“A very neat little scheme,” Slade said. “Yes, very smart, and very nearly succeeded. The gun was staked in the hole that had been dug, pointing to a bundle of dynamite buried inside it, the wire that encircled the body wrapped around the trigger of the cocked gun. Raise the body to load it on the mule, trigger the gun. The slug smacks the dynamite and away she goes.”
The sheriff mopped his suddenly damp face. “And if it wasn’t for you and your blasted eyes, we’d have been right in the middle of it and would have done a little going, too, that we wouldn’t remember. For the love of Pete!”
“Yes, a very neat scheme,” Slade repeated, rolling a cigarette with fingers that did not spill a crumb of tobacco. “Somebody has brains, plus imagination. But he made a couple of little slips, the sort the outlaw brand always seems to make. First was in removing the other body, which at once rendered me suspicious. Second, in turning this body over and neglecting to replace it back over the hole in exactly the same position he found it. That started me to wondering why it had been moved. Also, he would have done better to carefully clear away all the freshly dug earth. Little things, but enough to spoil the trap.”
“With El Halcon on the job,” sighed the sheriff. “I’d have paid no mind to any of ’em. I don’t know how you do it!”
“Experience,” Slade smiled, carefully pinching out the butt of his cigarette and casting it aside. “Well, guess we might as well load up what’s left of that poor devil and pack it to town.”
The sheriff walked to the body and gazed down at the dead face, which, aside from being bloody and smoke stained, was unmarred.
“I remember him,” he announced. “Was in the Trail End every now and then. I knew he lived in the Valley, but didn’t know just where. Well, I expect about now he’s leaning over the parapet up above and listening to that sidewinder you downed howl in hell. Let’s go!”
The startled horses and mules had bolted a little way and stood blowing and snorting, all except Shadow, who seemed to regard the whole affair with only mild interest. However, they were easily caught, the body roped into place on the back of one of the mules, and the posse headed for town.
On the crest of the slope, Slade paused a moment to gaze back down into the valley, gold and green in the sunlight — sinister but beautiful, where evil men lurked, but where also men who were not evil resided in honesty and truth, and the peace these alone may bring.
The world in miniature, he thought.
“Well,” remarked the sheriff as they rode across the glowing rangeland, “it looks like we are up against something.”
“Yes, it looks that way,” Slade agreed, “appears to be another example of the new type of criminal invading the West. Just as tough and ruthless as the old-time brush popper, but shrewder, of wider experience, employing, ofttimes, the techniques of the big cities. Yes, we’re up against something that will give us food for thought. What happened today is a sample of how they work. We can expect more of the same.”
Slade knew very well, of course, that he had been the prime target of the attempt. Without doubt he had been recognized as El Halcon with a penchant for horning in on the good things others had started, and as such must be gotten out of the way as quickly as possible.
Because of his habit of working alone whenever possible and ofttimes not revealing his Ranger connections, Walt Slade had built up an unusual dual reputation. Those, like Sheriff Carter, who know the truth, maintained he was not only the most fearless but the ablest of the illustrious body of law-enforcement officers. Others, who knew him only as El Halcon, with killings to his credit, insisted he was just a blasted owlhoot too smart to get caught, so far.
But Slade had supporters as well as detractors in this latter group. They declared he always worked on the side of law and order, though perhaps sometimes in an unorthodox manner, and that he had never killed anybody except some sidewinders with a killing long overdue, and that peace officers of unblemished records, such as Sheriff Carter, were only too glad to have El Halcon lend a hand when the going got tough.
He knew very well, as did Captain McNelty, who worried about it, that the deception laid him open to grave personal danger; but it also made it possible to tap sources of information that would be closed to a known Ranger. And outlaws sometimes took chances they would refrain from if they knew they were bucking a Texas Ranger, which, so far at least, had reacted to his advantage.
So Slade went his careless way as El Halcon, satisfied with the present, giving scant thought to the future, and treasuring most what was said by the Mexican peons and other humble folk:
“El Halcon! The good, the just, the compassionate, the friend of the lowly! May El Dios ever keep and guard him!”
