Range Ghost

by Bradford Scott

  John Fletcher nodded sober agreement.

  A couple of quiet days followed. Nothing happened and El Halcon began to grow restless and uneasy. He felt sure the outlaws would strike somewhere, and soon, but where? That was the big question. The continual suspense was like waiting for the fellow upstairs to drop the other shoe. Sheriff Carter fumed and fussed. Slade wore a tranquil expression and did not comment. However, he was far from tranquil inside.

  And then about mid morning of the third day, John Fletcher stormed in.

  “They did it again!” he bellowed. “Run off a bunch of nearly a hundred from around a couple of waterholes on my north pasture.”

  “How, where?” demanded the sheriff.

  “How in blazes do I know how or where!” snorted Fletcher. “We kept close watch along the north bank of the Canadian, up top the Valley, and never spotted a thing. Them cows just ’peared to vanish in thin air. Fact is, I’m just about ready to pull out—had about all I can take.”

  “Don’t do it, Mr. Fletcher,” Slade counseled earnestly. “Hang onto your land so long as you have a cow left.”

  “Uh-huh, that’ll be just about it, one cow left,” grunted Fletcher. “But I’ll have something else left, too—a mortgage.”

  “A mortgage?”

  “Uh-huh, Tobar Shaw talked me into it; he’s a darn convincing talker when he takes a notion to be, and I’ll have to admit what he had to say made sense. Young Brent of the JB said the same thing, but he ain’t dry behind the ears yet and I didn’t pay much attention to him. On the other hand, Shaw is a mature man of experience and should know what he’s talking about. He showed me that the only way to meet the competition that’s growin’ up is to run in improved stock; he says the longhorns are on the way out and we might as well all face it.”

  “He’s right there,” Slade interpolated.

  “So I figure,” Fletcher conceded. “So I’m mortgaging the spread for money to buy the blankety-blank stock. Figure if we can just put a stop to the blankety-blank widelooping I should make out. But I won’t be able to stand up against what’s going on hereabouts now. And this section, as you know, is still kinda land poor—everybody got more acres than they really need, and the bank will be sorta chary about extensions and such. Case of meet your notes when they fall due or you’re headed for trouble.”

  Which Slade knew very well was the truth.

  “And Shaw gave you the advice,” he remarked thoughtfully.

  “Uh-huh, reckon he sorta tipped the balance,” Fletcher admitted. “Us old fellers are hard to change, but we can see through the trunk of a tree if somebody chops a hole. What do you think, Slade?”

  “I think,” Slade said slowly, “that running in improved stock is wise, but I agree with you that the steady drain on your resources must stop. And you patrolled the north crest of the Valley carefully?”

  “We did,” Fletcher declared. “Nothing could have slipped through; had the boys strung out clear west to the edge of Shaw’s holding, and it was a good bright night.”

  “I see,” Slade said, the concentration furrow deepening between his black brows. “Okay, Mr. Fletcher, don’t worry too much about the future. I venture to predict everything will shortly be cleared up and you will be satisfied that you have made a wise investment. Perhaps much wiser than you realize,” he added cryptically.

  Sheriff Carter shot him a quick look, but El Halcon did not see fit to amplify his last remark.

  “Sure glad to hear you say it,” said Fletcher. “You make me feel a helluva sight better. When you say something is so, I figure it’s mighty apt to be so. Okay, let’s amble over to the Trail End for a snort or two ’fore I head back to the spread.”

  As they walked, Slade turned to gaze northward, and the concentration furrow deepened a trifle more.

  Fletcher’s holding was peculiar in shape, like to a giant letter U laid on its side, the mouth or open end of the U pointing west. The south arm of the U, representing Fletcher’s land south of the Canadian Valley, was shortened. The curve of the U swept around to the east and north and the northern arm was longer by many miles than the other, longer and wider. It represented Fletcher’s holding to the north of the river and extended to Tobar Shaw’s ranch to the west, which also included land north of the Valley.

  Fletcher had his snorts and a sandwich, then hurried back to his casa, leaving Slade and Carter still at the table.

  “Well, what do you think?” the latter asked.

