“With your statements in general I heartily agree,” Slade replied. “But the pun you made, if one may call it such, was execrable.”
Said the sheriff, “Let us drink!”
They spent quite a while in the Washout, chatting with Thankful. The night wore on and they ambled up to the Trail End for a word or two with Swivel-Eye, then decided to call it quits. Slade said good night to the Sheriff and repaired to his hotel room. He sat down on the bed that was shoved against the partition wall. It creaked loudly under his weight as he removed his boots.
However, he didn’t lie down just yet. He wasn’t particularly sleepy and felt like doing a little thinking. So he occupied a chair by the window and sat gazing out at the moonlight.
The night was very still, with only a faint murmur of voices reaching his ears, for there were few people on the streets. The leaves of a tall tree that grew close to the building wall, but a little way down from his window, rustled softly in the slight breeze, making a restful music. He began to drowse.
Suddenly he shot from his chair, wide awake. From somewhere nearby had come the muffled boom of a gun, a splintering sound and a slight thud. Another report followed the first, another and another, and still another. He realized the shooting was going on in the next room, beyond the partition wall against which his bed was shoved. He stood listening intently. There were no more shots, but a slight scuffling as of boots on the floor boards, then silence.
For another moment he stood listening, but there was no further sound from beyond the partition. Every nerve at hair-trigger alertness, he glided to the door and cautiously opened it. There was nobody in the hall. He moved to the door of the next room and again stood listening. Still no sound. Keeping well to one side, he reached out and slowly turned the knob; the door was not locked. He hesitated, still listening, then shoved the door open a way.
A wall lamp, turned low, burned in the room which was, so far as he could see, deserted. But somebody might be hugging the wall beyond the door, although he believed his unusual hearing could catch the sound of a man breathing, were there one behind the half open door.
He fumbled a cartridge from his belt and tossed it into the room. It hit the floor with a sharp rattle that would surely have brought at least a slight movement from an occupant of the room. No sound resulted.
Taking a chance, he flung the door wide open and bounded into the room, sliding along the wall, hands gripping the butts of his Colts.
He was alone in the room. Almost against the open window was a stout tree branch, by which evidently the nocturnal visitor had entered and departed. He turned the lamp higher and glanced around.
The bed in this room was also shoved against the partition wall. His gaze centered on the wall. Piercing it were five bullet holes in a line and but a few inches above the bed. His lips pursed in a soundless whistle.
Now voices were bumbling downstairs, there was a patter of feet on the steps. Slade whisked from the room, closing the door behind him, and into his own room, again closing the door. The room clerk was coming up the stairs to investigate. Beyond the stairhead, doors were opening and, on the floor above, voices called back and forth.
Slade gazed at the partition wall. Just above the surface of his bed was a line of splintered holes, bullet holes. He shifted his glance to the far wall and saw evidence that there the slugs had lodged. His eyes rested on the bed again.
Well, if he had been lying on that bed, he would probably have stopped snoring, but he wouldn’t have awakened. A very, very nice try. He had encountered something similar some years back, a couple of shots through a partition, but not nearly as cleverly handled as the present attempt. He recalled a story that John Wesley Hardin had once killed a man with a shot through a partition, because the fellow’s snoring annoyed him. Perhaps the gent who holed up in the next room had heard the story and had drawn inspiration from it.
Now there were more voices in the hall. Somebody hammered on his door, calling his name. He opened it to admit old Tally, the room clerk.
“Did you hear it, Mr. Slade?” he chattered excitedly. “Any notion where it was?”
“I’d say it was in the next room,” Slade replied nodding toward the partition.
Tally rushed to the next door, turned the knob and flung it open. A few smoke rings drifted lazily out.
“It was in here, all right,” he exclaimed. “I can smell the powder. But there ain’t anybody here. Where’d he go? How’d he get out? I know darn well he didn’t come through the lobby, and I’m sure there was nobody registered for this room — you’re the only tenant this side of the stairs.”