• • •
When they reached the office they found a visitor awaiting them, a big old gent with truculent eyes and a bristly mustache. And to all appearances, a bristly temper as well.
“So! You’re here, eh?” rumbled the sheriff. “What do you mean by postin’ an open trail? One more caper like that and somebody is going to take up residence in the calaboose. Explain yourself.”
Old Josh Griswold’s reply was, Slade thought, surprising.
“It was a mistake,” he said. “I realize that now. And some of my boys realized it yesterday when they found out that sign didn’t stop a big seven-foot hellion who could dot a lizard’s eye with a Forty-five at fifty paces before the critter had time to wink. Guess that’s him alongside you now, eh?”
“Guess it is,” answered Carter. “And you can tell your young wind spiders for me that they’re plumb lucky to be alive. And if Slade had finished off all three of ’em, they’d have been paid for in advance. As it happens, he’s my special deputy and has been for a darn long time. Got anything more to say?”
As the old rancher hesitated, apparently at a loss just what to say, Walt Slade, who had been studying him carefully, stepped forward and held out his hand.
“How are you, Mr. Griswold?” he said. “Sorry we had a slight misunderstanding so early in the game. Suppose we forget all about it?”
As he spoke, he smiled, the flashing white smile of El Halcon that men, and women, found irresistible.
Old Josh grinned in answer, a trifle crustily, perhaps, as if his lips were rather unaccustomed to the exercise, but he shook hands warmly.
“Son,” he said, “I guess an old feller can sometimes learn something from a young feller, if he’ll just keep his mouth shut and listen,”
“Thank you, sir,” Slade replied.
Griswold proceeded to corroborate Slade’s own deductions as to his reason for closing the trail.
“The reason I did it, Brian,” he said, “was to sorta turn aside chuck-line riders and other such tykes. Figured it would make it easier to patrol my holding. I’m short-handed, as you know, and I’ve lost cows. Guess I’d oughta knowed better, but Lerner, my range boss, sorta talked me into it. He’s all right, but he gets loco notions. Reckon I’m a mite loco, too, or I wouldn’t listen to the long-legged galoot.”
“You’d do better not to,” grunted the sheriff.
At that moment, the deputies carried the body in and placed it on the floor. Griswold stared.
“Wh-what happened to him?” he stuttered. “Looks like he got caught in a brush fire.”
The sheriff told him, sparing no details. Griswold shifted his stare to Slade and swore feebly.
“Never heard the like,” he said. “And if it hadn’t been for the young feller, you’d have all got blowed sky high.”
“Guess we wouldn’t have come down yet,” said Carter, with slight exaggeration. “Yep, I guess we’re beholden to Slade for being alive.”
“And you say those three devils murdered the poor feller and burned down his shack?” Griswold remarked to Slade. “I thought the Brazos River section, where I came from, was salty, but I reckon it couldn’t hold a candle to this one.”
“Yes, it’s rather salty here, sometimes,” Slade agreed. “But it’s an up and coming sectio
n. And the chances are, will be peaceful enough later.”
“I hope so,” said Griswold. “I’m getting a mite old for such heck raising. Well, I’m going over to the Trail End for a drink. You fellers join me in one?”
“We’ll be there a little later,” Carter tacitly accepted the invitation.
“Okay, I’ll be waiting for you,” answered Griswold, and departed, his stride lithe for a man of his weight and years.
“All right, what do you think about him?” the sheriff asked Slade.
“An able and intelligent man,” the Ranger replied. “And if he wasn’t sincere, he sure put on a good act.”
“Then you’re sorta writing him off so far as his being mixed up in something off-color?”
“I didn’t say that,” Slade denied. “We haven’t the least idea who to suspect, so we’re not passing up any bets. So far as Griswold, and everybody else I’ve contacted is concerned, I’m holding my judgment in abeyance; that’s the only fair thing to do.”
“Guess that’s so,” agreed Carter. “Well, suppose we take care of the critters and then amble over to the Trail End. Feel as if I could use that drink.”
