by COLE JACKSON
“You installed the conveyor system, didn’t you?” Hatfield remarked.
“Uh-huh. Puttin’ up a mill here in the hills was mighty near outa the question, and packin’ ore down by mules is slow and costly. The conveyors are a sight faster and cheaper. The other mines have ‘em, too.”
After that they smoked in silence. Bowers appeared to be brooding over the past and his clever, bad-tempered face grew more and more morose. Finally he pinched out his cigarette and rose to his feet.
“Gotta be lookin’ things over,” he said, “wanta come along?”
Hatfield hesitated a moment.
“I guess I’ve got time,” he admitted at length.
Together they entered the shaft cage and were dropped plummet-like into the depths of the mine. Here they walked along endless gloomy galleries. High overhead, for hundreds of feet, stretched the intricate cribbing of heavy timbers that held apart the sides of the gutted lode. It was like the picked bones of the giant skeleton of some prehistoric monster, with lights that were the lamps of the miners flickering about among the bleached ribs and vertebrae. Most of the workers, Hatfield noted, were Mexicans. As was his custom, he scanned closely each face that came into view under the dim lights. Most were of the humble peon type, with scant intelligence showing in the dark eyes.
Rounding an abrupt turn, they came upon a group of pick-men bringing down a face of rock previously shattered by dynamite. A scrawny little fellow glanced up from his work and Hatfield caught a flicker of stark terror in the beady eyes. Without comment he passed on, apparently lending an attentive ear to Bowers’ comments but in reality hearing little of what was said.
For in the scrawny little pickman he had recognized the man he had rescued from the grip of the Tamarra Desert, the man who had vanished into the rainy night, hugging to his breast a new government-model rifle. He had also noticed that Joseph Bowers, the mine superintendent, had nodded to the little laborer in a familiar fashion and had received a nod in return.
This, and certain peculiarities he had noted about the mysterious rifle, were occupying the Lone Wolf’s mind as the shaft cage rose to the surface. He was still thinking about them when he bade Bowers good day and rode slowly toward the lower gorge. The bitter-eyed superintendent stared after him speculatively.
“And what are you?” Bowers muttered as the tall form vanished around a bend. “Funny thing, a wandering cowboy who knows about the Talmapaso Bridge disaster and understands how quicksand could form under a pier. The boss and me had better have a little gabfest. And there won’t be any slip-up this time!”
At the same instant Jim Hatfield’s mind was going back to that hot day not so long ago when he had stared up at the masked face of a tall, broad-shouldered man while the hot jaws of the ants nipped his flesh; a man whose eyes had been bright and burning in the shadow of his wide hat.
He had conclusively recognized Bowers as the tall man who had fled from Flintlock Horner’s livery stable as the Ranger’s gun hammers clicked on empty shells. He wondered if Bowers suspected that his identity was known.
Hatfield was inclined to doubt it, feeling that his own dissimulation had been too real. But either way, Jim Hatfield knew that truly he rode in the very shadow of Death’s wing.
For the Lone Wolf’s keen eyes had noted something else — something that vastly complicated the whole matter; something that opened up such possibilities that his breath caught at thought of them. And that “something” was nothing more startling than the film of gray dust on Sheriff Horton’s hat!
CHAPTER 12
HATFIELD rode swiftly down the gorge, for the sun was already slanting low toward the west. He followed the conveyor line most of the way, but veered away from it as the track entered the narrow gut where the canyon opened onto the dry wash.
For nearly half a mile the trail ran under a steep slope that extended for a thousand yards or more upward toward the splintered faces of towering cliffs. This slope, of loose shale and crumbling earth, was strewn with boulders, many of them weighing tons. The far side of the gut was a sheer granite wall, at the base of which was a dry watercourse which would be a raging torrent in time of rain. The gut itself was not much over a hundred yards in width, its floor uneven, broken by ridges and hummocks and littered with boulders and float.
