Maverick Showdown

by Bradford Scott

  Erskin Frayne was of a little above medium height, broad-shouldered, lean and sinewy of build. His features were regular, his mouth firm, his hair dark, inclined to curl, and neatly trimmed.

  Neat also was his attire. He wore striped trousers stuffed into shiny black half-boots, a white shirt with a frilled bosom, a black string tie, and a long black coat becomingly creased. As they drew near, Slade noted that his eyes, set deep in his head, were of pale blue, and very bright.

  Thankful performed the introduction and they shook hands. The grip of Frayne’s slim fingers was steely, but not pronouncedly so.

  “Been hearing a lot about you, Mr. Slade,” he said. “Appears you have a genius for being at the right place at just the right time.”

  Neither Slade nor the sheriff had said anything to controvert the general opinion that the ruckus in the hotel lobby was the result of an interrupted attempt to rob the hotel safe.

  “Just a lucky turn of the wheel,” he replied to Frayne’s remark.

  “Yes, you can never tell into just what slot the ball will drop,” Frayne agreed. “Nobody but the Devil knows, and he won’t tell. Have a drink, both of you.

  “Must keep on good terms with my competitor,” he added. “Might need to borrow a bottle or two now and then.”

  Yates ran an appreciative eye over the gathering and nodded.

  “Looks like you’re liable to need one any time,” he observed.

  “Yes, I’m doing all right,” Frayne conceded. “A nice bunch of boys, behave themselves quite well, most of the time. Now and then there’s a bit of a disagreement, but nothing serious, so far.”

  “‘Pear to be a quieter bunch than the wind spiders I get, who are always raising hell and shoving a chunk under a corner,” Yates said. “I’ve a notion if it wasn’t for Mr. Slade, the sheriff would close me up. Says I’m a blasted nuisance.”

  “I doubt if his bite is as bad as his bark,” Frayne chuckled. “Plan to coil your twine for a while, Mr. Slade?”

  “While I am here,” Slade replied smilingly.

  “Understand you’ve been here before,” Frayne observed.

  “Yes.”

  “Not from this section, I gather?”

  “No.”

  Frayne seemed to hesitate, then, “But you are a Texan?”

  “Another lucky turn of the wheel,” Slade answered. “I happen to have been born in this state.”

  “Texas is a very big state,” Frayne said, in the manner of stating a fact, but really in an interrogative fashion.

  “It is,” Slade agreed.

  Old Thankful, who knew something of the impossibility of getting El Halcon to tell you anything when he wasn’t of a mind to, twitched his mustache to hide a grin. No matter how adroitly the Open-Door owner might put his suggestions, he would learn nothing.

  Apparently Frayne realized the fact, for he desisted in what Slade knew very well was a little fishing expedition in the hope of gleaning information relative to himself, and turned the conversation into general channels, largely dealing with the saloon business.

  “I came very near settling in El Paso,” he remarked. “Glad I changed my mind. I figure here I’m getting in on the ground floor, as one might say. I feel this is an up and coming section. Funny how the wheel turns, as you phrased it, Mr. Slade. I was born and brought up on a ranch, but found it hard work and often not adequately recompensed for one’s efforts. So I turned to the liquor business, which pays better, and while it has its headaches, I feel they are minor compared with fighting wideloopers and the climate when it takes a notion to act up. I recall losing nearly a thousand head of stock during a bad spell in the San Bernardino Valley over in Cochise County, Arizona.”

  “Wait till you see one of our Panhandle blizzards,” remarked Yates. “They’re plumb something. The big XIT outfit lost heavy when one of those howlers ambled down from the north. The cows wouldn’t face it and ended up against a drift fence, where they froze to death. But that sort of weather is good for the saloon business; folks have to hole up someplace where it’s warm and comfortable.

  “Our droughts ain’t no snides, either, but they work in our favor, too, folks feeling the need of a cool drink.”

  “It would appear you are a philosopher, Mr. Yates,” Frayne smiled.

  “Nope,” said Thankful. “I’m from Maine. Well,” he added, “guess I’d better get back to my place and see if it’s still in one piece. Be seeing you, Frayne.”

