Maverick Showdown

by Bradford Scott

  Undoubtedly, Frayne had designs on the money in Griswold’s satchel, a large sum, and, should the murderous devil run true to form, it was highly unlikely that the cattleman would escape with his life.

  Slade deduced that the outlaws would set their trap not far from Tascosa. After disposing of their victim and seizing the money, they would hole up and enter the town and cross the bridge under cover of darkness, then back to Amarillo. Unless Frayne had enlisted some more followers, which he thought not likely, the odds wouldn’t be too bad, two to one. He believed he could take care of that without difficulty, if he could just get the jump on the devils.

  It was cooler in the valley than on the prairie above, but it was still plenty hot, the sun beating down through a slight haze that acted as a burning glass. At times Shadow splashed through a film of water where the river overflowed, but never at enough depth to really handicap a horse.

  The miles flowed back, Tascosa drew closer and closer, and Slade began to grow acutely uneasy. Seemed he should have sighted his quarry before now. But the trail wound on, silent, deserted, with little animals and birds going about their businesses without showing signs of alarm or disturbance. Maybe he had made a slip of some sort, although what he couldn’t imagine. He rode on, watchful, alert, straining eyes and ears.

  On rushed the great black horse, dodging boulders and bushes, sloshing through water, never slackening his racing speed. He slugged his head above the bit, snorted joyously, and poured his long body over the ground, his irons clashing on the stones.

  Now Tascosa was less than two miles distant and they were traversing a barren stretch where nobody lived. They rounded a stand of thicket and Slade saw, some two hundred yards ahead what he had expected to see all along, if he was just in time.

  Josh Griswold sat his motionless horse, hands in the air. Approaching him from the encroaching brush were two masked riders holding guns. One was tall and lank, the other, partially hidden by Griswold and his horse, Slade instantly recognized by his build and carriage, despite the mask, as Erskin Frayne.

  Both turned in his direction as they heard the beat of Shadow’s irons. A gun blazed, the slug coming close. Slade slid his Winchester from the boot, flung it forward. The muzzle gushed fire and smoke.

  The tall outlaw spun from his saddle to lie motionless. Frayne whirled his mount and raced west. Slade could not line sights with him because Griswold and his horse were in the way.

  “Trail, Shadow, trail!” he shouted. The great black redoubled his efforts. Frayne was splendidly mounted on a tall bay, but Slade was confident Shadow would overtake him. He divined the outlaw’s intentions, to reach the bridge and cross it and find refuge in the wild land to the west.

  “But you won’t outrun old Shadow,” Slade muttered.

  And then it happened. As they reached where Griswold, looking dazed, still sat his horse, the dead outlaw’s cayuse plunged forward, squarely in Shadow’s path. The two horses met shoulder to shoulder. The ground was wet and slippery and both lost their footing.

  Slade hurled himself from the saddle as Shadow went down. He managed to get in the clear, but hit the ground with stunning force and for a moment lay gasping and writhing.

  By a mighty effort of the will he regained his feet, Griswold dismounting to assist him. Shadow was on all fours, snorting profanity, as was the outlaw’s horse, each blaming the other for what happened.

  “You all right?” Griswold asked anxiously.

  “Fine,” Slade answered, flinging into the saddle. “I’ll get the devil. Follow me.”

  Again Shadow surged forward. Ahead of him was a race such as he loved. Far to the front the tall bay was speeding, and the blankety-blank-blank had no business being in front. Well, he’d take care of that.

  He proceeded to do so, slowly but surely closing the distance. From time to time, Frayne glanced back. He had discarded the mask, doubtless feeling it might attract attention and possible earn him a slug from some quick-witted observer. Being recognized didn’t matter any more; if he managed to escape, he was heading out of the section to the New Mexico hills and mountains, where there was sanctuary for hunted men.

  Now Tascosa was in sight, appearing much the worse from wind, rain and flood. The bridge still stood, jerking and swaying. With his pursuer thundering little more than fifty yards in his wake, Frayne swerved onto the approach and went pounding up the slant. Slade fingered the butt of his rifle, but decided not to use it just yet. Frayne was nearing the level crest of the span.

  Slade still held his fire, for he earnestly wished to take Frayne alive. A little more distance gained and he could place his shot exactly where he wished, to disable not kill. He deduced what the outlaw had in mind. At the lower end of the far slant he would pull up until his pursuer afforded a fine target as he loomed against the downward slant.

  On both raced, the weakened bridge jerking and rocking from the vibrations of the hoofbeats. Slade drew his Winchester, leaned forward in the saddle.

  There was a terrific splintering and cracking and rumbling. Down surged one whole span of the bridge. Shadow screamed with terror as his footing disappeared before his eyes. One front hoof plunged over the splintered edge and for an instant Slade thought they were both done for. But by a miracle of agility, Shadow recovered and lunged back.

  Down rushed the shattered span, to strike the water with a tremendous splash. And after it, sitting his falling horse lance-straight, Erskin Frayne rode grandly into eternity.

  21

  His breath coming hard, Slade leaned to gaze downstream. Frayne did not appear but a moment later, his riderless horse showed, wallowing through the shallows toward the Tascosa shore. It climbed the bank to stand with head hanging.

