Walt Slade was not as carefree as the others, for he knew the chore assigned him was far from finished. He still had the outlaw bunch to deal with, and so far he had no idea who they were, where they hung out or, most important of all, who was the brains of the outfit. In fact, he had so far met no one whom he could consider a suspect.
Well, he hadn’t been in the section long, and a good part of the time had been spent at Miguel Lopez’ hacienda. Anyhow, he had made something of a start. The hellions had lost six of their number since he arrived in the Matagorda country. And he had pretty well dispelled the chimera of the men of steel who had terrorized the superstitious Mexicans and Texas-Mexicans of the section.
When they reached the point where the stretch of really rough water began, Slade again studied the rushing currents with interest. The tide was close to flood, and the waves were thundering on the jagged rocks and ledges. But again it seemed to him that the force of the water was much less than would have been expected. Again he turned to study the rises to the west. With the question that puzzled him unanswered, he rode on.
That night camp was made on a low mesa, from where they could see for a considerable distance in every direction. The sky was brilliant with stars that cast a silvery sheen over the prairie. Nobody could approach the camp without being detected. Although he did not expect further trouble so soon, Slade was taking no chances—better to play it safe.
It wanted an hour of sunset, and they were only a few miles south of Port Lavaca, when he called the halt. But there was nothing to be gained by making a forced march that would bring them to town after dark.
“As it is, we’ll make it in before noon tomorrow,” he told Hernandez. “That will give you plenty of time to run the critters to Parr’s corral and attend to the weighing and estimate the wool cut. We’ll get a good night’s rest so the boys will be in shape for a mite of celebration tomorrow night. I figure they’ve earned it.”
“Sure,” agreed the range boss. “We are in no hurry. Mañana!”
The night passed quietly, and everybody enjoyed a good rest. The next day, before noon, the flock reached Port Lavaca and was safely corralled.
Eldon Parr did not appear particularly surprised at the arrival of the flock.
“Thought you’d get them through when I heard you rode south with Lopez,” he said. “Glad to get them. A shipment from the east has been delayed for some reason or other—I don’t know what. I’ll pay off as soon as the estimates are in. Come back in two or three hours.”
Meanwhile, the bodies of the men of steel were laid out for inspection in the sheriff’s office. A long line of excited citizens filed past to view them. Two were recognized as having hung around the saloons, but everybody was vague as to any associates they may have had.
“Ordinary border scum, the sort we are always getting here,” said Sheriff Ross. “You can’t tell what a jigger who rides in is—an honest cowhand or a chuck line rider or lawless hellion. Well, these are four good owlhoots now—the only sort that’s any good, laid out stiff. Tin shirts and caps! Darn things do look like armor, at a glance, don’t they? No wonder loco herders were fooled. And some gents who should know better weren’t exactly easy in their minds,” he added with a chuckle. “Do you think they’ll pull out now that their masquerade has been uncovered?”
“They will not,” Slade replied positively. “It’s a smart and salty bunch and won’t give up easily. From now on we can expect operations that are more orthodox, but just as deadly. Whoever had the brains and imagination to hit on that ruse to intimidate the herders will figure out some other devilish scheme. Very likely they’ll start branching out now, too. There are things other than sheep productive of loot. Watch for something unexpected.”
“I’ve been watching all the time, but I haven’t been seeing,” Ross returned morosely. “I’ve a notion, though, that you’ve got better ‘eyes’ than I have.”
“More experience, rather,” Slade replied. “What we want to do is, if possible, forestall anything they may have in mind. Otherwise somebody is very likely to die. They’re killers and doubtless prefer to leave no witnesses. Well, let’s go get something to eat, and then I’ll accompany Hernandez to Parr’s place to get paid off.”
“What do you think of Parr’s establishment?” the sheriff asked.
“Modern and efficient, from what little I saw of it,” Slade replied. “I’d like to give it all a once-over; Parr appears to know his business.”
“He does,” agreed Ross. “No doubt as to that.”