  “I think,” Slade replied slowly, “that somebody made a slip, one that may well prove fatal for him; we’ll discuss that later. Right now I’m going to pay the Valley and old Estaban a visit. This could prove the break we’ve been hoping for.”

  “Don’t you think I’d better go along?” Carter suggested. Slade shook his head.

  “No, I prefer to handle this one alone,” he declined. “It’s just in the nature of an exploring expedition. Be seeing you tomorrow, I hope.”

  The sheriff looked worried but did not argue the point, knowing it would be but a waste of time. Slade got the rig on Shadow and headed north by slightly west through the golden sunshine. Some distance from town he pulled up, as usual, and studied the back trail for a long time.

  “I’d say we’re not wearing a tail,” he told Shadow. “Didn’t think we would, but you never can tell. Anyhow, we won’t take any unnecessary chances. We’re up against a tough bunch with brains, feller, and we don’t want to make a slip. Let’s go!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Riding steadily, with the sun dipping westward, Slade reached the spot where the descent into the Valley was practicable. Again he sat for some minutes scanning the prairie in every direction. It stretched lonely and deserted for as far as the keen eyes of El Halcon could reach. Finally, confident that all was as it should be, he descended to the Valley floor and continued until he reached Estaban’s lonely adobe, where he received a warm welcome. Estaban set forth a bountiful repast, to which they did full justice. Then, when cigarette and cigaro were drawing to their satisfaction, Estaban spoke.

  “Knowing that Capitan would wish it, my amigos have watched the Valley, length and breadth,” the old Mexican said. “Capitan, last night ganado crossed the Valley, far to the west.”

  Slade nodded, not looking particularly surprised. “Crossed and then headed south, I presume,” he said.

  “That is right, Capitan,” Estaban replied. “After the stock had left the Valley, my amigos did not attempt to follow, knowing that on the open plain with the moon shining it would be unwise for them to do so.”

  “It certainly would have been,” Slade agreed. “So the cows came from the north, crossed the Valley and headed south, far to the west of here.”

  “Si, far to the west of Tascosa; they did not pass Tascosa but entered the Valley far beyond, almost at the desert’s edge.”

  “As I expected,” Slade said musingly. “And now, Estaban, I have something to tell you. And what the ears hear, the heart keeps to itself.”

  “Assuredly, Capitan,” Estaban replied, looking expectant.

  Feeling that he had a right to know and confident he would keep a tight latigo on his jaw, Slade related the details of his discovery of the hidden water. Estaban listened with interest, but this time he did not appear particularly surprised.

  “El Halcon sees all,” he commented when Slade paused. “The Indios saw and understood, but even their eyes were not the eyes of El Halcon. What plan you to do with your discovery, Capitan?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know,” Slade answered. “You have helped me a great deal tonight; you confirmed what I merely surmised. It may turn out to be highly important.”

  “It is the pleasure to be of assistance to El Halcon, the good, the just,” returned Estaban. “My amigos will also be greatly pleased.”

  “They did a fine chore,” Slade replied. “It is good to have friends.”

  “He who deserves friends always has friends,” Estaban observed wisely. “When you call, Capi
tan, we will answer. Do you ride tonight?”

  “Yes, I think I shall,” Slade decided. “I want to have a good look at the northern slopes of the Valley, and I’ll ride the Valley. If I mount to the prairie I’d be almost certain to run into some of Fletcher’s hands patrolling, and I’d prefer not to. If my memory serves me, there is an old trail running close to the northern slopes, away from the plazas and not passing close to Tascosa.”

  “That is right,” said Estaban. “It is a very old trail, first beaten out by the Indios. In the old days, cattle thieves and Comanchero smugglers and other ladrones used it. Not much of a trail now, but it can be ridden.”

  “Then I’ll take a chance on it,” Slade replied. “I’ve a notion it will serve my purpose. I’ll give my horse another hour of rest and then I’ll move on.”

  Estaban broke out a bottle of wine and they had a drink together, then smoked and talked until the hour was up. Slade got the rig on his horse and set out. Shadow, rested and full of oats, was in the mood for an amble and stepped out briskly.

