Bullets for a Ranger

by Bradford Scott

  “And plenty,” Slade said. “Yes, I missed a trick by not blasting the sidewinders. You all right? Did he cut you much?”

  “Oh, just a scratch,” Hernandez said. “Sorta spoiled my coat, though, I’m afraid.” He turned to show a long tear in the back of the garment.

  “Come on back to the cantina where we can get a look at it,” Slade said. “A sharp knife doesn’t pain much, and you might be hurt more than you think. Doesn’t appear to be bleeding much, but best not to take chances.”

  “Okay,” agreed Hernandez. “Right down the street a couple of blocks, where you see the light.”

  They headed for the cantina, Hernandez walking without difficulty. Slade did not think he was seriously injured but wanted to make sure.

  The Quetzal was big, softly lighted and much quieter than the Post Hole. A really good orchestra provided music, and the señoritas of the dance floor were all Hernandez had claimed for them.

  The proprietor, plump and jolly and efficient-looking, came hurrying forward to greet them.

  “Back so soon, Sebastian?” he exclaimed. “I am glad you found your amigo so quickly. Welcome, Capitán! My humble establishment is indeed honored. It is the great pleasure to be host to El Halcón.”

  His smile changed to a look of concern when Hernandez told him what had happened, and he led the way to a back room where the range boss stripped off coat and shirt, baring his sinewy back.

  Slade was relieved to find that the wound was really very slight. Some salve and a few strips of plaster, which the owner produced from a drawer, took care of it.

  “And now,” said Hernandez as he donned his garments, “now I feel the need of a drink, two drinks, a whole flock of drinks. Getting knifed always makes me thirsty.”

  “I think I’ll settle for coffee,” Slade decided.

  The proprietor escorted them to a table, seated them with a flourish and cared for their order himself.

  “On the house,” he said. “I will have it no other way. I repeat, I am honored.” With a bow and a smile, he left to attend to various chores.

  “’Pears to be a right hombre,” Slade commented.

  “He is,” said Hernandez. “They don’t come any better.”

  Hernandez sipped his wine in silence for a while. “Wonder how the devil those hellions knew just where to look for that money?” he suddenly remarked. “Somebody must have watched me stow it away and tipped them off.”

  “Looks that way,” Slade agreed noncommittally; he was wondering about it himself.

  “Knew I was doing the right thing when I gave it to you to carry,” Hernandez said, with a chuckle.

  “Well, the way it turned out, there would have been no harm if you’d been packing it,” Slade replied.

  “Maybe,” the range boss conceded dubiously. “Just the same, I’m glad you have it and not me. Guess that pair will have something to remember you by. I’m pretty sure you busted the arm of the one with the knife. Sure sounded like it, the way he yelped. Wonder if he’ll go to Doc Price to have it set?”

  Slade shook his head. “Not likely,” he replied. “Whoever sent them to do the chore would be too smart for that. He’ll have it attended to elsewhere.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised if you’re right,” Hernandez conceded. “I didn’t get much of a look at him, but I think I’d recognize the other ladrón if I see him. Hope so; I’ll give him more than a busted arm if I do. Oh, the devil with ‘em! Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

  Slade did enjoy his visit to the Quetzal. He had several dances with the señoritas, who proved as charming as they were pretty, yielded to a request to sing. His offering was greeted with thunderous applause, and several encores were demanded. After a while, however, he glanced at the clock over the bar.

  “Guess you’d better round up your boys and call it a night,” he told Hernandez. “We want to get a fairly early start back to the ranch, and it’s late.”

  The range boss cheerfully acquiesced, and a little later they left the cantina in a body.

  “Now let the sidewinders try something!” Hernandez growled. “We’ll make chili stew of them.”

  However, the outlaws failed to oblige, which under the circumstances was not surprising.

  The following morning, Slade paused at the sheriff’s office before heading back to Lopez’ spread and acquainted Ross with what had happened the night before.