5
When they entered the Trail End, they saw Griswold at a big table with a companion.
“That’s Clifton Hart, the Boojer-H owner, Keith Norman’s new neighbor to the southwest, the other newcomer I was telling you about,” said Carter. “Sorta nice-looking jigger, don’t you think?”
Slade did think so. Clifton Hart was an even bigger man than Griswold and, Slade judged, some twenty years younger. He had a big-featured face, a firm mouth, and black eyes of unusual brilliance. In contrast, his complexion was of blonde coloring, deeply bronzed by wind and sun, and his hair was tawny. Its close cropping seemed to accentuate his virile appearance.
Griswold waved his hand. “Come and squat,” he called. “I had Swivel-eye save the table for you. Everything on me tonight. Gotta sorta make up for my misdoings. Mr. Slade, I want you to know Clifton Hart. Guess the sheriff has mentioned him to you.”
“Very glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Slade,” Hart acknowledged the introduction. “Mr. Griswold has been telling me some mighty good things about you.”
“I fear Mr. Griswold tends to exaggerate,” Slade smiled as they shook hands.
“The sheriff’ll back up every word I said,” declared Griswold, jerking his head toward Carter, who nodded emphatic agreement.
As Slade started to sit down, a hand waved from the bar and he spotted a familiar face.
It was young Joyce Echols, one of Keith Norman’s riders, in whose company he had experienced adventures in the course of a former visit to Amarillo, incidentally, saving Echols’ life in the course of them. He walked over to the bar to shake hands with the cowboy.
“Fine to see you again,” said Echols. “Jerry and the Old Man will be plumb pleased to know you’re in town. I’m heading back to the spread as soon as I finish this snort. Came in to place an order for supplies. Guess you can look for ’em both riding in tomorrow.”
“Hope so,” Slade replied. “I’d sure like to see them both. How’s everything been, Joyce?”
“Okay, except we’ve been losing cows,” the hand returned. “The Old Man is about fit to be hogtied. Reckon he’ll feel better when he learns you are on the job again.”
“Hope I won’t disappoint him,” Slade answered smilingly.
“You won’t,” Echols said, with conviction. “Got a notion business is sure going to pick up hereabouts.”
After a few more words, Slade returned to the table and his neglected drink. One of the deputies had paused at the bar and was evidently regaling an ever-increasing crowd with an account of the day’s happenings. Slade was the recipient of admiring glances, and several prominent citizens came over to shake hands and congratulate him.
“Such fame, well deserved, must be invigorating, Mr. Slade,” chuckled Hart.
“Fame is fleeting,” the Ranger returned. “Ten minutes from now they’ll be discussing something else.”
“A comforting philosophy although one might say, under the circumstances, a trifle casuistic,” Hart said.
“I didn’t intend to sound cynical,” Slade disclaimed. “Just stating an obvious fact.”
Hart smiled, and let it go at that.
In the kitchen, the Mexican cook was preparing a repast fitting to the honored guest. Shortly, a line of waiters appeared, bearing the various dishes to which all present did full justice.
“Like to eat in the young hellion’s company,” remarked the sheriff, pushing back his empty plate and hauling out his pipe. “When he’s here the cook sure stirs his stumps.”
“Which is perhaps the greatest compliment of all,” said Hart.
“Anyhow, the most satisfying one,” agreed Carter.
Hart and Griswold began discussing ranch matters. Both claimed to be short-handed and bemoaned the fact that the chuck-line riders they managed to hire would never stay put in one place for long.
Listening to their talk, Slade suppressed a smile. Seemed the owners were afflicted with the same disease; they couldn’t stay put, either. Griswold had mentioned owning a spread in the Red River County, far to the east. He had sold out and moved to the Trinity River country, sold again, and finally squatted in the Panhandle on his present acres.
Hart had gotten his start not far from the Sabine River in southeast Texas. His next stop was on the Colorado River, then west and north to take over the Boojer H.
