Maverick Showdown

by Bradford Scott

  “All right, this is far enough,” he decided at length. We will leave the horses here, where they should be in the clear. Hope they’ll stand and not kick up a racket.”

  “Chances are ours will,” said Carter. “They’re well-trained brutes. How about yours, Hart?”

  “He’s a very quiet cayuse and stays put,” the rancher replied.

  Cautiously, they stole forward on foot, soon reaching the point where the crossing began.

  “Now all we can do is wait and see what happens,” Slade announced. “If they are down there and getting ready to move, they’ll shove the cows ahead up the slope and be bunched behind them. When they show over the lip, Brian, call on them to surrender. They won’t, you can be pretty sure of that, so shoot fast and shoot straight. Being on the ground with them mounted, we should enjoy a certain advantage, but we can’t afford to take any chances. It’s a desperate bunch, every one a killer.”

  “Glad you didn’t decide to handle this one all by yourself,” Carter muttered, loosening his gun in its sheath.

  “Circumstances and conditions being what they are, I deemed it inadvisable,” Slade returned in little above a whisper. “All right, now, no more talking.”

  10

  Slowly the minutes ticked off. Nowhere was there a sign of movement. No sound broke the great hush of the rangeland, save the occasional note of some night bird. Overhead the stars glittered, silvering the prairie with an eerie and deceptive glow.

  More minutes passed, and Slade began to wonder if they were too late, the wideloopers having already left the valley with the stolen stock. If so, they could have turned in any direction, rendering trailing them almost out of the question.

  Then a sound did break the silence, loud enough for even the other members of the posse to hear, the bawl of an angry cow that resented being shoved up the steep slope.

  “Get set,” Slade breathed. “It’s showdown!”

  Louder and louder grew the bawling of the cattle. Now the clash of hoofs on the stones could be heard. Another moment and a string of shapes flowed over the lip of the sag, surging forward under the shove of those behind.

  The last cow reached the level ground. After them came four horsemen, clumped together — huge, grotesque in the star gleam. Slade nudged the sheriff. Carter’s voice rang out:

  “Up! You’re covered! In the name of the law!”

  A volley of startled exclamations, the blaze of a gun! A bullet screeched past, close. The posse opened fire.

  • • •

  Back and forth gushed the reddish flashes. It was almost blind shooting in the uncertain light, but as Slade predicted, the advantage was with the men on foot, hugging the brush. A widelooper fell. Slade squeezed both triggers and another reeled from the saddle. The two remaining spun their horses about and went storming down the slope. Slade ran forward and emptied his guns at the clashing of irons on the stones; but two horses kept on going.

  “Guess that’s the best we can do,” he said, stuffing fresh cartridges into the cylinders of his Colts. “We didn’t do too bad.”

  “You’re darn right we didn’t,” chortled Carter. “Got the cows back and collected us a couple of scalps. Altogether, chalk up a day for our side. Let’s take a look at what we bagged.”

  By the aid of matches, the dead outlaws were examined.

  “I’ve seen both of the ornery-lookin’ scuts,” a deputy declared.

  “Remember where?” Slade asked. The deputy hesitated.

  “I think the Open Door,” he finally replied. “Not plumb sure. Could have been the Trail End, or maybe the Washout.”

  “That blankety-blank rumhole, I’ll put a lock on the front door, yet!” raved the sheriff. “Yates ‘pears to be all right, but that pack rat’s nest draws owlhoots like molasses does flies.”

  “A saloonkeeper can hardly ask credentials of his customers,” Slade pointed out. “These fellows could pass very well as average cowhands or chuck-line riders.”

  “Oh, I reckon so,” said the sheriff and again subsided to growls and grumbles.

  Slade ran his eyes over the herd, which had settled down to cropping grass.

  “Better than a hundred head,” he observed.

  “And that runs into money,” said Hart. “I’m one heap beholden to you, Mr. Slade. Would have hit me hard.”

  “Everything’s all right that ends that way,” Slade replied cheerfully. “Well, guess we’d better start them home. Will take us the rest of the night, I’m afraid.”

