At that moment, Keith Norman came back from the bar and the conversation was discontinued.
“Hello!” Norman suddenly exclaimed. “Here comes Josh Griswold of the G Square. Say, that jigger sure has changed of late. Dropped in at my place yesterday for a visit. Talked real nice and sociable, a lot different from what he used to be. Can’t understand what got into him.”
Sheriff Carter, who did understand, smothered a chuckle under his mustache, but refrained from comment. He waved to Griswold to join them, invited him to take a load off his feet and have a snort. The G-Square owner accepted both invitations and nodded cordially to Norman and Slade. Jerry finished her dance and also rejoined them. The sheriff glanced at the clock.
“Guess we’d better amble back to the office and open up for a spell, so folks can get a look at that carcass,” he suggested.
Griswold pricked up his ears. “Mean to say you’ve got another one?” he asked.
“That’s right,” said Carter. “Like to take a look at him?”
Griswold conceded he would. Norman also desired a look-see. Jerry decided to stay right where she was.
“Now don’t go gallivanting off somewhere,” she urged Slade, who promised not to. Griswold downed his drink and they set out.
14
When they reached the office, there were quite a few people waiting to get in. However, none recalled seeing the owlhoot in life. Griswold leaned over for a look and started. He shot a glance at the sheriff, at Slade. The Ranger knew he had something to impart.
However, Griswold said nothing until the last straggler had departed and the door was shut. Then he turned to the sheriff.
“Brian,” he said sententiously, “that fellow worked for me. Was with me several weeks. Trailed his twine just a few days ago. Didn’t pay him no mind. Figured him to be just another chuck-line rider who’d move on before long. Didn’t think anything of it when he asked for his time.”
“Recall anything concerning him?” Slade asked quickly. Griswold shook his head.
“Not much,” he admitted. “Feller was a good worker and knew his business, but a sorta silent jigger. Didn’t mix much with the boys. Don’t think he ever rode to town with them. Just rode around by himself when he wasn’t working. Did a lot of riding.”
“Yes, I imagine he did,” Slade said dryly. “Getting the lowdown on things.”
“What happened? How come he’s here, and dead?” Griswold asked.
The sheriff told him, in detail. Griswold shook his head, clucked in his throat.
“Don’t know who to trust any more,” he declared. “I’d never have thought it. Shows how little you can tell about people. By the way, I rode over to have a little talk with the farmers to the west of my holding. Got to thinking about what Mr. Slade said of them. Not bad fellers, once you get to know them.”
“They are all right,” Slade said. “All they ask is a chance to make a living for themselves and their families. Doing anything to hamper them is definitely inconsiderate.”
“Guess so,” agreed Griswold. “I figure them and me are going to get along okay from now on.”
“That will be to the advantage of all concerned,” Slade pointed out. “When honest men get to feuding, it plays directly into the hands of the outlaws. Each side blames the other for anything off-color that happens, giving the owlhoots a free field of operation.”
All three of his hearers nodded sober agreement.
“But now and then we’re lucky enough to have somebody to set us on the right track,” Griswold said, with a significant glance at El Halcon. “Looks like you did another good chore today, Mr. Slade, to go along with a lot of others. Well, I want to stable my horse; meet you at the Trail End.”
“Thank you, sir,” the Ranger acknowledged.
As they walked back to the Trail End, a little later, he observed to the sheriff:
“It’s the old fellows on whom we have to put a check rein. The younger generation is much more adaptable to changing conditions. I was watching some young farmers and young cowhands in the Open Door the other night. They were getting along all right.”
“Yep, old coots are sot in their ways,” Carter agreed. “But I reckon it ain’t impossible to pry ’em loose. That is for some people, who know just what sort of a pry to use.”
Slade smiled.