“Managed to hire three jiggers a few weeks back,” observed Griswold. “Good workers and know their business, but always looking toward the sunset. Just a matter of time.” His eyes grew speculative.
“Wonder what it’s like in Arizona?” he added. Slade let the smile take over.
The recent heavy loss of stock was touched on, both expressing concern, which Slade felt was justified, were their claims accurate.
“Maybe it’ll let up a bit now,” Griswold said, glancing hopefully at Slade.
“Got a notion you can plumb depend on it,” said Sheriff Carter.
Hart glanced at the clock. “A round on me and then I’ll have to be moving,” he said. “Work to do.”
“Nope, you can’t buy,” old Josh said. “Everything on me tonight, atoning for my sins.”
Hart laughed and did not press the point. He tossed off his glass, said good night, and walked out, his step springy, his long arms hanging loosely by his sides, the hands, Slade felt, giving the impression of spear points.
A little later, Slade glanced out the darkening window and stood up.
“I’m going to take a walk down to the Washout,” he announced. “Want to say hello to Thankful Yates.”
Privately, he hoped he might be able to learn something of interest. The Washout was almost as big as the Trail End and well appointed, but usually more turbulent, being favored by the younger and rowdier cowhands and others of like persuasion. Sheriff Carter also insisted vigorously that it was the hangout of questionable characters. This, Slade knew, was sometimes the case.
All of it, aside from the business angle, held a certain attraction for a young man with lusty life coursing in his veins and a liking for adventure.
Slade did not hurry on his way to the Washout but strolled along in a leisurely fashion, alert and watchful nevertheless. He paused to gaze in shop windows, listened to scraps of conversation, studied faces. Nearly an hour had elapsed when he reached the point where the railroad curved around the lake, the final outskirts of the lower town, and halted in front of a wide window of plate glass across which was legened in staring red letters:
The Washout
With a chuckle, he pushed through the swinging doors and into the crowded, noisy and fairly well-lighted room.
A glance told him that much the same motley gathering as on his previous visits was present. There were cowhands, railroaders, teamsters, and gents in “store clothes,” doubtless representative of the mercantile establishments in th
e vicinity.
Also a sprinkling of gentlemen who were harder to catalogue but whom El Halcon felt might bear a little watching.
Thankful Yates, the proprietor, big, fiercely mustached, keen eyed and portly, spotted him immediately and let out a whoop of welcome.
“Well, well,” he chortled as he shook hands with vigor. “Come back to us, eh? Fine! Fine! Hope you coil your twine permanent this time. We’ll have a drink together and you can tell me about yourself and what you’ve been doing the past months.”
Thankful led the way to a table near the dance floor and they talked together for quite some time, until Thankful had to return to the bar to replenish stock from the back room. Slade sat on at the table, smoking, sipping a cup of hot coffee, and studying the occupants of the room. The hour was getting along to a bit past midnight and he was thinking of returning to the Trail End.
Suddenly the babble of talk fell flat, and everybody stared, including Walt Slade.
6
A young lady had pushed through the swinging doors. She wasn’t very big, but beautifully shaped. She wore “Levis,” a soft blue shirt, open enough at the throat to be interesting, and very small and very trim spurred riding boots. A serviceable-looking gun swung from her belt.
But the really incongruous and startling article of her costume was a heavy veil that hung from the brim of her “J.B.” to almost hide her face, certainly to make it unrecognizable.
As she walked across the room, Slade felt there was something familiar about the seductive sway of her hips. He leaned forward in his chair, staring harder.
Straight up to Thankful Yates, who was standing with his mouth hanging open, she walked.
“Mr. Yates,” she said, her voice soft and musical, “have you an opening for another girl?”
“Why — why — I — I — that is — I — ” stuttered Yates, thoroughly taken aback.
“If Mr. Walt Slade recommends me?” she interrupted.
Yates recovered his aplomb. “Why, Ma’am, if that’s so you’re hired,” he exclaimed heartily. “Get back to the dressing room and take those clothes off.
Maverick Showdown Page 3