Minutes passed, and nothing happened. Nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Then suddenly Carter let out a yelp.
“There he goes!” he bawled. “Look! There he goes!”
Slade whirled to glance toward where the sheriff pointed. Fully a mile to the south, a horse man rode down the near slope, sped across the floor, and up the far side to vanish over the crest. Slade ran to where Shadow stood, flipped in the bit and mounted.
“You all right?” he asked anxiously, for Carter was swabbing at a blood-streaming face.
“I’m okay,” the sheriff answered. “Get the blankety-blank; I’ll be following you. Those hellions on the ground are done for.”
“I’ll get him,” Slade said. “He’s not going to outrun old Shadow.”
But the moment he topped the slope, he realized it would be a long and hard chase. Shaw was well mounted, and now he had nearly two miles start and was heading straight for the hills. Slade settled himself in the saddle and gave Shadow his head. At the same time he glanced anxiously to the south and saw what might well make his best effort hopeless. The tall dunes had vanished from view and as he saw it once before, the vague, purplish curtain was sweeping steadily north. He urged Shadow to greater speed.
The great black responded gallantly and steadily closed the gap. But that ominous cloud in the south advanced even faster.
Mile after mile, through the searing heat! Shadow’s nostrils were flaring, his eyes gorged with blood, but he never faltered, and slowly, slowly closed the distance.
But now the hills loomed close, and the quarry was still half a mile and more in the lead, and nearer, nearer was the vanguard of the storm. Slade fingered the butt of his Winchester, but shook his head. The distance was too great; a hit would be just a fluke.
“A little more, feller, just a little more!” he begged. And Shadow came across. Slade drew the Winchester from the boot.
So intent was he on his quarry that he forgot the storm, and his pulses actually skipped a beat when suddenly Shaw vanished as if plucked from the earth by a magic hand. Another instant and he, too, was enveloped.
Again the bellowing wind! Again the flying yellow shadows, again the searing heat and the blinding dust. Shadow sneezed and coughed. Slade whipped his neckerchief over his nose and mouth and leaned forward in the saddle.
“This’ll be a short one, feller, just a squall,” he gasped. “Not like that other. Keep going, horse, we’ve got to make the hills.”
Doggedly, Shadow slogged forward, coughing and sneezing, blowing hard, but making steady progress. Slade calculated the distance to the sanctuary they sought; he believed they’d be able to make it. Must be close now. And this shouldn’t last long.
It didn’t, although it seemed an eternity of discomfort and unease. As suddenly as it struck, the storm passed. The air cleared, the sun shone down. Slade glanced forward eagerly. The hills were only a few hundred yards distant; but the desert stretched lonely and deserted. He muttered a bitter oath. Under cover of the storm, Shaw had made good his escape. He had reached the hills before his pursuer and to attempt to track him through that maze of canyons and gorges would be rank nonsense. Tobar Shaw was still unfinished business.
Well, he had experienced such a situation before and things had eventually worked out, so what the devil! He turned and gazed back the way he had come. Far in the distance he could make out a bouncing blob steadily drawing nearer. The old sheriff was gamely following on his trail. He halted Shadow, who snorted disgustedly, waited a little, then waved a reassuring hand. Carter, understanding, eased up on his laboring mount. Before long he drew rein beside El Halcon, his horse pretty groggy but still able to navigate.
“Got away,” Slade answered his panted question. “Storm hid him for long enough to make the hills. No use swearing about it, just one of those things. Come on, we’ve got to find some shade before we bake.”
As they rode on, he added, “Yes, he got in the clear, and do you realize that we still haven’t a thing on the cunning devil? He could walk into the Trail End tomorrow, sit down and grin at us. Never have we spotted him in some off-color business, and all those who could testify against him are dead. And today I didn’t get close enough to be able to swear the man I pursued was Shaw. He’s the limit! This last caper of his was true to form. Always farsighted, he let his two hands ride into the wash while he stayed on top—may have somehow suspected something. Under cover of the shooting, he sent his horse skalleyhooting to the south, crossed the wash and headed for the hills. And with the help of that blasted dust storm he made it. Oh, well, perhaps next time. Sure he’ll come back to Texas; I’m convinced of that, and start operating in an entirely different role, the chances are. His sort never quits.”