For a while the sheriff was silent. Then, as they neared the Trail End he spoke:
“Remember what you said the other day about a man’s workers sometimes getting out of hand? Griswold seems all right, but those hands of his, what do you think — ”
“I doubt it,” Slade interrupted. “If the ones I contacted were a fair cross section of hid hands, frankly, I’d say no. They just don’t strike me as fitting into the picture. Certainly at variance with the members of the bunch we have managed to bag. However, things being as they are, I’m passing up no bets. I hope to learn more about them before long. All we know at present is that a man Griswold admits rode for him was definitely off-color. But it’s not unusual to find a rotten apple in most any barrel, and with such a chuck-line rider section as this one, any reputable rancher can have one or two of the wrong sort working for him without his knowledge.”
“I guess so,” Carter conceded. “Well, here we are, and here comes Griswold, and your little gal looks glad to see you back. I wonder how she manages to put up with you.”
At times, Slade himself was inclined to wonder.
“Some of my boys are in town tonight,” Griswold remarked as they sat down. “Includin’ Si Lerner, my loco range boss. Maybe you’ll run into them if you happen to go out. If you do and you see ’em misbehaving, give ’em a good larrupin’ for me, Mr. Slade.”
Smiling, Slade promised to do so.
“I want to go down to the Washout and see that nice Mr. Yates,” Jerry announced. “Come on, Walt, it isn’t so very late. I like the Washout, it’s always lively.”
“Too blasted lively at times,” growled the sheriff. “Watch your step, and keep out of trouble.”
“Too late, Uncle Brian, too late!” Jerry retorted blithely “Let’s go, Walt!”
When they entered the Washout, Slade ran his eyes along the bar. His gaze focused on three men who were chattering away together over full glasses. They were the G-Square hands with whom he had the brush on the trail the day of his arrival in the section, one being the lantern-jawed, bristly haired range boss, Si Lerner.
The recognition was instantly mutual. Lerner’s face split in a wide grin, he whooped a welcome, and plowed across the room, hand outstretched.
“Well! Well! Mr. Slade!” he bellowed in a voice that shook the rafters. “The gent who can dot a lizard’s eye with a sixgun at fifty paces, accordin’ to what the Old Man says, and I figure him to be right. How are you, Mr. Slade? A good hand always follows his boss’s lead, and you ‘pear to have took him in tow. So we’re right here to eat a little crow and say we’re sorry for what happened on the trail. Okay?”
“It certainly is,” Slade replied as he returned Lerner’s warm grip.
The range boss beckoned his companions. “Come on over here and shake hands with Mr. Slade,” he shouted.
“The loco-looking one is Bert Paret,” Lerner introduced. “The still locoer looking one is Chuck Olsen. Stupid, but harmless.”
They bobbed their heads to Jerry who extended her hand. Each shook it, man fashion, but diffidently.
“Coming to the bar?” Lerner asked.
“No, we’ll occupy that table Thankful has ready for us,” Slade replied.
“Okay, we’re sending over drinks,” said Lerner. “Goin’ to have one ourselves, to help wash our crow down.” He bellowed with laughter.
“I like them,” Jerry said as she and Slade sat down. Slade was forced to admit that he did, too.
“And they are the ones you had trouble with on the trail,” Jerry remarked. “They certainly don’t look or act bad.”
“They aren’t bad,” Slade replied. “Just rambunctio
us young fellows ready for anything that will provide diversion or excitement. Plenty salty if necessary, but not really bad. Nothing off-color about them.”
“That was the opinion I formed of them at once,” the girl said. “Woman’s intuition again, I suppose.”
“And you know I place a high value on your opinions and your intuition,” he replied.
“Thank you, dear,” she said softly. “I hope I’ll never disappoint you.”
“You never will,” he answered with conviction.
The drinks arrived, and all glasses were raised in salute, cementing a friendship that would last, Slade believed.
Thankful Yates came over to sit with them a few minutes.
“See you’ve lined up the G-Square boys,” he chuckled. “Don’t know how you do it, but all you have to do is say a word and everybody does just as you tell ’em to. Right, Miss Norman?”
“Don’t I know it,” Jerry sighed. Yates beckoned a waiter, nodded to his companions.