  Fording without difficulty the river that at the moment was shallow, Slade rode straight across the Valley until he reached the old Indian track, which ran close to the northern slopes. He turned into the trail, now little more than a game track, and slowed the gait, studying the slopes with care. He knew there must be places where it was possible to descend without breaking a horse’s leg or one’s own neck, and he was anxious to spot them, although he did not believe they were much in use this far east.

  Now the moon, just past the full, was well up in the sky and made the task easier. It was very lonely here, away from the plazas that as a rule hugged the river, and he doubted if the dwellers of the little settlements ever ventured far in this direction. The stillness was broken only by an occasional weird call of some night bird or the hauntingly beautiful distant plaint of a hunting wolf. Shadow’s hoof beats sounded loud, rather louder than his master liked, but there was nothing much to do about it. It was unlikely, however, that there were any ears nearby to hear. But as he worked his way farther and farther west, he slowed the pace still more. Now it was well past midnight and he knew he was riding across Tobar Shaw’s holding, the old Hartsook ranch which, like Fletcher’s land, included pasture both to the south and the north of the Valley, although Hartsook had never used the north section much and presumably neither did Shaw, the once good market across the Oklahoma State Line now being nonexistent.

  As he rode farther and farther west, Slade grew more alert, listening carefully to the calls of owls and other night birds and the yipping of coyotes. More than once the warning voices of those little friends had saved him from disaster; El Halcon knew the woodlands and their denizens as he knew the plains and the towns.

  Right now he was taking no chances, for although he thought it unlikely, it was not beyond the realm of the possible that he might run into the wideloopers shoving another herd south. Didn’t seem logical that they would raid two nights in succession, but they were a shrewd and unpredictable bunch and the unexpected appeared to be their forte.

  The silence was deathly, with not a breath of wind stirring, but now and then a gold or scarlet leaf would drift slowly down through the still air to settle, with the tiniest of rustlings, amid its fellows for the long winter sleep. The subtle fingers of the frost were loosening their hold on the parent tree and the slightest vibration caused them to fall.

  A slow mile slogged past, with only an occasional drifting leaf to break the monotony; and then he came to a point of ascent, wider than most and giving the appearance of having been traveled a good deal and recently. Slade drew rein, peering up its winding course.

  “Feller, this looks like it,” he said to Shadow. “Yes, I believe this is what we’ve been looking for.”

  He gave a final glance around. No sound other than the distant yipping of some coyotes broke the silence. Nowhere was there sign of motion other than that of a golden leaf which fanned his face with its fragrant breath. “Let’s go, horse,” he said, and put Shadow to the slope.

  Riding slowly, straining his ears for any sound from above, he followed the winding track. He covered perhaps a third of the distance and rounded a sharp bend. And abruptly El Halcon realized he had ridden into a trap.

  It wasn’t much that warned him, just a sudden flutter of leaves from a stout tree branch under which he was passing, but it was enough. Instinctively he flung up his right arm to ward off a blow, and the tight loop snaking down from above slid along his forearm and missed its deadly strangle hold on his neck.

  But the force of the instantly jerked rope hurled him from the saddle to strike the ground with stunning force.

  A man slid down the tree trunk. Another followed. “Got him!” a voice exulted.

  “We’ll make sure,” said another. A gun jutted forward.

  From the prone figure on the ground gushed smoke and flame. Slade, although badly shaken by the shock of his fall, was shooting with both hands, rolling over and over as he pulled trigger. It was almost blind shooting, but at that distance El Halcon could hardly miss.

  Answering slugs spatted the ground beside his moving body. Others fanned his face; then all at once he realized that only silence was coming through the swirling smoke cloud. He scrambled to his feet, both guns trained on the motionless forms lying on the ground.

  Nothing more to fear from the pair of would-be killers, but he was still not in the clear, not by a long shot. On the prairie above, shouts were sounding, with answering cries from the Valley floor below, and a thudding of hoofs from both directions. A few more moments and he would be caught between deadly crossfire. The brush on either side of the track was more than usually dense and he could not hope to charge through it without giving away his position to the pursuers.

  With frantic speed, he reloaded his guns, whipped into the saddle. His head was clearing, his hearing back to normal. Tense, ready, he strained his ears to the beat of hoofs loudening from below, estimated the distance; they were almost to the bend. His voice rang out—

  “Trail, Shadow! Trail!”