Slade sauntered to the window and looked out.
“Nobody out here, either,” he announced. Casually he closed the window and slipped the latch. Now nobody could enter by way of the window that he wouldn’t hear, no matter how soundly he was sleeping. He certainly didn’t expect an encore, but best not to take needless chances.
Tally was still swearing and conjecturing. “Maybe the feller was cleaning a gun and let it off,” he said.
“Very likely needed cleaning,” Slade replied, with truth. Tally apparently did not note the discrepancy between the remark and the situation as it stood.
“Perhaps he ran into another room,” he observed hopefully and started examining them, finding nothing.
“Doors should be locked, but about half of them ain’t,” he grumbled. “Blasted swamper who cleans the rooms ain’t to be depended on. Well, it’s got me beat. Anyhow, doesn’t look like anybody got killed.”
Still muttering cuss words, he returned to the lobby. He had failed to note the bullet holes in the wall, which Slade had not called to his attention. Let whoever eventually discovered them do a little guessing.
Entering his own room, he extinguished the light and resumed his chair by the window.
Yes, a very nice try, and only the fact that he had sat down on the bed to remove his boots, causing it to creak as it would if he were lying down, had saved him. The killer had waited a little, possibly to make sure he was asleep and had then emptied his gun through the thin partition.
As the sheriff would say, it looked like his pet devil had been on the job and looking after him. Oh, well, as he had said before, if your number isn’t up, nobody can put it up. The philosophy of El Halcon! He pinched out his cigarette and went to bed.
19
It seemed to Slade that he had been asleep but a few minutes when he was aroused by somebody hammering on the door. Opening it, gun in hand, revealed Sheriff Carter and a young cowboy.
“This hellion has something to tell, I figure you should hear,” Carter said. “Woke me up to tell me.”
“Come in and shut the door,” Slade replied. “Wait till I make a light.”
He touched a match to the lamp and turned expectantly. The sheriff jerked his head to the puncher.
“Go ahead, tell him what you told me,” he directed.
“I ride for John Skelton’s Forked S, across from Tascosa,” the hand announced. Slade nodded; he was familiar with the spread.
“I was coming to town to do a chore for Mr. Skelton,” the puncher continued. “Decided to make a night ride ‘cause it would be cooler. A few miles this side of the bridge, I saw a horse poke its nose out of the brush. The bit was out, but it wore a rig. Looked like maybe somebody had fell and got hurt, so I unforked and browsed around a bit. Found a feller layin’ just inside the brush. He was dead. Had a bullet hole in his breast, so I figured the sheriff oughta know about it pronto. I hightailed to town. Got in just a little while ago. Swivel-eye Sanders told me where the sheriff lived.”
“You did right, even though you did bust up my night’s rest,” Carter told him. “Okay, reckon the Trail End is still open. You might as well go corral yourself a snort. Much obliged for coming to me like you did.”
“Always glad to lend a hand,” the cowboy said and departed. Slade shut the door and locked it.
“Well, what do you think?” Carter aske
d of Slade. “The same as you’re thinking,” the Ranger replied. “The one of Frayne’s bunch I saw slump in the hull during the ruckus by the reservoir. Evidently I got him better than I thought.”
“Correct,” said the sheriff. “Guess he finally toppled out of the hull, dead or dyin’. The other two devils shoved him into the brush, flipped out the horse’s bit and hightailed for town. Reckon they figured they didn’t have any time to waste if they hoped to get here before daylight.”
“Just about the size of it, I expect,” Slade agreed. “Glad that young fellow took a notion to look around. Otherwise we might never have known that Frayne now has only one hellion left, which might work to our advantage. That one, however, is no snide and something to reckon with.”
“How’s that?” Carter asked.
In reply, Slade pointed to the bullet holes in the partition and explained how they got there. The sheriff had quite a few things to say.
“And you mean to tell me after what happened you went to sleep in that bed?” he asked incredulously.
“Of course,” Slade answered. “It’s the only one in the room.”