“And one for the G-Square hellions over there,” he added.
The G-Square hands accepted the offer with alacrity. Slade and Jerry settled for coffee.
“And then I think we’d better be going, dear,” she said. “It is rather late. We’ll stop at the Trail End to say good night to the sheriff and Uncle Keith, if he’s still around. Chances are he’s already gone to bed. He was tired when we started for town.”
As they were finishing their coffee, a thought struck Lerner, the range boss.
“Did you see the Old Man, Mr. Slade?” he asked.
“Left him at the Trail End,” Slade replied. “We’re heading for there now.”
“We’ll be right behind you,” Lerner said. “Figure we’d better amble up there and see if he’s making out all right.”
Saying good night to Thankful, Slade and Jerry left the Washout and walked slowly up the street toward the Open Door. Slade noticed a man walking just a short distance ahead of them on the otherwise deserted street.
Just before reaching the Washout, there was an alley that, Slade knew, crossed another that ran behind the saloon. The man ahead passed the dark opening without glancing toward it, but Slade, as was his habit, gave it a careful scrutiny, deciding there was nobody lurking in the shadows. The man ahead, only a few steps in front of them, turned into the Open Door.
Instantly from inside the saloon sounded yells and a crackle of gunfire. The man came dashing back out, a smoking gun in his hand. He whirled, threw down on El Halcon.
15
Slade hurled Jerry from him and went sideways and down in the same flicker of movement. A bullet whipped past his face, but before the fellow could squeeze the trigger again, Slade shot with both hands.
The man gave a strangled cry, lurched, reeled, fell forward on his face. He quivered an instant and was still.
The pandemonium inside the saloon had ceased for a moment. Now it cut loose again with redoubled violence. Behind Slade and Jerry sounded yells and a pounding of boots. Even as Slade glanced over his shoulder, the G-Square punchers were ranged alongside them, guns out and ready for business.
Heads had been poking cautiously out the door of the saloon. They ducked back precipitately from the threat of those cocked guns that thrust in their direction.
“Take it easy,” Slade told Lerner and his companions. “Everything under control.”
“What happened, Mr. Slade?” Lerner asked excitedly. “Did that blankety-blank try to plug you?”
“Just a decidedly unique and very clever try at a dry gulching,” Slade replied.
Forgetting the presence of Jerry, who was clinging to Slade with one hand and holding a cocked gun in the other, Lerner said some more things that sizzled. He glared at the heads again poking out the door, and raised his gun. The heads again vanished. The doors slammed open and a man in a white apron appeared. It was the head bartender. He halted, stared at the body on the ground.
“What in blazes happened out here?” he demanded.
Slade repeated what he told Lerner. The barkeep also had a word or two to say.
“What happened inside?” Slade asked, holstering his guns and starting to manufacture a cigarette.
“Blast it! I hardly know, it all happened so fast,” replied the bartender. “A feller — guess that’s him on the ground there — carne bustin’ in. There were three more fellers standing a little ways down the bar, kinda away from it. They let out a yell, pulled their hardware and started shooting. The feller shot once, then dived back out the door. The three jiggers who shot at him whipped around, skalleyhooted through the back room, and out the back door into the alley. Last I saw of them.”
Lerner and Olsen dashed to the cross alley and into it. Slade was confident they were just wasting their time. It was highly unlikely that the three men in question would still be hanging around in the alley back of the saloon.
“Frayne isn’t here,” the bartender replied to a question from Slade. “Ambled off somewhere yesterday evening and ain’t showed up yet. Chances are he’ll raise Old Harry when he hears about it.”
Slade thought that very likely he would.
Now the Open Door patrons were streaming out, exclaiming, questioning, chattering like so many magpies, staring at the still form sprawled on the sidewalk, regarding El Halcon with what approached awe as the bartender recounted what Slade had told him.
“The sidewinder had his gun already in his hand when he scooted out, but Mr. Slade downed him just the same,” a voice remarked in tones that cut through the general uproar.
