. Organized widelooping had forced more than one rancher to the wall, and not always the small ones.

  “A nice sort of feller,” Carter remarked after Shaw had left the office. “We could use more of his sort in place of some we’ve been getting of late.”

  Slade did not argue the point pro or con, although he admitted that Tobar Shaw made a good impression. As in the case of Ditmar, he had not formed a definite opinion relative to Shaw; he was not in the habit of exercising snap judgment where anybody he met was concerned, having learned from experience that men are not always what they appear to be. Neale Ditmar might be all right despite his somewhat forbidding exterior, but then again he could be just the opposite.

  The crowd had pretty well dissipated, only a few curious stragglers remaining. The sheriff shooed them out and shut the door.

  “Suppose we amble over to the Trail End for a surrounding?” he said to Slade. “Nobody will admit knowing those two hellions there on the floor and there’s no sense in sticking around longer right now.”

  Slade was agreeable and they made their way to Sanders’ place, where Swivel-eye had an uproarious welcome for them.

  “One out of my private bottle!” he boomed, waving said bottle in the air. “This calls for a mite of a celebration. So you hit those wind spiders where it hurt, Mr. Slade?”