Range Ghost

by Bradford Scott

  “Doubtless,” Slade agreed. “Anything on him of significance?”

  Carter shook his head. “Nothing but quite a passel of dinero,” he replied. “You should get a percentage cut of all you’ve brought in for the county treasury. Old Potter County is getting rich, and she don’t give a hang if it is blood money, as you might call it. Well, we can use the money and get along very well without that sort of blood.”

  Slade chuckled. The sheriff’s sense of humor was a mite “blood-curdling,” he thought.

  For a while they smoked and talked and drank coffee, while the sun meandered westward.

  “Still can’t figure anything that vinegaroon might make a try for?” Carter asked.

  This time Slade shook his head. “I’m sure up a stump, as the saying goes,” he answered. “Well, maybe we’ll get a break.”

  They were due to, in short order, one about as grisly as the sheriff’s sense of humor.

  A deputy dropped in, accepted an invitation to take a load off his feet and have some coffee.

  “Saw John Fletcher and Si Unger, his range boss, about an hour back,” he remarked conversationally. “They were just leaving town. Swivel-eye told me Fletcher picked up his mortgage money at the bank this morning—the money he figures to pay for a bunch of improved cows being driven in the next day or two. A hefty passel of dinero, I gathered.”

  Walt Slade was suddenly all attention. “And he was talking about it in the Trail End?” he asked.

  “Guess he was,” the deputy replied, “ccording to Swivel-eye.”

  For a moment Slade sat silent, then he abruptly rose to his feet.

  “Come on, Brian,” he said. “Hartley, you stay here against the chance we might send for you,” he told the deputy.

  “What in blazes?” demanded the bewildered sheriff, when they were outside.

  “To the stable,” Slade said. “Get the rig on your horse as fast as you can. I didn’t tell Hartley to come along because his nag can’t keep up with Shadow and your roan. I only hope we aren’t too late.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Carter, still badly puzzled.

  “I mean,” Slade answered, “that I have a very strong feeling that Tobar Shaw is going to take advantage of an opportunity handed him on a silver platter, as it were.”

  “You figure he aims to make a try for Fletcher’s money?”

  “So I think,” Slade said. “If we can catch up with Fletcher and Unger before they reach the Canadian Valley crossing, we may prevent it. At the crossing is very likely where the try will be made—no favorable spot between here and the crossing. If we aren’t in time, I’m afraid Fletcher’s and Unger’s lives aren’t worth a busted peso.”

  The sheriff swore luridly and saddled up with hot haste and they rode out of town.

  Slade set the pace, gradually increasing their speed until the limit of Carter’s tall roan was reached. For a moment he contemplated forging ahead, as Shadow could easily have done, but decided against it as being foolhardy. Odds of three, possibly more, to one, were just a mite lopsided and he had no way of knowing what he might be up against as he neared the crossing. And after all, their quarry having more than an hour’s start, with Fletcher known as a rider with loose rein and busy spur, there was little hope of catching up before nearing the crossing. He glanced anxiously at the westering sun but concluded they should reach the descent into the Valley quite a while before dark.

  Swiftly the miles flowed back under the horses’ speeding hoofs. Slade kept gazing far ahead, toward where the curve of the horizon steadily advanced. Finally he sighted the fringe of growth along the Valley lip. A little more and he uttered a sharp exclamation.

  “What is it?” Carter asked anxiously.

  “Horses,” Slade replied. “Two horses with empty hulls. Brian, it looks bad.”

  The sheriff gazed with squinted eyes. “I can see ’em now,” he said, a moment later. “Grazing alongside the brush. Don’t see hide or hair of the riders.”

  “And very likely you won’t,” Slade said grimly, and quickened the pace a little more, the roan laboring to keep up. And, in less than ten minutes, it was Carter who exclaimed.

  “Do you see ’em?” he asked, his voice shaking. “Two bodies on the ground?”

  “Yes, I see them,” Slade answered quietly. “Looks like we’re too late.”

  “My God! both done for!” Carter groaned. Slade nodded; it sure looked that way.

