Range Ghost

by Bradford Scott

  “Lot of noise is right,” grunted Norman as he sat down. “Those railroad fellers have voices like locomotive whistles and they sure believe in using ’em. Waiter!”

  After finishing their drinks, Norman and the sheriff moved to the bar for a word with acquaintances, leaving Slade and Jerry alone at the table.

  “Now tell me what all has happened since I saw you last,” the girl said. “Don’t hold back anything, dear, for you know sometimes I can help you.”

  He told her everything, including his conviction that Tobar Shaw was the head of the outlaw bunch. Jerry did not appear particularly surprised.

  “Somehow I never liked him,” she said. “Courteous and well spoken as he is. Why I don’t know—call it a woman’s intuition, if you will, I just don’t. Whereas Mr. Ditmar, who is what I suppose you would call a rough-and-ready sort, I do like. He strikes me as being honest and sincere. I know Sheriff Carter has always been a bit suspicious of him, but I didn’t go along with that.”

  “He is honest and sincere,” Slade interpolated. “Sort of has a chip on his shoulder and is inclined to get rough if provoked, but completely trustworthy.”

  “So I figured him,” Jerry said. “When he was at our place we got him to talking about himself a little. Told us how his parents died when he was very young and how he was reared by a shiftless old uncle who also died, when he was fourteen. How he worked at odd jobs to support himself, became a cowhand, and saved his money. Frankly admitted that he won a good deal of it at cards. Anyhow accumulated enough to buy his spread. Appears to be ambitious and wants to get ahead.”

  “He will,” Slade predicted. “His sort usually does. If some good woman can just get hold of him I feel pretty sure he’ll make a go at it.”

  “Don’t be hinting,” Jerry giggled. “I’m not interested that way, as you very well know. Though I suppose if one can’t have the moon, one should be satisfied with sixpence, as the saying goes. Oh, well, even though you can’t hold the moon, it’s nice to have it shine on you now and then. Disappears for a while, but always comes back.

  “And now I have something to tell you, dear,” she added seriously. “Late this afternoon, Shaw and three men rode this way. We saw them as we rode down the trail from the casa. I’m sure they were headed for Amarillo, although we did not see them again. I thought you’d like to know.”

  “You’re right,” he replied. “And it may be of help. At least I can pretty well count on the hellion being in town tonight. Thanks for telling me.”

  “But those terrible men being in town may mean danger for you,” she worried.

  “Forewarned is forearmed,” he returned lightly. “I don’t think there’s anything to bother about.”

  Suddenly a thought struck him. “By the way, do you think Shaw saw you and Uncle Keith headed for town?” he asked.

  “He could hardly have missed seeing us riding from the ranchhouse to the trail,” she replied. “However, they speeded up right after they passed us and we didn’t overtake them. Why?”

  “Just wondering,” he evaded. She regarded him doubtfully but did not question him further.

  “Going to take me to the Washout tonight?” she asked.

  He hesitated, that disturbing thought working in his mind. Oh, the devil! She’d be as safe one place as another and they had plenty of friends in the Washout.

  “Okay, if you wish me to,” he agreed. “A little later. Hadn’t you better have something to eat?”

  “I could stand a bite,” she admitted. “Have coffee with me.”

  Slade summoned a waiter and gave the order. He smoked and sipped his coffee while she ate.

  Norman and the sheriff approached. “We’re going over to Tumulty’s place for a little while,” the latter announced. “You going to stick around here?”

  “We’re going down to the Washout a little later,” Slade replied. Carter shot him a sharp look and his brows drew together.

  “All right,” he said. “Chances are I’ll see you there.”

  Now the Trail End was really beginning to hop. The bar was crowded and so was the dance floor. Every table was occupied. The roulette wheels spun merrily. The musicians fiddled madly. There were bursts of song, or what was apparently intended for it, and a constant bumble of loud-voiced conversation.