  “Come again,” the owner urged. “You, too, Mr. Slade. Always be glad to see you.”

  Outside, Yates asked, “What do you think of him?”

  “Capable, more intelligent than the average, and a man of some education,” the Ranger replied.

  “Got a notion he’ll make a go of the business,” Yates commented.

  “He’ll very likely make a go at anything to which he sets his hand,” Slade said. “Well, I’m heading for the Trail End; have an appointment with Jerry and the sheriff. Chances are we’ll drop in at your place later.”

  “Be looking for you,” answered Yates.

  When Slade reached the Trail End, old Keith Norman was at the bar, speaking with some acquaintances. Jerry and the sheriff occupied a table.

  “Thought you’d never show up, and I’m starved,” the girl greeted him.

  “Well, you didn’t show up for breakfast,” he replied pointedly.

  “I didn’t have an appointment with the sheriff and didn’t have to get up when — when I wasn’t quite ready to,” she answered.

  The sheriff shook with laughter. Jerry blushed.

  After eating, the sheriff and old Keith drifted to the bar for more jabber. Young Joyce Echols, who had ridden to town with Norman, asked Jerry to dance. Left alone, Slade drew forth the bit of paper he had taken from the dead outlaw’s shirt pocket, spread it on the table, and studied it carefully.

  “The map was drawn by an engineer or a surveyor, all right,” he told his coffee cup. “Has the professional touch, no doubt as to that.”

  Slade was capable of correctly interpreting the map.

  Shortly before the death of his father, which occurred after financial misfortunes which cost the elder Slade his ranch, young Walt had graduated with high honors from a noted college of engineering. He had intended to take a post-graduate course in special subjects to better fit him for the profession he had determined to make his life’s work.

  At the moment, that became economically impossible, so he lent a receptive ear when Captain Jim McNelty, with whom he had worked some during summer vacations, suggested that he sign up with the Rangers for a while and pursue his studies in spare time.

  “You seemed to like the work,” said Captain Jim. “Perhaps you’ll get to like it even better.”

  That was the catch. Slade did learn to like the work better. Long since he had gotten more from private study than he could have hoped for from the postgrad and was eminently fitted for the profession of engineering. He had received offers of lucrative employment from high figures in the financial and business world he had contacted in the course of his Ranger activities, such as James G. “Jaggers” Bunn, the famous General Manager of the great C. & PO. railroad system, former Texas Governor and millionaire oil man, Jim Hogg, and John Warne (Bet-a-Million) Gates.

  But the “catch” was really getting in its licks. Slade liked Ranger work so well he was loath to sever connections with the illustrious body of law-enforcement officers. It offered so many opportunities to right wrongs, help the worthy, and make of the state he loved an even better state for the right kind of people. Later he’d turn to engineering, but not just yet. He was young, plenty of time to become an engineer; he’d stick with the Rangers for a while longer. This was very likely just what shrewd old Captain Jim anticipated.

  For some little time, Slade continued to study the mysterious map. Finally he replaced it in his pocket and sat gazing out the dark window across the room from where he sat. He had arrived at a decision but did not mention it to hi
s companions when they returned to the table.

  “Well, do you like this better?” Jerry asked Slade, glancing down at her trim figure.

  “Better?” he repeated blankly. “Oh, I see, you’re wearing a dress tonight.”

  Jerry appealed to the sheriff. “Did you ever hear of the likes of him? And I wore this especially for him. He never pays attention to what I wear. If I showed up in a gunny sack and hip boots, he wouldn’t notice.”

  “I do notice what you wear,” Slade protested. “Or what you — ”

  “Shut up, that’ll be enough,” she interrupted. “You talk too much!”

  “You started it,” Slade retorted.

  Again the old sheriff found something to laugh at. Jerry made a face at him. He contemplated her for a moment.

  “There’s a cattle disease down to the south that is causing trouble,” he remarked reminiscently. “It’s called hoof-and-mouth disease. Makes a cow put its foot in its mouth.”

  His reward for the outrageous comparison was another face, and a wrinkling of a pert nose.