  Chapter Eighteen

  But as they thundered up to the brush, one of the “dead” men began to writhe and jerk. So did the other.

  “Not dead, bound and gagged!” the Ranger cried. “What in blazes! Trail, Shadow, trail!”

  Instantly the great black surged forward, leaving the roan as if it were standing still. Close to the neatly hogtied forms on the ground, Slade pulled him to a slithering halt and was out of the saddle with the horse still in motion. He knelt beside old John Fletcher, who mouthed and mumbled behind the handkerchief knotted over his mouth. Before the sheriff arrived on his blowing horse, Slade had the rancher freed of gag and cords and was working on Si Unger who, once the gag was out, cut loose with a flood of appalling profanity.

  “Hold it!” El Halcon barked. “Tell us what happened.”

  “The blankety-blanks—three of ’em—caught us settin’!” bawled Fletcher, rubbing his numbed wrists. They ordered us out of our hulls and trussed us up—thought I was going to choke. Cleaned the saddle pouches and away they went—got every blankety-blank cent of my mortgage money. Had black rags over their faces.”

  “Which way did they go?” Slade asked. Fletcher gestured to the southeast.

  “That way,” he said.

  “Walt, I betcha the hellions are headed for the railroad—going to catch a train and pull out,” said Carter. “Maybe we can catch ’em up.”

  Slade silenced him with a gesture. “And you’re positive they headed south by east, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “Sure for certain,” the rancher declared. “I could crane my neck up a bit and I watched ’em almost outa sight. They never swerved.”

  Slade turned to the sheriff. “Something very strange about this,” he said. “Shaw is not in the habit of leaving witnesses alive. In my opinion, he spared Fletcher and Unger for a purpose, knowing they would note which way he went, to throw off possible pursuit.”

  “By gosh, I expect you’re right,” agreed the sheriff.

  “Shaw!” repeated Fletcher, in an astonished voice. “You mean to say Shaw was one of those devils?”

  “He was,” Slade said tersely, and explained briefly why he believed so. Fletcher outdid Unger in swearing.

  “Listen, Brian,” Slade said, “we’ll give the horses half an hour or so to graze a little and catch their breath, then I’m going to play a hunch. I believe it is a straight one, but if it isn’t, I don’t see that we have much to lose.”

  The sheriff understood at once. “Going to head west, eh?”

  “That’s right,” Slade replied. “I’m of the opinion the hellions will head west across the desert and into New Mexico hill country till they decide on another area of operation. Mr. Fletcher, you and Si might as well go home, or back to Amarillo, whichever you prefer. I hope to recover your money for you, although I can’t promise for sure.”

  “I’ve a darned good notion you’ll do it,” Fletcher said with confidence. “But why can’t Si and me go along with you fellers? We might come in handy.”

  “Quite likely you would, but the trouble is you can’t keep up with us,” Slade vetoed the suggestion. “Shadow is in a class by himself and Brian’s roan is mighty good. We’ll be riding fast.”

  “I see,” Fletcher conceded. “Well, good hunting! I guess Si and me will make for Amarillo and wait for you there.”

  With the bits flipped out and the cinches loosened, Shadow and the roan began putting away a surrounding of grass. Fletcher and Unger, whose cayuses were not in need of rest, elected to start for Amarillo without delay. Slade and the she
riff relaxing comfortably with cigarette and pipe, watched them grow small in the distance.

  “Honestly, it wasn’t so much that I was afraid their horses couldn’t stand the pace, but I believe we can handle the chore more adequately by ourselves,” Slade explained. “With a much better chance to work the element of surprise in our favor—a big advantage. We have a long and hard ride ahead of us, but our horses are in good shape and we won’t push them at first. I feel confident that Shaw will stop at his ranchhouse to rest his mounts, or perhaps change them, and make ready for the trip across the desert. I figure we can cover a good part of the desert trek before the sun rises, which will help.”

  “You’re aiming to cross the desert?” Carter asked.