“I don’t believe you’ve got a nerve in your body,” Carter declared. “Me, I’d have spent the night settin’ up with a gun in each hand. You’re the limit! Well, guess I got another ride ahead of me, to fetch that carcass. I think it’s in Potter County. Anyhow, I’d like to put it on exhibition here.”
“I’ll accompany you,” Slade said. “But there’s no sense in riding in the dark. He’ll keep. Go back to bed. I’ll see you later.”
“A notion,” the sheriff agreed. “Young feller said he stripped the rig off the horse, so it’ll be all right. Good night, morning, afternoon, or whatever the hell it is; I’m all mixed up. Be seeing you.”
With the sheriff on the way to knock off a little more shut-eye, Slade resumed his own interrupted slumber and didn’t awaken until the morning was fairly well along.
When he entered the Trail End in search of something to eat, he found the sheriff already at breakfast, with him the Forked-S cowhand who had taken care of his chore and volunteered to lead them to where the body lay.
“It’s pretty well covered by brush and you might have trouble finding it,” he said, apropos of the dead outlaw. “Horse is liable to have wandered off somewhere. If it hadn’t been for the horse, I wouldn’t have spotted it myself. Yes, I knocked off a couple of hours sleep after the Trail End closed. All I need to hold me.”
After finishing eating, they cinched up and rode out of town, a deputy with them leading a mule upon which to pack the body.
“Anyhow, it’s a darn nice day, and that helps,” Carter remarked. “Could be worse, and I’ll sorta enjoy this chore. Hope I get a chance to do the same for a couple more.”
The cowboy looked puzzled and shot him an inquiring glance, but the sheriff did not see fit to elaborate.
Slade was watchful as they neared the spot where the puncher said the body lay, although he thought it hardly conceivable that the two remaining outlaws, all he believed were left of the bunch, would attempt anything against them. However, Erskin Frayne was a most unpredictable character and it was best not to underestimate him.
They had no difficulty locating the body and the rig, but the horse was nowhere in sight; doubtless it had either been picked up or had wandered off in search of better pasture.
The body was secured into place and they parted company with the cowhand.
“Give my regards to Mr. Skelton,” Slade requested. “I think he’ll remember me.”
“Doubt if he could very well forget you, or your horse, either,” the puncher replied, with an admiring glance at both.
“Nice young feller,” Carter remarked as he rode away. “Yep, he’s all right. Did a good chore. Well, guess we might as well amble; don’t see anything else we can do around here.”
Without mishap, they reached Amarillo sometime past sunset. The body was placed on exhibition and all hands adjourned to the Trail End for something to eat, where they found Jerry Norman and old Keith awaiting them.
“I knew very well there was no depending on you or when you’d show up,” she told Slade. “So I came looking for you; guess I’m not the waiting kind. I’m hungry!”
“She always is,” grumbled the sheriff. “She’d eat a man out of house and home.”
“Have to keep my strength up or he’d leave home,” Jerry returned. “Call a waiter!”
“And I guess I’d better have another snort,” said Carter. “Watching folks eat always makes me thirsty.”
“You can find more excuses for drinking than Walt can for not being around when he should,” Jerry declared.
The sheriff didn’t contest the point and ordered the snort.
“Here comes Mr. Griswold,” Jerry announced a few minutes later.
The sheriff waved his hand and beckoned.
“Come on over, Josh,” he called. “You look like you need a mite of stimulating.”
“Startin’ to rain,” Griswold said as he sat down. “And the way my rheumatics are acting up, it’s liable to be a sock-dollager. They’re darn good weather prophets. When they begin to twinge, look out!”
“Why’d you sashay from home with the weather threatening?” Carter asked.
“To meet a feller who’s coming in on the morning train,” Griswold replied. “I’m dickering with him for a hunk of land he owns over to the west. Would sorta round out my holding and keep some other galoot I might not like from moving in against me. If I can talk the price down right, the chances are I’ll take it.”