  Jerry’s eyes were sparkling, her cheeks flushed. “I like it,” she said, “and I’ll bet the Washout is even livelier.” Slade thought that very likely it was, and he experienced a slight qualm of uneasiness over his ready acquiescence to her request to take her to the lake-front place. Thankful Yates usually kept pretty good order, but the Washout was frequented by a rougher crowd than was generally to be found at the Trail End. Trouble could cut loose there. Oh, well, they’d make out.

  Jerry finished her dinner and glanced suggestively at her table companion.

  “Shall we go?” she said. “I expect Joyce Echols and some more of the boys will be there; they like the Washout, too.”

  Slade was more than usually watchful as they threaded their way through the crowd on the streets, for it was fairly obvious that Tobar Shaw and his three henchmen were somewhere in town. And that disturbing thought still persisted, based on the fact that Shaw very probably knew Jerry liked the Washout and would doubtless inveigle him into taking her there. But as he said, forewarned was forearmed; he would be very much on the alert in the Washout, although it seemed a bit ridiculous to think the unsavory bunch would attempt anything there.

  “Tonight, you do exactly as I tell you, and when I tell you,” he told the girl as they neared the lake-front place.

  “Don’t I always, dear?” she replied.

  “Yes, guess you do,” he admitted. “But things are rather rowdy tonight, don’t forget that.”

  “I have nothing to fear when I’m with you,” she replied.

  “I appreciate your confidence in me,” he smiled. “Hope it won’t be misplaced.”

  “It won’t be,” she said confidently.

  The Washout was lively, all right, whooping it up to a fare-you-well. Thankful Yates noticed their entrance at once and came hurrying to greet them, the inevitable bottles under his arm.

  “Felt sure you’d be along,” he said. “Saved that little table over there not far from the door, where there’s fresh air coming in—sorta foggy in here. Joyce Echols and a couple more of the boys are down at the other end of the bar. How are you, Miss Norman? Nice to see you again.”

  “And nice to see you, Mr. Yates,” Jerry returned, extending her hand, over which Thankful bowed gallantly. He summoned a waiter to bring glasses.

  “Your favorite wine, and my private bottle for Mr. Slade,” he said as he filled the glasses to the brim.

  As they sipped their drinks, Slade studied the crowd. There were a great many railroad workers, a fair sprinkling of cowhands, citizens from uptown, and quite a few others he recognized as lake-front habitués—about whom the less said the better—quite likely on the watch for the unwary with a snort too many under their belts. Robbing drunks and pilfering wallets were some of the nice little practices they indulged in.

  Gradually his attention focused on three men standing at the end of the bar nearest the door, who appeared to be absorbed in their drinks. They wore the garb of railroad workers—overalls, jumpers, and cloth caps. They did not seem to be mingling with the others. He was about to pass them over as of no consequence when his keen eyes noticed something that instantly put him on the alert.

  Showing under the sagging cuffs of the overalls were not the laced, hobnailed shoes favored by the railroad workers but rangeland riding boots!

  After that, while chatting with Jerry, his eyes never left the trio.

  Young Joyce Echols came ambling over from the bar. “Come on, Jerry, give me a dance,” he requested. “Walt won’t mind, will you, Walt?”

  “Certainly not,” Slade replied. “Take her off my hands for a spell—my ears are buzzing from her chatter.”

  “I’ll remember that, Mr.
Slade, at just the right time,” she promised and headed for the dance floor, Joyce’s arm about her trim waist. Although not seeming to do so, Slade’s gaze concentrated on the three men at the end of the bar. His hands rested on the table top, his thumbs hooked under the edge.

  Suddenly they whirled to face him, hands streaking under their jumpers.

  Over went the table, Slade behind it. Slugs hammered at the top but failed to penetrate the thick oaken boards. A bullet fanned his face. Another clipped a lock of hair from the side of his head. He drew and shot over the edge of the table, left and right, left and right.

  One of the killers crumpled up like a sack of old clothes. A second reeled slightly. Then he and his companion dashed for the door. Slade threw up his guns but was forced to hold his fire. For now there were men between him and the target, frightened men who had jumped up from their tables and were diving in every direction to get out of line with the flying lead. He leaped to his feet, charged toward the door, and was engulfed in the swirling crowd.