  “To that dry wash where the hidden water is,” Slade replied. “They’ll stop there, that’s certain, and there is where we should be able to get the jump on them. It is highly doubtful that they will expect pursuit across the desert, and I am sure they won’t suspect us of being holed up in the wash waiting for them to show.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” the sheriff conceded. “Do you think Shaw finally caught on that you suspected him?”

  “I’ve a notion he did,” Slade said. “Anyhow, it’s pretty sure he concluded the section had gotten a mite too hot and he’d do better to go on the hunt for fresh pastures.

  “Getting back to Fletcher and Unger,” he added with a chuckle, “there was an angle they in their excitement plumb overlooked.”

  “How’s that?” Carter asked.

  “That Shaw relieved them of their artillery before tieing them up,” Slade answered. “Neither one had a gun.”

  “Dadgum it! Now that you mention it, you’re right,” snorted Carter. “Say, do you ever miss anything? I plumb overlooked it, too.”

  Slade laughed, and changed the subject. “I’m afraid we are going to do a little law-breaking on our own account,” he said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Little doubt but that dry wash is the other side of the New Mexico Territorial Line, where neither of us has any authority,” Slade explained.

  “I figure we’re packing all we’ll need,” the sheriff said grimly, tapping his gun butt.

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Slade admitted. “Anyhow, the governor and Captain McNelty are pretty good friends, and I guess we can risk it. Well, our cayuses appear to have packed away their surrounding and are rarin’ to go, so we might as well get moving.”

  It still lacked quite a while till sunset when they set out, heading west by slightly south, on a long slant that Slade knew was the shortest line to the desert crossing. Riding at a good pace but not pushing their mounts, they covered mile after mile and as the dusk neared, Slade was quite pleased with their progress.

  “Yes, we’ll cover the major portion of the desert to the wash before the sun really begins to get in its licks,” he told his companion. “And if the contrary desert just behaves itself and doesn’t kick up another unexpected storm, we should do all right. It’s a very uncertain terrain, however, and not to be depended on. Well, we’ll have to do the best we can, no matter what happens.”

  “And that’s all anybody can do,” said Carter.

  The stars blossomed in the blue-black vault of the sky and the great hush of the wastelands enfolded the two horse men. It was an hour Slade loved, anywhere and under any circumstances, but he felt that on open range it was at its best, the hour when all things seemed relaxed, quiescent, building up strength for the activities to come. Soon the coyotes would begin their chorus, the owls their cheerful hooting, other night birds their weird cries. But now the stillness pressed down like something tangible, with breathless expectancy.

  The miles flowed back, the hours passed, now attuned to the sprightly noises of the night. Slade veered the course a little more to the south, until they saw in the distance the star-drenched mystery of the desert.

  “And now comes the real nice portion of our jaunt,” he observed to Carter. “The real cosy angle is whether or not I made a mistake in assuming Shaw and his two horned toads will pause at the ranchhouse for a while. If they did, okay. If they didn’t, they’re ahead of us, will reach the wash before we do and be all set to treat us as settin’ quail, which is exactly what we will be, riding up to the wash in the open with the late moon or the early day providing good shooting light. In fact, I wish you’d let me handle this part alone.”

  “Oh, go set on a cactus spine,” the old sheriff snorted. “Where you go, I go, and if we take the Big Jump it’ll be together and we can start all over together. But I don’t think we’ll be taking it tonight. I feel sure you’ve figured things out just right and that those sidewinders are the ones who’ll take the Big Jump, if they don’t have sense enough to knuckle under when we brace ’em. Let’s go. Not at all hot right now.”

  With which they entered the desert and rode steadily across the whispering sands, the hoofs of the horses kicking up little puffs of the alkali dust that glinted in the starlight.

  Mile after mile they covered. Finally the stars turned from gold to silver, dwindled to needle points of steel piercing the blue-black robe of night. The “robe” grayed, the stars winked out, the east flushed scarlet and gold, the eerie hush enshrouded them. Another moment and the flaming beauty of the desert manifolded, and once again the great rim of the sun pushed above the horizon and almost at once the heat intensified, beating up from the sands.