  The outlaws’ horses had bolted but a short distance and, like the cows, were busy lining their bellies as best they could, hampered by the bits. They were easily rounded up, the bodies roped across the saddles and the triumphant procession got under way.

  Slade’s prediction wasn’t far off; the east was glowing rose and gold when the cows were shoved onto their home pasture and the hungry and weary posse headed for the casa and something to eat and a few hours rest before the long drag to Amarillo, the two bodies being placed in the barn.

  “Well, one thing is sure, we’re thinnin’ ’em out,” the sheriff remarked to Slade. “Including the one we didn’t find, these two make six altogether. Not bad! Not bad!”

  “But the head of the outfit is still on the loose,” Slade replied. “And until he is corralled we can look for more trouble. He’s one smart hombre, all right, and so far we haven’t a thing on him.”

  “Any notion who he might be?” asked Carter.

  “Just a vague idea,” the Ranger answered. “Hardly an idea, in fact, with mighty little to go on. Well, we’ll see.”

  Carter nodded and asked no questions. To do so, he knew, would be just a waste of time.

  “And there goes my prime suspect,” Slade remarked reminiscently a little later.

  “You mean Hart?” prompted Carter.

  “Yes, Hart,” Slade replied. “For a while things pointed at him very nicely, the convenient situation of his spread, the tough bunch he has riding for him, his intense curiosity relative to myself. But last night when he was telling us about his widelooped cows, I studied him very closely, his eyes, his mouth, his expression as he talked, and arrived at the conclusion he was telling the truth. The sequel proved he was. So he’s out the window, leaving me very much up in the air.

  “Too many figures of speech, but they all apply. Well, I’ll just have to do a bit more nosing about and see what comes of it.”

  Slowed by the awkwardly burdened led horses, the day was well along toward evening when they reached Amarillo and another siege of excitement. This time quite a few people recalled seeing the two slain outlaws hanging around the lake-front bars. The Washout and the Open Door were especially mentioned.

  “Looks like the sidewinders have their headquarters here,” the sheriff remarked.

  “Yes, it does,” Slade agreed. “Not strange, though; Amarillo is strategically located for such a bunch. I’m just a mite curious about Tascosa, too. May take a ride over that way. And I also plan to contact some of the valley dwellers, particularly those of the Mexican plazas. They’ll talk to me.”

  “Yep, your El Halcon reputation paying off,” Carter conceded. “But how about Griswold? We were both looking sorta sideways at him for a while.”

  “Personally, Griswold appears to be all right,” Slade answered. “But remember, sometimes a man’s workers may get out of hand, unbeknownst to him, and turn to side lines. We know little about his hands other than they appear to be a trouble hunting bunch of salty hombres. Not that I’m intimating there is anything off-color where they are concerned, but we can’t afford to miss any bets, circumstances being what they are.”

  “You’re darn right,” Carter agreed. “Got to look sideways at every jigger who might qualify. And in this blasted owlhoot center I’m scared I’ll get swivel-necked. No matter which way you look, you can spot some wind spider capable of anything.”

  “Hardly that bad,” Slade smiled reply. “But you’re not too far off. Always the way with a fron
tier town, and Amarillo is still in the nature of a frontier town, with new faces showing up all the time. Well, we’ll do what we can and hope for the best.”

  “And right now I figure the best thing would be to go and tie onto something to eat,” Carter suggested. “Huntin’ down outlaws always makes me hungry.” He glanced at the bodies.

  “Hellions didn’t have anything on ’em worth while except money. Well, suppose we can’t hope to hit the jackpot every time, like you did with that hunk of paper you fished from that other one’s shirt pocket. Let’s go get that surrounding.”

  After eating, Slade relaxed comfortably with coffee and a cigarette. That is, he relaxed physically. Mentally he was anything but relaxed. He felt he had made some headway against the outlaws, but not enough. And he hadn’t been sent to the section to loaf around saloons and enjoy the music.