They repaired to the Post Hole and enjoyed a good meal. Hernandez joined them before they finished, and Slade waited for him to put away his surrounding. Then, together, they headed for Parr’s packing house, where all was activity and orderly bustle.
Eldon Parr paid in cash, bills of large denominations, which Hernandez stowed in a buttoned pocket.
“Tell Lopez I can use another shipment, if he can manage to get it through,” Parr said in parting.
“We’ll get it through, all right,” Hernandez declared. “And gracias, Mr. Parr.”
As they walked along a quiet section of the street, where nobody was in sight, Slade felt the range boss thrust something into his hand.
“You take care of it,” Hernandez said in low tones. “Too much money for me to be packing around. I want to get drunk in comfort tonight.”
“Rather a large sum to entrust to El Halcón, don’t you think?” Slade said as he pocketed the bills, his eyes dancing.
Hernandez’ only answer was a smile.
“I’m heading for a cantina in the Mexican quarter over to the east,” he announced a little later. “Know some folks over there. How about dropping around tonight? It’s gay. Pretty señoritas on the dance floor, and they’re nice. Liquor is good, and the games are straight. Called the Quetzal.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised if I do show up later,” Slade answered. “Suppose all the boys will be there.”
“Yes, it’s their favorite hangout,” Hernandez said. “Be seeing you.”
Slade spent the remainder of the late afternoon sauntering about the town. He found it interesting, especially the waterfront, where several small ships were moored. Coastwise trading vessels, many of which, he well knew, dealt in contraband and were not above a little genteel smuggling. Their crew were a jolly, daredevil lot who were in the nature of seagoing cowhands, if such an anomaly could be imagined. Slade chuckled at the thought.
As dusk was falling, he saw a group of cowhands riding into town, one with a bandaged hand. At their head was Phil Waring, the owner of the W Diamond spread. He waved a greeting. Al Hodson held up his swathed member and grinned. Apparently he held no rancor for what had occurred in the Post Hole a few night before.
They were all in the Post Hole, at the bar, when Slade entered some time later in quest of something to eat. Waring spotted him at once and came over and dropped into a vacant chair.
“Feller, you sure been cutting a swath since you coiled your twine in this section,” he chuckled. “You’re the only jigger that’s been able to make a stand against those blasted tin-shirted raiders. Keep up the good work and we’ll all be in your debt. I lost cows myself last month. Didn’t see any tin shirts, but I’m ready to swear it was the same bunch. What I’d like to know is where the devil do they run ‘em. Not to the north or east, that’s sure for certain, and I can’t see them driving the critters across seventy miles of desert to the Rio Grande.”
“Possibly load them on a ship that’s put in and waiting,” Slade replied.
“Uh-huh, that’s what Ross figures, but I dunno,” said Waring. “We trailed the herd for a while but lost the tracks on stony ground. Never could pick ’em up again. They were headed for the bay, all right, but we rode on to the shore and scouted it for miles below the bad water. Plenty of coves down there where a ship could put in, but we couldn’t find a hoofprint anywhere. It had rained that night, and the ground and the sand were soft. Cows couldn’t have passed that
way without leaving tracks. They just didn’t pass that way, that’s all. But where in blazes did they go?”
“Sounds like something of a question,” Slade conceded.
“That’s why I was down that way the other day when you and Lopez met me,” Waring continued. “I was having another look-see along the shore. Didn’t find a thing. A few nights before, the Tolliver brothers, who own the M Cross T holding over to the west of my spread, lost a bunch of prime beef critters they were getting together for a shipping herd. They went somewhere, too, but where? Nobody seems able to come up with the answer. Maybe you can. You seem to be able to do anything.”
“I fear you overestimate my ability,” Slade smiled.
“I doubt it,” Waring said. “Not after the way you shot a gun outa loco Al Hodson’s hand before he could pull trigger and then sung everybody plumb peaceful. To say nothing of hypnotizing Mig Lopez’ herders into running a flock to town, and downing four of the tin shirts in the bargain. I’m about ready to believe anything where you’re concerned.”