Slade turned to Paret, the G-Square cowboy. “Will you please hustle up to the Trail End and fetch Sheriff Carter?” he requested.
“Certainly,” replied Paret, and left at a run.
Lerner and Olsen reappeared from the alley. “Nobody in sight,” the range boss announced, not at all to Slade’s surprise. “So the hellions figured to put one over on El Halcon, eh? Had about as much chance as a coal oil dog chasin’ a fire-brick cat through hell! Excuse me, Miss Norman, forgot about you being here when I cut loose a few minutes ago.”
“Sounded like music,” Jerry returned cheerfully. “Sort of steadied my nerves after the scare I got. All I could see was that gun pointing at Walt.”
“Pointin’ guns at Walt is just a nice quick way to take the Big Jump,” said Lerner. “Say, it was a sorta cute try, though, wasn’t it, Mr. Slade?”
“Yes, it was,” the Ranger replied. “A new and very smart variation of an old method. A fight starts, attracts everybody’s attention, and an innocent ‘bystander’ is killed. Deplorable accident. Well, it didn’t work, and that’s all that counts.”
“And as you say, if your number isn’t up, nobody can put it up,” Jerry murmured, snuggling closer. “I’m going to keep repeating that over and over. But just the same, I’m still shivering.”
Lerner glowered at the body. “And the hyderphobia skunk even took the chance of killing you!” he growled. “What’s the world comin’ to, anyhow!”
“Here’s the sheriff,” somebody called. Another moment and the old peace officer pulled up alongside Slade.
“So! Nice quiet little walk this time,” he remarked.
“Didn’t turn out too bad,” Slade replied. “Well, let’s flip the gentleman over and see what he looks like.”
“One slug got him through the neck, the other dead center,” the sheriff observed, gazing at the blood-smeared face. “Don’t look as smart as the one you hauled in from the valley. Think he figured the scheme for himself?”
“Definitely no,” Slade answered. “A smarter man, a much smarter man concocted it. Came very nearly being successful, too.” The sheriff didn’t appear much impressed by the last statement. He turned to the crowd gathered around.
“Take a look at him and see if you can remember seeing him before,” he said.
Apparently nobody had, or at least, they didn’t admit it.
“But the other three, somebody must have noticed them,” said Carter.
“Oh, I suppose so,” admitted the sheriff. “I’m not wasting time arg’fyin’ with you. Somebody grab a shutter or something and pack the carcass to my office. Gettin’ another collection for Doc to set on.”
The shutter was quickly secured. The G-Square punchers agreed to do the packing.
“Then you’d better amble over to the Trail End,” Carter told them. “Your boss is there. He was talking with some fellers on the other side of the room and we left without telling him where we were going. He’ll want to hear about what happened. And you work dodgers will need to hang around till the inquest, late in the afternoon; you saw something at least of what went on.”
The G-Square bunch did not appear at all displeased with the prospect.
“And the same goes for you, Jerry,” the sheriff added. “You were right there.”
“Fine!” Jerry replied. “Worth being scared out of my — er — overalls to get a chance to stay in town another day and night.”
“Huh! If you didn’t get one you’d make one,” said Carter.
The G-Square hands ambled out. Carter shut the door and gave the body a careful once-over, disclosing more than a little money, along with various trinkets Slade considered of no interest.
“He may have left a horse tethered somewhere,” El Halcon remarked. “The others would have left it for him when they hightailed. Doubt if they stopped until they were clear of town. Then they probably waited for a while for him to show up, and when he didn’t, they’d figure something had gone wrong and would have headed for wherever they were bound for.”
“About the size of it,” nodded Carter. “I’ll have the boys scout around for the cayuse. That is if some hellion hasn’t swiped it. Nothing safe any more that ain’t nailed down, and even if it is, some horned toad with a puller will very likely draw the nails. Well, reckon that’s all for now, and it’s time everybody was in bed; be daylight ‘fore long. Be seeing you both tomorrow. Make him behave himself, Jerry.”
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