Carefully Goldy picked his way amid the treacherous rocks. It would be easy to turn a hoof here and the sorrel knew it. Hatfield eyed the ominous slope thoughtfully, wary of rocks loosened by vibrations of the blasting at the mine.
“Wouldn’t take much to set the whole mess rolling down,” he mused. He was almost a quarter of the distance through the gut.
Without warning, smoke mushroomed from the base of the cliff that crowned the slope. There was a yellowish flash and a shattering roar. A huge section of the cliff bulged outward, seemed to hang for an instant and then toppled forward with a deafening crash. Down the slope rushed the splintered mass, gathering an increment of shale and loose boulders. In a few seconds, the entire surface of the slope was in motion.
One swift glance and Hatfield yelled to his horse. The big sorrel shot forward, heedless of the treacherous footing beneath his hoofs. The terrible rumbling roar and the billowing dust clouds up the slope lent frantic speed to the racing mount. Hugging his long body to the ground, he fairly poured himself over the shifting rubble, and with every breathless second, the thundering avalanche rolled closer to the doomed pair.
Ahead, far ahead, was the widening mouth of the gut, and safety, but Hatfield knew the straining horse could never make it. Already boulders and fragments of shale that had outstripped the main body of the avalanche were whizzing past, striking the floor of the gut with terrific force and bounding on to shatter against the cliffs on the far side. He knew that in another few seconds the thundering mass would pour into the gut, destroying all that lay in its path.
Hatfield veered Goldy toward the cliff wall, as far away from the moving slope as possible, but there was no hope of safety there. The main body of the avalanche undoubtedly would roll to the foot of the cliffs, shattering them with a barrage of stones as deadly as an artillery bombardment. There was not one chance in a million for horse or rider to escape the rain of bounding missiles.
All this flashed through the Ranger’s mind as the horse sped forward. He glanced up at the billowing dust clouds, through which the boulders whizzed and leaped, at the cliff on his right and then down the gut.
Ahead, a hundred yards or so distant, was a low hillock, a rocky uprearing that swelled from the floor of the gut almost equidistant from the slope and the cliff wall. Its sides were precipitous, its summit a wind-smoothed knob of granite.
Hatfield turned the sorrel slightly. Straight at the almost perpendicular side of the hillock he sent the flying horse. Goldy snorted explosively and it seemed that certainly he would crash in red ruin against the craggy base.
But like a mountain goat he took the dizzy rise. Scratching, clinging, the muscles of his powerful haunches swelling in mighty bands, he went up the slope, carried forward by the impetus of his mad gallop. The instant he began to falter, Hatfield left the saddle in a lithe movement of consummate grace. Together, man and horse strained and scrambled up the rise. Not until they reached the base of the rounded knob did they pause. Facing about, his back against the smooth stone that towered many feet above his head, the Ranger watched the roaring rush of the avalanche as it thundered onto the floor of the gut and rolled onward toward the cliff wall.
It reached the hillock, coiled about it, splitting like a wave of water on a rugged reef. Up and up piled the mass of stone and earth, reaching with splintered fingers toward the crouching man and horse. Nearer and nearer, straining to flow over the resisting granite and engulf the hillock. A mighty blast of air flattened them against the knob and threatened to whirl them from their refuge like leaves in an autumn gale. It shrieked and howled about the knob, adding its clamor to the booming voices of the avalanche. Up and up piled the flowing earth an
d shale.
In the wake of the main body of the avalanche came great boulders loosened from their beds of centuries. Faster and faster they rolled, whirling, bounding, leaping high into the air. They battered the hillock, tearing away tons of stone from its rugged sides, filling the air full of flying splinters that were deadly as rifle bullets. One hurtled through the air and struck squarely on the crest of the knob. It shattered the knob and burst into a thousand fragments which went whizzing away, each singing its own wild song. Stone from the splintered knob rained about Hatfield and the sorrel and some small fragments struck them stinging blows.