  Thankful Yates came roaring forward, sawed-off shotgun in hand, and was also swallowed up. Slade untangled himself, righted the table, sat down and began rolling a cigarette with fingers that spilled not a crumb of tobacco.

  Jerry was beside him. “Oh, darling, are you all right?” she gasped.

  “Never felt better,” he returned, touching a match to the brain tablet. “What did you do with Joyce?”

  “She left me like a streak of goose grease in a hurry,” panted that worthy as he ranged himself alongside Slade, gun in hand. “What in blazes happened?”

  “Some gents just got a mite careless,” Slade replied, puffing on his cigarette. Echols mouthed and stared. Slade rose, courteously pulled out a chair for Jerry and eased her, trembling, into it.

  Thankful Yates finally won free and joined them, apparently oblivious to the uproar that was shaking the rafters and causing the hanging lamps to jump.

  “Mr. Slade, how in blazes did you catch on so fast?” he demanded.

  “Well,” the Ranger replied dryly, “I did not recall ever before seeing railroad-track workers wearing spurred riding boots. Their disguise was pretty good except for that one little detail they overlooked. I’m afraid it brought one of them bad luck,” he added, jerking his head to the figure sprawled on the floor.

  “Well, I’ll be—d-d-hanged!” sputtered Thankful and belatedly bellowed for order. The barkeepers and floor men were already uttering soothing yells, with little effect.

  “Guess you’d better try and get word to the sheriff,” Slade suggested. “He’ll want to look things over.”

  Thankful bawled an order to a swamper. “And drag that carcass out of the way before somebody falls over it and gets hurt,” he added. Jerry, who had recovered from her fright, giggled.

  “I think Mr. Yates is wonderful,” she said. “He has such a delicious sense of humor.”

  Slade thought that “macabre” was a more appropriate descriptive adjective but refrained from saying so.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The body was shoved against the wall to await the arrival of the sheriff. Gradually, order was restored. For a while the shooting was excitedly discussed and admiring glances cast at Slade. Soon, however, it was forgotten, for the drinks were good and strong, the eyes of the girls bright, and to these hardy men, death sudden and sharp was something too often met with to make other than a fleeting impression.

  “And as usual, Shaw stayed in the background, nothing to tie him up with what was done,” Slade remarked to Jerry, when they were alone. “I think I nicked one of the pair that got away. I’d hoped to overtake him and perhaps persuade him to do a little talking.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t get a chance to,” Jerry declared energetically.

  “Might have been for the best,” he admitted. “Would have been just like Shaw to be waiting across the street to take a shot at me if his killers failed up and I came out.” Jerry shuddered.

  At that moment the sheriff and old Keith came hurrying in, the latter looking decidedly worried. He breathed relief when he saw both Jerry and Slade were okay. Carter muttered things that were not fi tting for a lady’s ears. He immediately gave the body a careful once-over.

  “Nope, never saw the sidewinder before,” he replied to Slade’s questioning glance. “Well, looks like your luck is still holding.”

  “Luck!” Jerry exclaimed reprovingly. “It wasn’t luck, it was just about the fastest thinking anyone ever heard tell of.”

  “Really it wasn’t,” Slade differed. “Those enterprising gents gave me all the time in the world to plan just what to do. And they made that one little slip, the sort of thing it seems the outlaw brand always does, sooner or later. I experienced something similar once before. As original a disguise I ever saw or heard about—a pair garbed in the robes of Brothers of a Mexican Religious Order. They, too, made the fatal slip of not synchronizing their footgear with the rest of their outfi t. Anybody would have known they were up to something, after noticing riding boots instead of sandals.”

  “Uh-huh, anybody with eyes that miss nothing,” the sheriff observed dryly. “The Mexicans have it right when they say the eye of El Halcon sees all.”

  Joyce Echols who had been fortifying himself at the bar came back.

  “What you say, Jerry,” he asked. “Shall we finish our dance? Maybe Walt won’t start another ruckus and bust it up.”

  “I’ve still got the jitters, but perhaps this time I can fall over somebody else’s feet for a change, instead of my own. All right, I’ll chance it. Walt, please be good—for a change.”