  “So the hellions have started operating in town,” snorted the peace officer. “My troubles are getting no better fast. You be back soon?”

  “In a day or two,” Slade replied. “Be seeing you.”

  When they reached the bad water south of town, Slade once more slowed up and surveyed the bay. On former occasions, the tide had been at flood. Now it was at ebb, and although the waves still swirled and eddied and pounded the rocks, the current which had so intrigued him was practically nonexistent. His black brows drew together until the concentration furrow was deep between them, a sure sign that El Halcón was doing some hard thinking. He turned to gaze northward, shook his head and rode on.

  With nothing untoward happening, they arrived at the hacienda as the sun was setting in amber and gold. They were warmly welcomed by Don Miguel, who swore in several languages when Hernandez regaled him with a graphic account of routing of the wide-loopers and the frustration of the robbery attempt. When the range boss paused, he solemnly shook hands with Slade.

  “And that should settle the blasted men of steel,” he said. “I’ll spread the word around among the other flock owners. Maybe we’ll have peace now.”

  Slade shook his head. “I doubt it,” he differed. “I’m of the opinion they’ll give up their bizarre masquerade, now that it’s been uncovered, and they haven’t much choice but to do so. But they won’t stop operating—not so long as the business is profitable, as it undoubtedly is. A smart and salty owlhoot outfit doesn’t give up just because of a setback. They’ll break loose again, perhaps where, when and how least expected.”

  “Here?” Don Miguel asked.

  “Not likely, I’d say,” Slade replied. “They’ll know you are very much on the alert and that your boys are spoiling for another whack at them. I think they’ll fight shy of your Tumbling L spread, at least for a while. They might make a try if they figure you’ve been lulled into a false sense of security. Your excellent stock is a temptation to any outlaw bunch, and you’re strategically situated, from their point of view, not far from the bay and near where there are many little coves and inlets. That is, if they do run the stolen sheep and cattle onto a waiting ship, which it seems logical to believe. Yes, they might give it a whirl if they figure you’ve gotten careless.”

  “I won’t get careless,” Lopez promised grimly. “I’m on the lookout for anything so long as the hellions are still in existence, which I’ve a notion they won’t be for long, not with El Halcón on their trail.”

  “Hope you’re right,” Slade said, “but at present they are still very much in existence, and I predict they won’t wait long to pull something. When an outlaw leader suffers a reverse, he has to get busy and make a haul to bolster the morale of his followers.”

  Walt Slade quickly proved himself no mean prophet. The next day, in midafternoon, Manuel Garcia, Don Miguel’s neighbor to the west, rode up to the Tumbling L casa in anything but a good temper.

  “I lost a hundred head last night,” he explained. “Just vanished into the clouds, or so my herders swear.”

  “Well, they didn’t,” Lopez said flatly. “Haven’t been to town for a few days, have you, Manuel?” Garcia shook his head.

  “If you had, you’d have heard what I’m going to tell you,” Lopez continued. There followed a pungently profane account of the unmasking of the men of steel and the killing of six of their number. Garcia said things he never learned in the Mission school.

  “I knew all along it was just some sort of skullduggery, but try and make my herders believe it,” he concluded. “Now maybe they will believe me.”

&n
bsp; “I’d planned to send Hernandez and a couple of the boys to talk to them tomorrow,” Lopez said. “And we’ll spread the word to Telo and Ybarra and the others. Men of steel! Just a bunch of owlhoots in tin shirts! Doesn’t seem possible anybody would believe such nonsense.”

  “Well, when we were children, we believed in fairies and St. Nick, and that the Devil went about in horns and a tail, gnashing his teeth, and unfortunately most of the herders and the peones of the river villages have never gotten beyond the childhood stage,” Garcia pointed out. “The legend of the men of steel has come down from father to son, and the story never lost anything in the telling. But the rest of them, like your boys, will be good and mad at being made fools of. This business has got to be stopped, Miguel. We’ve all got to work together, and with Mr. Slade here to handle things as they should be handled, I have little doubt as to the final outcome.”