  “I want to go down to the Washout,” she announced.

  “And chance getting mixed up in another corpse and cartridge session?” Slade replied.

  “Oh, I didn’t mind,” she returned cheerfully. “I rather enjoyed it. Sort of livened things up and made me all set for — ” Her voice trailed off under the sheriff’s eye.

  “Yep, that’s what they call it, hoof-and-mouth disease,” he repeated. Jerry jumped to her feet.

  “Come on, Walt,” she said. “He’s impossible!”

  8

  Without incident, they reached the Washout, to be warmly greeted by old Thankful.

  “Sure glad you decided to come,” he said. “Things are lively, and I got a new orchestra tonight, a plumb good one, Mexican fellers who came up from the south. The other bunch vow’d to move along. Those fellers are just another breed of chuck-line riders; can’t stay put in one place for long. The bunch I got now all know you, Mr. Slade, and are buzzin’ about you.”

  Slade waved to the musicians, recalling them as performing at a place in Laredo some months before.

  “Yep, they sure have been doing a heap of talking about you,” Thankful continued, and added insinuatingly:

  “And, just a notion of mine, suppose the eingingest man in the whole Southwest gives us a little song. The folks would plumb enjoy it.”

  “Okay, if you wish to empty the place and send everybody up to the Open Door,” Slade agreed.

  “I’ll risk it,” Thankful replied cheerfully and led the way to the raised platform that accommodated the orchestra. The leader bowed low to El Halcon and handed him a guitar. Faces turned expectantly.

  “Señoritas and señores,” the leader called, “Capitan will sing,” apparently deeming that all the introduction necessary.

  Making sure the instrument was tuned to his liking, Slade turned to his waiting audience, played a lilting prelude and sang, his great golden baritone-bass quivering the hanging lamps.

  First a song of the rangeland, its beauty and its threat, the roar of white waters, the whispering of the wind, the hills and the valleys, and the ever advancing skyline that lures restless men to the fulfillment of a dream or, mayhap, to death.

  When the applause had stilled, he thundered forth a rollicking ballad of the Kentucky hills to the accompaniment of clapping and stamping by the young farmers present, in whom every line evoked nostalgic memories.

  He smiled at Jerry and in conclusion sang a number of his own composition, during which the dance-floor girls gazed at the tall singer, glorious in his youth and strength, as at a vision from another world.

  Just a garden gay with roses

  Flaunting crimson ‘neath the sun!

  Just a song at twilight,

  When the long day’s work is done!

  Just a welcome haven

  That shelters from all care!

  Just a glad returning

  To the girl who’s waiting there!

  Handing the guitar to its owner, he smiled at the continuing applause and made his way back to Jerry.

  “Waiting!” she murmured. “Waiting! A little more of that and I’ll become absolutely maudlin. Let’s dance!”

  They did several numbers together. Jerry threw off her somber mood and was again her gay, animated self. When they paused at their table for coffee, Yates joined them.

  “Yep, Mr. Slade, the folks sure did enjoy your songs,” he said.

  “And I’ve a notion singing that one for the farm boys will be good for my business,” he chuckled. “They’ll be telling their friends about it.”

  “That place, the Open Door, you two were talking about is a new place, isn’t it?” Jerry asked.

  “Uh-huh, it is, a purty nice place,” Thankful replied. “Like to amble up there for a little while? Guess they can do without me for a mite.”

  “Yes, for a few minutes,” Jerry answered. “I’m curious.”

  Thankful said a word to his head bartender and they left together.

  When they reached the Open Door, Erskin Frayne was not present.

  “Rode off somewhere a little while after you gents were here earlier this evening,” the bartender replied to Yates’ question as to his whereabouts. “He does a lot of riding. Guess he’s still a good deal of a cowman and has to be forking a horse every now and then.”

  “Sorta gets in the blood, I understand,” said Yates.

  He and Slade had a drink with the bartender, Jerry a glass of wine which she sipped slowly.

  “And now, dear, I think we should really be going,” she said to Slade. “Uncle Keith wants to get an early start back to the spread. We’ll be looking for you, of course. Sure hope you’ll be able to make it out soon.”