  They sauntered off together, arm in arm. The sheriff turned to Slade.

  “It seems to me,” he remarked judiciously, “that Shaw’s bunch is pretty well thinned out. What do you think?”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you,” Slade replied. “That it is very likely the pair who escaped are the scrapings of the barrel.”

  Carter sat thoughtful for a moment, then added, “And do you think there’s a chance the hellion might pull out? After all, he sure hasn’t had much luck of late.”

  “Frankly, I’m afraid of just that,” Slade conceded. “I still lean to the opinion that Shaw’s main objective was the acquisition of John Fletcher’s land, although I must admit it is really nothing but conjecture on my part and I could be altogether wrong. But if so, I also think that Shaw has seen the handwriting on the wall to the extent that he knows he can never hope to acquire the holding, and that it is quite likely he is planning to pull out. But I greatly fear he will not do so until he makes one more good haul. After that, if he manages to pull it off, I believe he and his two hellions will hie themselves to fresh pastures.”

  “And if they do, you’ll go hunting for them, I suppose.”

  “Of course,” Slade replied simply. “I am a Texas Ranger and Tobar Shaw has broken Texas law and it’s up to me to see that he is brought to justice, one way or another.

  “Only,” he added with a wry smile, “the way things stand at present, I have nothing on the elusive Mr. Shaw that would hold up in court. I don’t think I have ever contacted such a shadowy, self-effacing character as Tobar Shaw. I can just hope to catch him dead to rights, and so far I haven’t had much luck in that direction.”

  “Just a matter of time,” the sheriff predicted confi dently.

  “Yes, but time is running out,” Slade countered. “Once again we’ve got to start hammering our brains in an endeavor to anticipate his move, and this time without a railroad paycar conveniently providing a logical target for an outlaw operation.”

  “Which nobody else even thought of,” the sheriff observed dryly. “I’m just waiting till you hit the bull’s-eye again. Only next time I hope you’ll let me in on the fun.”

  “I fear our ideas as to what constitutes fun differ,” Slade said smilingly.

  “Nope,” the sheriff declared emphatically. “You ain’t happy unless you’re mixed up in some sort of a ruckus and you might a
s well admit it. But what in the devil will that horned toad make a try for? Another herd of cows?”

  “I’d say definitely not,” Slade replied. “Unless we are making a bad mistake, he hasn’t enough hands left to venture on a large-scale rustling chore, the only kind that would be worth his while. It will have to be something three desperate and competent men can handle.”

  “Plenty of things three sidewinders of that brand can put over,” growled Carter. “Oh, the devil! my head’s going ’round and ’round like a fool dog chasin’ his tail; I need a snort. Waiter!”

  The dance floor was less crowded now and Slade and Jerry enjoyed a couple of numbers together. Foremen were circulating among the railroaders, urging them to call it a night and get a little rest before work started. The majority took the hint and began filing out, singing and shouting. Soon the Washout was pretty well emptied save for some diehard cowhands and others who apparently had no homes. Thankful Yates began casting suggestive glances at the clock. Jerry also glanced at the clock, then at Slade, smiling and lifting her eyebrows.

  “Well,” said the sheriff, “looks like things are quieting down, and aside from your ruckus, Walt, no serious trouble I’ve heard about. The railroad fellers aren’t quick on the trigger like the waddies and most of their arguments are shouting and waving paws. Not too bad for a payday bust. Got a notion we can call it a night before long.”

  “And I think Uncle Keith and the boys have about had their quota,” Jerry observed. “Notice they’re sort of looking sideways at their glasses, and that’s always a good sign. Shall we go?”

  “Guess we could do worse,” Slade agreed.

  “And if you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you, just in case,” said Carter.

  Although he thought there was little chance of more trouble, Slade did not decline the offer.

  The afternoon was getting along the following day when Slade visited the sheriff’s office. The old peace officer gestured to the body on the floor.

  “Several barkeeps remembered seeing him around the lake front, usually with a couple more hellions,” he said. “Quite likely the pair who got away last night, I’d say.”