  “Agreed,” said Lopez. “Come on, it’s time to eat. You might as well spend the night and head back to your place in the morning. I’ll have Hernandez and a couple of the boys ride with you.”

  “And I’ll ride with you also, if you don’t mind,” Slade said. “I’d like to have a look at the pasture from which your woollies were wide-looped.”

  “Gracias, Mr. Slade, that is fine of you,” Garcia instantly responded. “The presence of El Halcón will do much to allay my herders’ fears.”

  10

  AFTER A TWO-HOUR RIDE through a morning of sparkling sunshine, Slade and Garcia, accompanied by Hernandez and two of the Tumbling L herders, reached the Garcia casa. The owner at once dispatched messengers to order his herders to assemble at the ranchhouse before sundown. This chore attended to, he and Slade had a cup of coffee and then headed for the pasture from which the sheep had been purloined.

  “I’ve a notion it might be possible to trail them,” Slade explained.

  “I doubt it,” Garcia replied. “The grass is very heavy and springs up almost immediately after it is trod down.”

  Slade nodded but did not otherwise comment. When they arrived at the pasture, he dismounted and carefully scanned the ground. After a while, he motioned Garcia to join him.

  “Look close,” he said. “See these two grass blades, the heads of which have been broken and are dangling against the stem. You’ll notice the break is not very recent; the ends have begun to brown.”

  Garcia squatted and peered where Slade designated. “Yes,” he said, “now that I’m right up against it I can see the break. How you did while standing up is beyond me, but then most things El Halcón does are beyond the average individual. And what meaning do you read into it?”

  “A horse’s iron not only treads the grass down, it sometimes cuts the stems,” Slade explained. “That’s what happened here. If a sheep’s hoof cut it, the break will be slanting and blurred. You will notice these cuts are straight across the stem, which means that horses were here. Your herders are not mounted, I take it.”

  “That’s right,” Garcia admitted.

  “So the horse that left this track was ridden by one of the wide-loopers,” Slade said. “Now all we have to do is follow the trail left by the horses, and we’ll get an idea where your sheep went. Simple, is it not?”

  “For one with your eyes,” grunted the other. “For an individual with average good eyesight, like myself, not at all simple. In fact, impossible.”

  Slade smiled and resumed his examination of the ground.

  “Here they go,” he said at length, “headed almost due east. I’ve a notion they’ll turn toward the bay a little later.”

  They didn’t. Mile after mile Slade was able to follow the trail, by slow going. On places where the grass was sparse, the task was not difficult for the Ranger, but when the heavier growth renewed, only the most painstaking examination revealed the slight traces of the flock’s passage.

  The wind, blowing from the south had been steadily increasing in force, until it was almost of gale proportions, tossing the manes of the horses, bending the grass. Although it buffeted the riders, it tempered the heat of the sun, which was an advantage.

  They had covered many miles when, quite a distance ahead, appeared a wide stretch of sandy ground that was desert-like. Over it a wavering mist seemed to hang. Slade uttered an exclamation of exasperation.

  “What’s the matter?” Garcia asked.

  Slade gestured ahead. “See what looks like a thin fog over the sand?” he said. “This hard wind is shifting the sand. By the time we get there, all tracks left by horses and sheep will be filled in and obliterated. Trail’s end, so far as we’re concerned. No telling which way they may have turned.”

  For some moments he was silent, his brows drawing together. Garcia watched him expectantly. At the edge of the desert strip, which he knew extended for many miles, he pulled Shadow to a halt.

  The sands were moving. Soon they would be flying in blinding clouds. Slade shook his head, turned and gazed south.

  “We’ll ride down to the bay,” he decided. “We’ll follow the shoreline for a while and see if we can spot anything.” He glanced at the westering sun.

  “Don’t mind getting in late?” he asked.

  “I’ll stay out all night if you say the word,” Garcia replied.