That was the last supreme effort of the avalanche. Gradually the clamor died. The dust clouds settled. Occasional boulders still whizzed down, bursting like meteors through the dust fog, but they grew less frequent. The air cleared and Hatfield, watching intently, could see the cliffs above the slope. He had drawn his rifle from the saddle boot and abruptly he flung it to his shoulder. He had sensed movement in the shadow at the base of the cliff.
The rifle muzzle held level with rock-like steadiness. Hatfield’s eyes, coldly gray, glanced along the sights. Goldy snorted as the clanging, metallic crash of the report echoed back and forth among the crags.
Again the rifle spoke, and again appeared the flashes, palely golden in the dying sunshine, the smoke wisping up from the muzzle in blue spirals.
High against the cliff face a puff of dust sprang into the air, and another as Hatfield’s slugs struck the rock wall. Then there was an answering flash from a gun and a blue spiral of smoke wavered against the white surface of the cliff.
Before the crack of the report reached Hatfield’s ears, a bullet spattered viciously against the knob less than a foot above his head. An instant later a second slug fanned his face with its deadly breath.
“The fellow can shoot,” he muttered, changing his position slightly, “almost as good as he can blow down rocks. Now where is he?”
Outlined against the sun-drenched knob, he was at a distinct disadvantage, the unknown rifleman being in the shadow. Suddenly he saw the bright flicker of flame in the pool of shadow and with a quick glance along the sights he fired in reply.
A slug whined past and whanged against the knob, but Jim Hatfield hardly noticed it. His whole attention was centered on the dark figure that was bounding and rolling down the steep slope.
“I guess that will hold him!” grated the Lone Wolf, lowering his smoking rifle.
Down and down bounded the limp body, setting shale and loose boulders rolling as it came. The body was the nucleus of a miniature avalanche when it finally came to rest amid the heaped rubble on the gorge floor.
Picking his way carefully over the wild jumble the avalanche had left in its wake, Hatfield led his horse down the hillock which had provided a haven of refuge and reached the spot where the body lay half-buried in rock rubbish. He hauled it forth and stared at what had once been a small man.
So battered and mangled was it by its fall down the slope, that it was impossible to do little more than imagine what the man had looked like in life. The features were a raw smear of bloody flesh and every bone in the man’s body seemed to have been shattered. The dark skin of one wrinkled hand pointed to Mexican or Indian blood; the black hair was plentifully shot with gray.
“An oldish fellow, I reckon,” the Ranger mused, “and he was a Mexican, all right. Wonder if there’s anything in his clothes that’ll tell something about him?”
A careful search revealed little. The rifle, of course, was missing and an empty holster was evidence that a sixgun had fallen out on the way down the slope. One cartridge belt was still in place and Hatfield examined the shells with intense interest. They were the type of cartridges designed for just such a rifle as the wizened little Mexican had hugged to his breast that wild night on the Tamarra Desert, but Hatfield was convinced that the broken body before him was not that of the mysterious little man.
“Looks like there’s an arsenal of those long guns loose hereabouts,” he mused, dropping the cartridge into his pocket.
He glanced about the gut, noting that the conveyor lines were down in a wild jumble of tangled cables, battered buckets and splintered poles. Hatfield knew that crews would soon be hurrying from the mills and the mines to repair the damage. He did not wish the body of the dead dynamiter to be found at this spot.
To carry the mangled form in his arms would mean blood smears on both himself and his horse, so he flipped the loop of his lariat about the crumpled shoulders and drew the body after him as he rode up the gut and beyond the havoc wrought by the avalanche. He buried the body in a crack between two rocks and weighted it down with boulders. Then he rode up the slope toward the base of the cliffs which overhung the scene of the avalanche. The grade was steep, but here it was grown with brush and grass and Goldy had little trouble keeping his footing.
In a hollow, a few hundred yards from where the cliff had been dynamited, Hatfield found what he sought — the dynamiter’s horse. For long minutes he studied the brand which marked the animal and his eyes were cold as the winter wind in the tops of the pines.
“It’s beginning to tie up,” he muttered at last. “Yes, it’s beginning to tie up. Ed Shafter sowed the seed, and there’s going to be a mighty surprising reaping hereabouts before long!”