  “I’ll sure try,” Slade promised.

  As they walked slowly uptown Jerry remarked:

  “Hope we won’t run into any more excitement at the hotel.”

  They didn’t. The old desk clerk, his head bandaged but otherwise looking fit, was snoozing comfortably in his chair. He did not move as they mounted the stairs together, unless perhaps one eyelid fluttered a trifle.

  • • •

  Two hours before noon, Slade rode west on the trail that would eventually reach Albuquerque, New Mexico. After making sure he was not followed, he rode at a fair pace until he was a few miles from where the side track from Tascosa bridged the Canadian River and continued to join with the main trail.

  Now he was continually glancing to the north and to the west. Far ahead loomed the mountains of New Mexico, fanning into the deep blue of the sky. He slowed the pace still more, finally pulling to a halt.

  “Horse, that should be it, according to the map, about a mile ahead,” he said. “Where a line drawn from the crest of Tucumcari Mountain cuts one drawn from Dome Peak up in Oklahoma. Hmm! Thick brush on each side of the trail, a very nice setup. That is, if our hunch is a straight one, and I think it is. Let’s see, now. Won’t do to keep ambling ahead the way we’re going. If there is something holed up there, we’d very like be a settin’ quail, once we were recognized. So we’ll just head north from here and approach that belt of brush from the north. That way, if nobody is keeping watch in that direction, which I consider unlikely, we should make it to cover all right. Let’s go!”

  The maneuver was executed without difficulty, although it was a rather ticklish business, riding across the open prairie to the bristle of brush. If somebody was keeping watch to the north — well!

  However, evidently nobody was. Reaching the chaparral, he rode south a little way, halted again, sat listening. Ahead, at no great distance, a bluejay was complaining with angry squawks about something.

  “Feller,” Slade breathed, “there is somebody holed up ahead there, sure as you’re a foot high. That’s what old fuss-and-feathers is raising heck about. Somebody is too close to his nest or his favorite roosting limb. Something he doesn’t approve of, and jays, as a rule, sure don’t approve of peo
ple. Okay, you take it easy for a spell. Be seeing you soon, I hope.”

  Dismounting, he dropped the split reins to the ground, slipped his Winchester from the boot, and stole ahead cautiously on foot, the cries of the irritated bird loudening. With the racket only a couple of hundred yards or so to the west, he paused amid a final straggle of growth, from where he could see the trail ahead and not be seen himself.

  Now there was nothing to do but wait. And it proved a long and tiresome wait, without even the solace of a cigarette to relieve the tedium.

  But as Jerry said, all things come to one who waits — long enough! To his keen ears there suddenly came a sound, a faint rumbling, then a jingling of bit irons and the thudding of horses’ hoofs. Slade edged forward a little and held the cocked Winchester at the ready.

  Louder and louder grew the sounds, without doubt the stage from Tascosa. He moved ahead a little more, tense and ready.

  Around a bend a score or so yards distant bulged the lumbering, swaying vehicle drawn by six horses. Slade raised the rifle.

  The stage swept forward, reached the spot opposite where the jay was wheeling and squawking, passed it, and continued on its way, rumbling by where El Halcon stood ready for instant action.

  What in blazes! He was convinced somebody was holed up in the brush ahead, presumably a band of outlaws intending to make a try for the stage. But they didn’t. And there was no doubt in Slade’s mind that they were still there, keeping under cover. What the heck did it mean? Had the devils lost their nerve at sight of the guard on the seat, a double-barreled shotgun at the ready, a rifle leaning against his knee, a second guard in the boot, similarly armed? Could be, but didn’t seem likely. And if so, why did they remain in the brush instead of riding out to go about some other devilish business?

  Well, all he could do was stay right where he was and await developments, whatever the heck they might be.

  Another wait, even more tedious than the former, for now his nerves were tense in anticipation of he knew not what.

  Then abruptly a sound other than the racket kicked up by the jay became apparent, the muffled thud of a horse’s hoofs in the dust of the trail.