  But, blast it! Saloons seemed the only places he could learn anything, and even they had not been productive of much. And his next stop would be a saloon. After a bit, he pinched out his cigarette and tossed it aside.

  “I’m going down to the Washout, and perhaps the Open Door,” he told Carter. “Don’t expect to be gone very long. Suppose you’ll stick around here for a while?”

  “Reckon I might as well,” the sheriff replied. “Okay, and keep your eyes open; you’re not overly popular in certain quarters about now.” Slade promised to do so and sauntered out.

  He was watchful and alert as he walked toward the lake, for he did not take the sheriff’s warning lightly. There was little doubt but that the outlaws would be anything but friendly where he was concerned. Two setbacks in a single day and night were not calculated to improve their tempers. Given the slightest opportunity they would very likely attempt something against him.

  Might find himself on a very hot spot, but just the same he would welcome a chance for a showdown, especially if the leader of the outfit might decide to try his own luck, seeing as his subordinates hadn’t met with any success.

  As he neared the lake front, he decided to visit the Open Door first. He wondered if Erskin Frayne had returned from his night ride.

  When he entered the saloon he saw he had. Frayne was standing at the far end of the bar, debonair, neatly attired, appearing composed and at peace with the world. He greeted El Halcon cordially.

  “Took me a nice long ride,” he announced. “Have to get away from this racket for a spell every now and then or go loco. That’s the greatest drawback to this business; after a while one begins to develop cauliflower ears. I stopped at Tascosa for a while, then rode west and onto the desert. Thought I might pay Tucumcari a visit, but there appeared to be a storm building up in the south — the dust banners were floating out from the sand dunes — and thought better of it. Those dust storms are something to reckon with.”

  Slade thought it interesting that Frayne, from Arizona, appeared to be familiar with the Tucumcari and its vagaries. However, he did not comment, only nodded agreement.

  “The boys are all talking about your recent exploits, and no wonder,” Frayne went on. “You have certainly accomplished a lot in a short period of time.”

  “Just so happened that opportunity came my way,” Slade replied. Frayne smiled.

  “The establishment of law and order in the section is highly important,” he continued. “Otherwise, people will be reluctant to settle here, and what these great open lands need more than anything else is people. For example, fully half of my customers are farmers who are in the nature of new arrivals. Without them, I’d be operating at a loss. Yes, you have been doing the community a great service.

  “Part of the way after leaving Tascosa on the return trip, I rode through the Canadian River Valley,” Frayne added. “I found the geological phenomena there quite interesting. Reminded me of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River in miniature. Without a doubt, the taller cliffs depict several petrological eras.”

  “Yes?” Slade acquiesced, looking vague.

  “Ever happen to notice it in the course of your rides?” Frayne asked.

  “I fear a layman seldom understands such matters and doesn’t pay them much mind,” Slade replied.

  “I suppose so,” Frayne agreed. He motioned to a bar-ender to fill glasses.

  After a bit of casual conversation, a somewhat puzzled Ranger left the Open Door and headed for the Washout. Why did he bring that up, he wondered, apropos of Frayne’s ruminations anent the geological peculiarities of the Canadian River Valley. On another fishing expedition? Possibly, but why? After a while a possible solution presented itself, but Slade was not ready to accept it yet. He entered the Washout in a very thoughtful frame of mind.

  Anyhow, he felt, if Frayne’s objective had been to ascertain if he were familiar with such matters, his curiosity had not been assuaged and he had learned nothing from the noncommittal answers to his questions. He dismissed the subject for the moment.

  The Washout was crowded and noisy, per usual. Old Thankful greeted him and they discussed recent happenings.

  “You’ve sure got things hopping,” the owner chuckled. “Hard to tell which is the most talked about, your walloping owlhoots or your singing. It was sure wonderful how you figured just what those vingaroons would do.”