He relieved the horse of saddle and bridle and left it to shift for itself. After concealing the equipment, he rode through the hills until he could descend into the dry wash. A little later he met the first group of repairmen from the mills. He gave them directions to the seat of the trouble and rode on, not mentioning his own hair-raising experience. The first stars of evening were glowing in the quiet sky as he rode along the main street of Helidoro.
And from the Una Golondrina saloon, startled, incredulous eyes watched him swing from the saddle and hitch his horse. Before he entered the saloon, hurrying feet padded away through the dark.
Jim Hatfield was not thinking of furtive footsteps or watching eyes as he entered the One Swallow saloon. He was thinking of the dust on Sheriff Horton’s black hat!
CHAPTER 13
AMADO CAPISTRANO was not present. Hatfield had something to eat, and then went in search of Walsh, the banker. He found him working in his little office in the front of the bank.
“Capistrano has always lived in this section,” the banker replied to Hatfield’s question. “His family once owned the entire valley. They lost it through court decisions relating to the old Spanish grants. Amado was only a child then. That was during John Chadwick’s first term in the legislature. I have heard that Chadwick was instrumental in instigating the judicial action.
“Anyway, there is no love lost between him and the Capistranos. Chadwick bought up all the land he was able to at the time. Since then he has acquired other slices of the valley. I believe his ambition is to acquire the whole of it. Capistrano has some such ambition himself, in my opinion. Chadwick was furious when Capistrano got the jump on him and bought the Widow Bloodsoe’s property right from under his nose. John’s a good man, but he has the failing of men who have always got what they wanted — he feels that it is actually wrong for anybody to oppose him in anything.
“Nobody ever paid much attention to Amado Capistrano until he made his silver strike in the hills. He’s a rich man now, but it doesn’t seem to have changed him any. His saloon is the hangout of a lot of questionable characters, but Amado doesn’t seem to mix with them much. Horton has more than once intimated that he has a connection with Pedro Cartina. It has never been proven.”
“Does Chadwick own mining property?” Hatfield asked.
“He has a controlling interest in the Lucky Turn and the Humboldt,” Walsh replied. “They’re good mines, but not so rich as the Cibola. That’s the ace of the district. The Humboldt has been doing well of late, I understand.”
In answer to another question, Walsh stated:
“Yes, there’s a telegraph station at San Rosita. It’s about eighteen miles southeast
of here, right on the river. Take the San Simon Trail, the one the stage follows. By the way, the stage was held up this morning by Cartina, they say. Long John Dyson says he recognized Cartina, said he had his shoulder bandaged and shot with his left hand. They knocked Long John off the box before he could use his shotgun, split his scalp but didn’t do him much damage. Killed the driver and escaped with the Humboldt payroll money.
“I’m thankful it wasn’t in the bank’s hands yet. The express company is responsible. That’s twice the Humboldt has lost money. They got the Lucky Turn payroll about six weeks ago. Cartina shows uncanny skill in picking times when the stage is carrying money — and that information is not given out for general consumption.”
“I imagine not,” Hatfield agreed. “Express company lose in those other holdups, too?”
“Yes. The company is responsible for the money while it is in transport. It has suffered heavy loss, due to these robberies. I have expected they would assign one of their operatives to this district, but — ”
He broke off suddenly, regarding the tall Ranger with newly-aroused interest. Hatfield read the question in the little man’s honest eyes. He smiled down at Walsh from his great height and slowly shook his head.
“No, I’m not working for the express company,” he said softly.
He eyed the banker speculatively for a moment and arrived at a swift decision. He needed someone upon whom he could rely, who could be depended upon to supply needed information freely and accurately. His slim hand fumbled inside his shirt for a moment and laid a shining object on the banker’s desk.
Walsh stared at the familiar silver star on a silver circle, that badge of courage and efficiency. He drew a long breath.
“A Ranger!” he exclaimed, almost to himself. “I might have known it the first time I clapped eyes on you. Now we’ll get somewhere!”