  From time to time, Slade glanced back the way they had come, but the flatness of the terrain and the shimmer of the rising heat made visibility poor. So far as he could see, the desert behind lay empty.

  And now, no great distance ahead, he perceived the scattered straggle of mesquite which fringed the lip of the wash. It would seem that if they were ahead of the outlaws, all was well; but there was no guarantee that they were. And the wash steadily drew nearer.

  It was a business to make the flesh crawl and the backbone grow cold, riding in the glare of the sunlight toward that ominous lip, from which at any moment might come a blaze of gunfire. He strained his eyes to probe the growth, cast a glance to the south, and gave vent to an exasperated mutter.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Now what?” Carter asked. Slade gestured southward. Once again the dust banners were streaming from the crests of the far distant dunes.

  “Oh, just something else to complicate matters,” the Ranger replied. “Down there another blasted dust storm is building up and heading this way.” He studied the southwest for a moment.

  “But it doesn’t appear to be a big one,” he added. “The farthest dunes aren’t crested with those infernal dust streamers. Well, there is nothing we can do about that.” He turned and concentrated on the straggle of brush that seemed to leap toward them.

  The distance shrank to five hundred yards, to four-fifty, to four, to three-fifty. Perfect rifle range. The situation was hard on even the steely nerves of El Halcon. He abruptly realized he was holding his breath, and exhaled it angrily. Three hundred! The tension eased a little. Another hundred yards dwindled away. Slade glanced at his companion. The sheriff’s face was gray and drawn, his lips a straight line, but he glared straight ahead and drew his rifle from the saddle boot. Slade felt a surge of admiration for the old fellow. He was scared, no doubt as to that, but he wasn’t going to falter.

  And now El Halcon was breathing much easier; had something been going to happen, it should have happened before now. Just the same he heaved a sigh of relief as they charged up to the lip of the wash with the silence broken only by the thud of their horses’ hoofs. If the hellions were holed up under one of the overhangs, they were certainly not aware of the pursuers’ approach. Now the odds were more like even. He sent Shadow surging down the slope. A quick glance showed them the wash was devoid of life.

  “Well, we made it,” he added as Carter drew rein beside him. “Now the advantage should be ours. That is if my hunch is a straight one and the devils are really headed this way. And if that dust storm will
just slow up a bit we should make out all right. We’ll shelter the horses under that wide overhang and give them some water from the canteens; beginning to get darn hot. Then we’ll hole up in the shade for a bit. Nothing in sight so far, although I’ve a notion if they really are going to show it will be before long.”

  Carter chuckled creakily. “Riding up to this crack, I forgot all about the heat,” he said. “Reckon my blood was running sorta cold.”

  “I could have been more comfortable myself,” Slade admitted. “It was a ticklish business. Now we might as well take it easy for a spell.”

  Sitting down in the shade, he rolled a cigarette and smoked with enjoyment. From time to time he climbed the slope to peer over the edge. At the fourth trip he uttered an exultant exclamation.

  “They’re coming, all three of them,” he told his companion. “Less than a mile away. Get set. I don’t think they’ll be taken without a fight, but we’ve got to give them a chance to surrender.”

  Tense and alert, they waited. Finally Slade heard the slithering thud of hoof beats on the sands. Another moment and two riders came skating down the slope and into plain view. Slade’s voice rang out—

  “Up! You’re covered!”

  The startled horses reared. Yelling a volley of oaths, the two riders went for their holsters. The slopes of the wash quivered to the roar of gunfire.

  But the advantage was with the men on foot. Shooting with both hands, Slade saw one of the riders pitch out of his saddle. The sheriff’s Colt boomed twice and the second man fell, to lie motionless. With a whoop of victory, Carter started forward.

  “Look out!” Slade roared. “There’s another one. It must be Shaw.” The sheriff cursed luridly and dived for safety.

  Keeping as much under cover as possible, Slade never took his eyes off the brush-fringed crest, from which came no sound or movement.

  “If he’s holed up in the bush, smoking him out is going to be a chore,” he muttered.