  “Really, there was nothing wonderful about it,” Slade denied. “It was such an old trick that I wonder why people will keep falling for it, but they do. I’ve encountered it a number of times. The rustlers headed for the valley, or so it appeared. In fact they did. But they didn’t do what Hart and his men figured they would. Hart was convinced they were running the cows to New Mexico, by way of the valley. So he did what he thought the logical thing to do, headed west over the prairie, where he could make much better time than by way of the valley, hoping to intercept the wideloopers beyond Tascosa and the upper valley plazas. Would have been fine, only the thieves didn’t play the game according to the rules. And I’ve learned that outlaw procedures almost always follow a pattern. It did this time. They drove the cows into the valley, holed them up slightly to the east of where they descended the slope, where nobody lives, waited until dark when they’d have a clear field, then started on their drive north to Oklahoma, confident they wouldn’t be trailed.

  “Yes, a neat little scheme, only it didn’t work.”

  “That’s right, because El Halcon was on the job and a jump ahead of ’em,” chuckled Yates.

  “It’s just that I’ve had some experience with such matters,” Slade said. “Just watch, it’ll happen again here when another bunch starts working the section, really they never change, which works to the advantage of the law-enforcement officer, making it possible for him to often anticipate their moves.”

  “Some law-enforcement officers,” Yates answered, pointedly. “I’ve noticed the run-of-mill variety don’t seem able to make much headway against the horned toads.”

  Slade smiled, and changed the subject.

  “Business is good, per usual,” he remarked, glancing toward the crowded bar.

  “Yep, it is,” Yates agreed. “Getting new folks all the time. By the way, I heard those two hellions you packed in were seen in my place. I’d like to have a look at them. All right to drop around tomorrow?”

  “They’ll be in the office,” Slade replied.

  “Okay, I’ll do that,” Yates promised. “‘Scuse me a minute, there’s Pete yelpin’ for more stock.” He hurried off to care for the bartender’s needs. Slade rolled a cigarette and sat sipping his drink and pondering his recent conversation with Erskin Frayne and puzzling over it.

  What Frayne had handed out was purest sheep dip. There were no such geological phenomena in the Canadian River Valley. In the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, more than a mile deep, yes. There geological eras were plainly revealed and could be studied, but not in the Canadian Valley, its bottom only a few hundred feet below the surrounding prairie.

  Why did Frayne do it? Expecting his hearer to controvert his statement and thus betray a knowledge of such matters? It was
possible. But again, why?

  There was a possible answer, but one that seemed preposterous. Perhaps it wasn’t. And were it not, it definitely bolstered a vague theory that had been building up in his mind. He drew forth the slip of paper on which was inscribed the map of the Tascosa trail, studied it a few moments and replaced it, the concentration furrow deep between his black brows.

  “The guilty flee when no man pursueth,” he murmured to his irresponsive glass. “You can’t beat the Scriptures for precise and incontrovertible statements.”

  The glass refrained from comment.

  11

  Yates rejoined him and for a while they sat in casual conversation, until, growing weary of the noise and the smoke, Slade said good night and headed uptown to find the sheriff awaiting him.

  “Now what do you figure to do?” Carter asked.

  “Now,” Slade replied, “I figure to go to bed. Been a busy two days with only a couple of hours sleep; I feel I can stand a little more.”

  “A good notion,” the sheriff agreed. “I’ll do the same thing after I finish this snort. See you tomorrow, at the inquest.”

  Reaching his room, Slade cleaned and oiled his guns, then, before retiring, sat by the window for a short time, reviewing the recent incidents.

  It could have been worse, he was forced to admit. He had scored twice against the outlaw band, and although he knew his chore was far from finished, he felt he had made some progress.

  And the vague theory building up in his mind was steadily becoming less nebulous. He was beginning to believe he might well be on the right track. If so, some of the complications were smoothing out, the task confronting him becoming less onerous. In a fairly satisfied frame of mind, he went to bed and slept soundly until nearly mid morning, awakening in fine fettle and feeling fit for anything.

  Making his way to the Trail End in quest of breakfast, he found the sheriff already stowing away a surrounding. He waved a greeting with the knife that was dissecting and shoving in a slab of pie, motioned to a vacant chair, which Slade occupied.