Carter nodded his understanding, and ordered another round of drinks.
Soon the rain was pelting down hard, the big drops splashing against the window. Slade walked to the door and looked out.
“Coming from the northwest, too,” he announced. “Liable to start the Canadian on another rampage. Well, guess there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“I like rain,” said Jerry. “So nice when it stops.”
20
Griswold planned to return to his spread after meeting with the man from whom he hoped to make his purchase, but the weather ordained otherwise. For three days the rain, a regular drencher, continued, and he didn’t feel like bucking it.
The owner of the land did return to his holding, despite the rain. He and Griswold arranged to meet in Tascosa after the weather cleared up, the land in question being recorded in Oldham County, to close the deal.
The Panhandle was throughly water-logged. Every depression, every buffalo wallow, and every stream in the entire watershed were filled to overflowing. The Canadian River was a roaring, raging torrent. The great wagon bridge crossing the stream from Tascosa rocked and quivered under the impact of the flood waters, and there were grave doubts as to its safety.
“She’s took floods before and always stood up, reckon she’ll take this one,” said optimists.
However, plenty thought otherwise, for the bridge was already severely damaged.
The rain ceased in the middle of the night. The day after dawned blistering hot without a breath of air moving, and grew worse as the sun climbed higher.
“Whee-ew! It is hot,” Slade remarked to Jerry Norman as they had breakfast together at the Trail End. “A regular scorcher.”
“I don’t mind,” Jerry replied. “Because it’s so hot, Uncle Keith decided not to ride back to the spread today, so I’ll have another day in town. But after we finish eating, I am going over to my room to change to something cooler. See you here later.”
After she departed, Slade strolled down to the Washout for a word with Thankful Yates.
“Mr. Griswold was here a little while ago,” Thankful remarked. “Wanted to leave word with me for his boys, who he figured would be riding in today for supplies. Wanted me to tell them, if they showed up here, that he was on his way to Tascosa to close his land deal. Had a satchel full of money he’d just drawn from the bank to pay for the land. I walked up to the Open Door with him
. Wanted to leave word with Frayne, too. He told Frayne about the deal he was making. Said he figured to ride the valley trail, where it would be cooler.
“How long since he left?” Slade asked quickly.
“About two hours, I’d say,” Thankful replied. “Maybe a little more.”
Another word or so and Slade left the Washout and walked at a fast pace to the Open Door. When he entered, he did not see Erskin Frayne.
“Ambled out quite a while ago,” the bartender replied to his question as to whether Frayne was around somewhere. “Said he didn’t know for sure when he’d be back. ‘Peared to have something on his mind.”
Slade grimly suspected that Frayne did have.
Leaving the Open Door he headed for Shadow almost at a run.
“Feller, we’ve got to do some fast traveling or a good man is going to die,” he told the big black as he climbed up at top speed. “Okay, horse, let’s go, and hope well be in time.”
Ten minutes later, Shadow was racing across the prairie to the Canadian Valley, his rider constantly urging him to greater efforts.
“If we can just catch up with him before he enters the valley, everything should be okay,” he muttered. “But he’s at least two hours ahead of us, according to what Thankful said, and he rides fast.”
Anxiously he scanned the prairie ahead; there was no sign of Griswold, and as he neared the valley without sighting him, his fears for the rancher increased. He knew where Griswold would enter the valley, by a route favored by most riders, somewhat to the east of the one by which he, Slade, usually crossed the gorge. Today he would reach the floor by the same route as followed by the G-Square owner, then turn west.
Now no great distance ahead was the lip of the valley, and the rangeland stretched deserted. Griswold had already descended. Reckless of consequences, Slade sent Shadow plunging down the slope, reached the brush- and grass-grown floor. The trail that wound westward was also deserted for as far as he could see. He turned west and sent Shadow on at breakneck speed. He knew that he might very well run into an ambush himself, but he had to risk it. His only hope was to catch up with Griswold before the outlaws intercepted him.
Maverick Showdown Page 13