“Neither do the Rangers,” growled Carter. “Still just a matter of time. Say, that crack ahead looks pretty good.”
A few minutes later they entered a narrow canyon which bored westward into the hills and rode in the grateful shade of an overhanging wall.
“I’ve a notion we should find water in here,” Slade remarked.
They did, a little spring bubbling from under a cliff. As usual, Slade had some staple provisions in the pouches and they kindled a fire and shortly enjoyed an appetizing meal with plenty of steaming coffee to wash it down, while the horses made out very well with a small helping of oats and the sparse grass that grew on the canyon floor. After which men and critters rested in the shade for a couple of hours. Slade patched up the sheriff’s bullet-gashed cheek, the wound being slight.
“Now I figure we can risk heading for the wash,” he said. “Don’t appear to be any more storms in the making and I think we can do it by dark.”
It was a hard drag, but they made it without mishap. They had refilled their canteens from the spring and there was water for the horses.
While resting again, they examined the saddle pouches of the dead outlaws’ mounts and drew forth packets of bills which the sheriff counted with satisfaction.
“Looks like we got back most of Fletcher’s dinero,” he observed.
“Yes, about two-thirds, I’d say,” Slade replied. “They must have divided the money before they started out. Shaw will be packing the other third and be well heeled to head for wherever he is of a notion to.”
“Hope the sidewinder chokes on it,” growled Carter.
“Perhaps he will,” Slade smiled. “Another couple of hours rest and we should be able to make the remainder of the crossing without trouble in the cool of the night, even though the cayuses are pretty well fagged. Then another short halt and we’ll head for Keith Norman’s casa, which isn’t so far off from the other side of the desert. Guess we can take along the carcasses. The horses they rode appear to be in good shape.”
“And then?”
“And then after a couple of days at Norman’s place to rest, I’ll be heading back to the Post to see what Captain Jim has lined up for me,” Slade replied.
It was long past daylight when they reached the XT ranchhouse and after one look at them, Jerry packed them both off to bed. Two days later, she said gaily to Slade—“Well, good hunting at your next stop!” But as she watched him ride away to where duty called and new adventure waited, her eyes were wistful.
About the Author
Bradford Scott was a pseudonym for Leslie Scott who was born in Lewisburg, West Virginia. During the Great War, he joined the French Foreign Legion and spent four years in the trenches. In the 1920s he worked as a mining engineer and bridge builder in the western American states and in China before settling in New York. A bar-room discussion in 1934 with Leo Margulies, who was managing editor for Standard Magazines, prompted Scott to try writing fiction. He went on to create two of the most notable series characters in Western pulp magazines. In 1936, Standard Magazines launched, and in Texas Rangers, Scott under the house name of Jackson Cole created Jim Hatfield, Texas Ranger, a character whose popularity was so great with readers that this magazine featuring his adventures lasted until 195
8. When others eventually began contributing Jim Hatfield stories, Scott created another Texas Ranger hero, Walt Slade, better known as El Halcon, the Hawk, whose exploits were regularly featured in Thrilling Western. In the 1950s Scott moved quickly into writing book-length adventures about both Jim Hatfield and Walt Slade in long series of original paperback Westerns. At the same time, however, Scott was also doing some of his best work in hardcover Westerns published by Arcadia House; thoughtful, wellconstructed stories, with engaging characters and authentic settings and situations. Among the best of these, surely, are Silver City (1953), Longhorn Empire (1954), The Trail Builders (1956), and Blood on the Rio Grande (1959). In these hardcover Westerns, many of which have never been reprinted, Scott proved himself highly capable of writing traditional Western stories with characters who have sufficient depth to change in the course of the narrative and with a degree of authenticity and historical accuracy absent from many of his series stories.
Other Leisure Books by Bradford Scott:
THE COWPUNCHER
LONGHORN EMPIRE
PANHANDLE PIONEER
TEXAS RANGER
TERROR STALKS THE BORDER
Copyright
A LEISURE BOOK®
February 2010
Published by special arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency.
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
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Copyright © 1964 by Leslie Scott
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