Suddenly he rocked with laughter. “Funny thing happened yesterday,” he chuckled. “Al and me rode in to order some supplies. We stopped at the Occidental, down the street, for a drink. Got to talking to some fellers about you. A big blabbermouth who never was any good speaks up and says you are just a blasted owlhoot yourself. Al’s right hand was tied up, but his left is pretty darn good. He wallops that jigger right on the nose with it, knocks him over a chair and to the floor. Then he picks up the chair and says, ‘Another crack like that and I’ll bust what’s left of this chair over your skull, you terrapin-brained frazzle end of a misspent life!’ Feller didn’t say anything more.”
They laughed together. “Guess I’ll have to buy Al and the other boys a drink for that one,” Slade said, beckoning a waiter.
“Much obliged,” said Waring. “Al feels sorta beholden to you; if he’d done for Parr, he would have been in trouble, just as Ross said. “Hot-tempered hellion, but he’s a real amigo if he happens to cotton to you. Here comes Frog-lip Fogarty with a drink. He sorta cottons to you, too. He likes good music, and him and Miguel Lopez are chummy.”
Frog-lip placed the glasses on the table, very tenderly. “From my private bottle,” he announced.
“Uh-huh, I remember that private bottle,” said Waring. “An innocent stranger who smelled the cork was crippled for life. Well, I’ve lived a good life. Here goes!”
He downed the drink at a gulp, smacked his lips and winked at Slade. The Ranger sipped his and concluded that Frog-lip was a connoisseur of good whiskey. His meal arrived at that moment, and he proceeded to do it full justice, while Waring smoked and talked.
“Reckon Parr was glad to get that flock, wasn’t he?” he suddenly remarked.
“He appeared pleased,” Slade replied.
“An ornery hellion, but he knows his business,” Waring said. “Understand he’s making money hand over fist. But if he tries to run sheep onto the open range hereabouts, he’s in for trouble. Sheep spoil range.”
“Not if they’re handled properly, as you very well know,” Slade countered.
“Uh-huh, but what guarantee do we have that a rapscallion like Parr will handle them properly?” Waring retorted. “He’s just the sort that would let ’em eat the grass down to nothing and the devil with it.”
“Why don’t you people get title to the land?” Slade asked. “It would pay you to do so.”
“Takes money, for one thing,” Waring answered. “The state don’t let this good grassland go cheap. Besides, most of the owners hereabouts are old fellers who have been here all their lives, and their dads before them. They’ve always looked on the range as part of their holdings. Use it to handle their overflow, and there’s never been any friction. They figure why should they pay out good money for what is rightfully theirs by occupancy.”
Slade was silent. It was the old argument advanced by the barons of the open range, used against the advancing farmers and sheepmen. They always lost in the end, but all too often not without bloodshed. It could happen here. This was another disturbing angle to the problem that confronted him.
His thoughts turned to the vanished cows. He was definitely inclined to go along with Waring’s opinion that they could not be driven across the desert to the distant Rio Grande and a ready market south of the border. The cattle of the section were not obstreperous longhorns, heavily wiry, but improved stock—docile, slow-moving, heavily fleshed. They were easy to round up and drive, but no good where rough going prevailed and speed was essential. But where the devil did they go! Although evidence appeared to the contrary, Slade rather believed that Waring might have overlooked some obscure cove or inlet where a ship could put in to receive them.
Waring was still making derogatory remarks anent Eldon Parr. Slade began to wonder slightly if he was doing so with the purpose of instilling prejudice against the packer. It was not beyond the realm of possibility. If so, what was his objective? Another interesting angle to ponder.
However, Waring’s final observation did not tend to confirm the suspicion.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be sounding off about the hellion as I have been, just because he made me mad and I don’t like him,” he said. “After all, I’ve never known him to do anything off-color, nor has anybody else, so far as I’ve heard. And I’ve a notion his threat to run in sheep is, the chances are, just making big medicine. He’s uppity and bad tempered, but you can’t blame a jigger too much for how he’s made. Al Hodson is a fine feller, but plumb loco if he happens to get his mad up. No more judgment than a Comanche buck full of hooch. And I reckon I ain’t a plumb perfect bargain myself.”