  The great black lunged forward, careened around the bend. He struck a horse shoulder to shoulder and knocked it off its feet, its rider catapulting into the brush. A second rider gave a howl of pain as both Slade’s guns cut loose with a booming crash, whirled his mount and sent it plunging into the chaparral. Shadow sped on down the trail, rounded another bend. Slade drew a deep breath and holstered his guns. Now he was in the clear, with no chance of the pursuit catching up. Reaching the Valley floor, he swerved Shadow’s head to the west.

  “I’m going to find out what I came here to learn or know the reason why,” he declared wrathfully, shaking his still-ringing head to free his brain of cobwebs. “Keep going, horse, and keep your eyes peeled for some way up out of this blasted crack. That was a plumb smart try, and any other time of the year it would have been successful. But when that sidewinder moved on the branch to drop his loop, he shook loose a bunch of autumn leaves and they told me he was up there. Yes, a smart try, and it’ll take some puzzling to figure just how they handled it. I was absolutely certain I wasn’t wearing a tail when I left town, but the obvious conclusion is that I was.”

  As he rode, he pondered the recent happening, trying to read the riddle of its planning. Quite possibly, he reasoned, his departure from Amarillo was noted and the smart devil heading the outfi t surmised just what he had in mind and acted accordingly, very likely divining that he was in search of the way by which Fletcher’s herd had been run across the Valley so far to the west. When he found it, it was plausible to believe he would ascend the slope to the prairie, which indeed he had in mind all the time. He had ridden slowly up the Valley and it would have been no trick for the outlaws to cut across and get ahead of him, avoiding Fletcher’s patrols, which for horse men would have posed little diffi culty. Thus they would have had ample time to set their trap. Doubtless they had learned by bitter experience that trying to down El Halcon by way of an o
rthodox, run-of-mine dry-gulching was just a convenient way to commit suicide. Something unexpected and out of the ordinary was necessary were they to hope for success. Well, they had figured just that, and it had very nearly worked.

  However, there was one weak angle where his reasoning was concerned. To all appearances he had been trailed along the old Indian track by the two devils who charged up the slope. And it seemed a trifle absurd to think they had so accurately foreseen his movements. Of course they could have been concealed near where the way up the slope from the valley floor began, keeping at a discreet distance until the shooting on the slope intimated he had blundered into the trap, then hightailing to be in on the kill.

  More likely, he believed, they had entered the Valley by the same route as he had and had lain hidden some distance from Estaban’s cabin and had seen him leave the adobe and head straight across the Valley. Then they would have known he was making for the old trail near the north slopes and, keeping well to the rear, had followed.

  It was all conjecture, of course, but that could also be the explanation.

  If that were so, he wondered a bit uneasily if the hellions might attempt to take vengeance on Estaban. It seemed rather unlikely, however—Estaban was a tough old jigger, with his repeating rifle always at hand. The windows of his adobe were barred, the doors double-locked, the thick walls impervious to gunfire. And he had many friends in the Valley who kept watch over him, able to move like an Indian in the chaparral with ready rifle. Just the same, he’d keep the possibility in mind.

  He had covered quite a few miles before he discovered what he sought, a negotiable way up the slopes to the prairie. It proved to be rather tough going, but Shadow made it, with the expenditure of a few disgusted snorts and blowings. On the crest, Slade drew rein and sat gazing southward across the Valley.

  “You’re a smart jigger, all right, Mr. Tobar Shaw,” he apostrophized the Bradded H owner. “Can’t say as I ever contacted a smarter. You had me completely fooled for quite a while; I hardly gave you a thought. Undoubtedly you are a master at covering up, keeping always in the background, unobtrusive, self-effacing, just a respectable ranch owner with a modest holding. Yes, you were plumb smart, until you made the slip of running Fletcher’s cows across your holding, the only route by which the patrolling hands could be avoided. The little slip the outlaw brand always makes, sooner or later. And inducing Fletcher to mortgage his spread tightened the loop just a little more. I wonder if you are enough of a geologist to have read the signs aright? Looks a little that way. Well, we’ll see about that later.