  “Won’t be that bad,” Slade said. “And you can spend the night at Lopez’ place. Hernandez and his boys are talking to your herders, so there’s no real reason we have to be back at your spread tonight. And I do want to have a look at that shoreline.”

  “Okay by me,” Garcia acquiesced cheerfully. “Let’s go.”

  Turning due south, they rode until they were close to the water’s edge, where Slade again turned east, walking his horse, scanning the soft earth and the damp sands. From time to time he shook his head, but he said nothing until they had passed the mesa where the row with the men of steel had occurred and reached the beginning of the turbulent water, where the waves were pounding the rocks, the eddies swirling.

  “Got me beat,” Slade said, halting Shadow. “It doesn’t seem credible that they would continue east past the bad water and then turn south. They’d be dangerously close to town. A ship putting in would quite likely be spotted. And it takes time to load stock onto one of those small coastline vessels. But if they didn’t where the devil did they go? The tracks led to the edge of the desert and presumably continued in the same direction. Well, we’ve done all we can today. Almost sunset. Let’s head for home.”

  It was well past dark when they reached the Lopez ranch-house. Despite his loss of the night before, Garcia was in a cheerful mood.

  “I feel confident I won’t have any more trouble with my herders,” he said. “And with them properly on the job, I won’t suffer any more losses.”

  “I’ve a notion you’re right,” Slade agreed. “Well, we should hear something.”

  They did. Hernandez was in the living room with Don Miguel when they entered.

  “Was getting a mite worried about you,” Lopez said. “Glad to see you both back okay.”

  Garcia glanced expectantly at Hernandez, who chuckled.

  “They’re boiling mad,” he said, apropos of Garcia’s herders. “They don’t take kindly to having been made fools of. Any men of steel who come snooping around had better be wearing boiler plate from now on, or something that’ll stop .45 slugs. The boys are itching for a chance at them. Two of them rode to visit Telo and the others and spread the word around. They say that with El Halcón here, men of steel or no men of steel, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s fine,” Slade smiled, “but they and the rest of you must remember that you’ve still got a dangerous outlaw bunch to contend with. So don’t become overconfident.”

  He acquainted Don Miguel with the results, or rather the lack of results of their long day’s ride.

  “Anyhow, we proved rather conclusively that they didn’t go up into the clouds,” he concluded. “They stuck close to the ground for so far as we were able to follow them, and I think they contin
ued to stick to it until they took to the water in some manner. Well, we’ll try and learn how that was done.”

  “There’s the cook bellerin’ for you fellers to come and get it,” said Lopez. “He insisted on waiting up for you. Said he would be dishonored if he allowed El Halcón to go hungry.” He led the way to the dining room, where Slade thanked the cook for his consideration, speaking in courteous Spanish that left the old fellow beaming.

  After eating, Slade walked out for a look at the weather. It had all the appearances of another wild night. The wind had increased in violence, and the sky was black as ink.

  He wasn’t surprised, however, for the season of Gulf storms was at hand. He went to bed, dismissed all his problems and slept soundly.

  Toward morning the storm blew itself out, after a drenching rain, and when Slade arose, the sky was clear, the wind greatly abated. He enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and sat with Lopez in the living room, smoking and talking. The owner suggested that he look things over, which they proceeded to do. Slade was impressed by the excellent condition of everything. The ranchhouse, built in the Spanish style with an inner patio, was old but in perfect repair. The same went for the bunkhouses, barn and other buildings.

  “I’ve always been proud of my holding, which I inherited from my father,” Lopez said. “I would never allow it to get rundown. It is all I have to look after, aside from numerous poor relations, as I mentioned once before. I am a bachelor, no chick or child. When I pass on, the place will go to Hernandez and the others. So I consider myself in the nature of a trustee for those who come after me.”

  “A truly laudable viewpoint,” Slade replied. “But I trust it will be a long time before you slack off your hold on the twine. You’re good for forty years yet.”