His crooked but very white teeth flashed in a grin as he spoke. His expression became speculative, and he asked a question.
“Figure to stick around the section for a while?”
“For a while,” Slade admitted.
Waring nodded. “Then if you happen to be looking for a chore of riding, how about signing up with me?” he asked. “I’ve been handling the range boss chores myself since Tim Potter died a few months back, and I’ve got plenty to do without that. How about it?”
Slade considered for a moment; the offer was not without attraction. It would give him a legitimate excuse for remaining in the section, and he had a feeling that somehow the W Diamond might be the focus of activity in the future.
“I’m riding back to Miguel Lopez’ place with his boys, tomorrow, but I’ll think on it,” he promised. “However, I’ll make one stipulation if I do decide to sign on with you. I am to handle things as I think they should be handled, without interference from anybody, subject only to the check of the owner.”
“Well, I don’t think any of the boys will argue with you, after what happened in here the other night,” Waring said dryly. “Not even Al Hodson is that loco. Okay, we’ll let it stand as is till you make up your mind. Now I guess I’d better amble over to the bar and see how the boys are making out. Best to keep an eye on ’em when the snorts get to buzzin’ in their ears. Be seeing you.”
He strode off, swaggering a little, apparently his habitual gait. Slade smiled as he watched him go. He finished his dinner, enjoyed a cigarette over a final cup of coffee, steaming hot, and pondered what should be his next move. Recalling that he had tentatively promised Hernandez that he would visit him at the cantina, the Quetzal, he decided it wouldn’t be a bad notion. He was getting a bit weary of the uproar in the Post Hole, which apparently was noted for noise. A stroll in the cool night air wouldn’t go bad.
It was pleasant under the stars after the hullabaloo he had just left, and he strolled along at a leisurely pace. As he worked his way east, the streets grew quieter and darker. Having a pretty good idea where the cantina was located, he turned a corner, walked south a block and turned another corner. And barged smack into a shindig.
9
AT THE MOUTH of an alley, a few yards distant, two men were wrestling furiously. Slade instantly recognized one as Se
bastian Hernandez, the Lopez range boss. A third man dodged about, trying to get behind Hernandez, a knife raised to strike.
Slade bounded forward, caught the descending wrist just in time. He gave it a terrific wrench. There was a snapping sound, the knife tinkled to the ground and the wielder gave a yelp of pain. Slade hit with his left hand, grazed the other’s jaw, but with enough force to knock him off his feet; he scuttled into the alley on all fours, and his racing steps sounded back from the darkness. The other man tore free from Hernandez, tripping the range boss, who fell heavily, and fled into the alley after his companion. Slade half drew his guns, then thought better of it. He didn’t know what the score was, and a killing might not be justified. Could be a private row over a señorita, or something. A moment later he was to regret his indecision.
Hernandez, all the breath knocked out of him, was scrambling to his feet. He gave a strangled yell.
“Shoot them! Shoot the ladrones!”
“Hold it,” Slade told him. “They’re gone. What is this all about?”
“They were after the money, the blankety-blank-blanks!” Hernandez gasped, trying to pump some wind into his lungs. “They knew right where to look for it, the mangy homed toads!”
“Simmer down and tell me what happened,” Slade said. “I can’t make head or tail of your gabble.”
Hernandez grew quieter as his breath returned. “I was heading for the Post Hole from the cantina right down the street, to look for you,” he explained. “As I passed that alley, the two hellions closed in on me from behind. One jabbed a knife into my ribs and said, ‘Elevate!’ With that sticker against my back I didn’t argue. The other one reached right for my inside pocket and began unbuttoning it. That made me good and mad. The one with the knife had eased back a trifle, so I took a chance and slid sideways from it—grained the skin a little—and grabbed the other one by the neck. I’d pretty near got to my gun when you showed up. Lucky for me you did; I’d have gotten that blade in my back if you hadn’t. Guess that’s all.”
Bullets for a Ranger Page 6