  No doubt but Frayne had found a watery grave.

  Heedless of the death roaring at him from the reeling bridge, or what was left of it, Slade turned Shadow and rode slowly back to the shore. A crowd was gathered at the foot of the approach.

  “You loco idjut, what were you trying to do, commit suicide, riding across that bridge the shape it was in?” howled a voice.

  “Thought it would stand a little longer,” Slade replied. “Some of you take care of that horse down there on the bank; looks to be about all in. And does anybody know where Sheriff Davenport is?”

  “Was at the courthouse a little while ago, guess he’s still there,” the speaker replied. “Say, ain’t you Mr. Slade, Sheriff Carter’s deputy?” Slade nodded, gazing down the valley.

  “What’s happening, Mr. Slade?” the other asked.

  “Guess it’s all happened,” the Ranger replied. The crowd stared at him, looking puzzled. Slade vouchsafed no more information but continued to gaze down the valley. A moment later, he spotted Griswold, spurring his foaming horse.

  “Get him?” he asked as he drew rein beside El Halcon.

  “Went into the river,” Slade replied laconically. “Don’t think he’ll come out. Come on, let’s go to the courthouse. I wish to speak with the sheriff, and I gather your man will be there waiting for you.”

  And if it wasn’t for you, he’d have a blankety-blank long wait,” Griswold declared as they got under way. “I’m mighty, mighty beholden to you, son. Another minute and I’d have been a gone goslin’; I saw it in that devil’s eyes. Do you know who he was?”

  “Erskin Frayne,” the Ranger replied. Griswold regarded him in slack-jawed amazement.

  “Er-erskin Frayne!” he stuttered. “Are you sure?”

  “I am,” Slade answered. Before they reached the courthouse, he gave a brief summary of his reasons for suspecting Frayne.

  Griswold shook his head sadly. “And he always seemed such a nice feller.”

  “Appearances are sometimes deceptive,” Slade pointed out.

  “Guess that’s so,” Griswold agreed. “Can’t always tell what’s in a jug by reading the label. Erskin Frayne! Well, here we are.”

  They found Sheriff Davenport, an old friend of Slade’s, in his office. El Halcon repea
ted the gist of what he told Griswold.

  “That body is lying in the trail a couple of miles to the east,” he concluded. “You can fetch it in. Mr. Griswold and I will be available for the inquest, if you choose to hold one.”

  “Nobody to hold it,” grunted Davenport. “Coroner’s done moved away. To heck with it! Guess most everybody else will be moving soon, too. Town’s a goner. We didn’t get the Rock Island Railroad, as we’d hoped to, and the storm put the finishing touches to it. A lot of buildings washed away, others lost their roofs, walls crumbled. And now the bridge is done for, and it won’t be repaired. Yep, Tascosa is a has-been.”

  The sheriff was right. The once proud “Cowboy Capital” as it was called, would soon be but a name, its former glory departed, never to return.

  The owner of the land Griswold planned to purchase put in an appearance and the deal was quickly consummated. Griswold sighed with relief as the money satchel changed hands.

  “Now it’s your worry,” he said.

  The other, a rugged old frontiersman, chuckled and didn’t appear much worried.

  “What next, Walt?” Davenport asked.

  “A good feed and a couple of hours rest for my horse, and then back to Amarillo,” Slade replied. “Will be cooler riding at night and sheriff Carter and some other folks will be bothered if I don’t show up.”

  “And I’m riding with you,” Griswold announced. “Want to see Carter’s face when we tell him about what happened. We’re on the wrong side of that blanket-blank river, but I reckon we can find a place where we can cross.”

  “I know a place,” Slade said. “River’s already subsiding and it doesn’t take the Canadian long to get back to normal once it starts; we’ll make it.”

  “And I reckon you two can stand a surrounding,” observed the sheriff. “The Equity Bar on Main Street is still doing business. Suppose we amble over there.”

  Nobody objected to the suggestion and they proceeded to follow it.

  As they rode down the sun-drenched valley of the Canadian, Walt Slade experienced a complacent feeling, and one of accomplishment. He had come into a region marred by enmity and strife, plagued by a lawless element. Now the lawless element had been eradicated. Enmity and strife had departed. Josh Griswold was on the best of terms with his neighbors and had established amicable relations with the farmers he had previously detested. Friendliness and understanding had replaced turbulence and distrust. He was leaving a section at peace, at least for a time.

  And more than ever he was convinced that Ranger work was really worthwhile, that he was not wasting his talents, and that his decision to stick with the Rangers for a while yet was a sound one. He, too, was at peace.

  Slade and Griswold reached Amarillo without incident, although it was well past midnight when they finally arrived at the Queen City to find Jerry with a nice case of jitters and old Keith and the sheriff in not much better shape.

  They listened with absorbed interest to Slade’s terse account of his brush with the outlaws and the passing of Erskin Frayne, Griswold adding a few laudatory details.

  “And now I’m headin’ for bed,” the rancher said. “Feel like I’d been drug through a — a cactus patch and hung on a barbed wire fence to dry. Be seeing you all.”

  The sheriff tugged his mustache and ruminated. Slade knew he had something on his mind and waited in silence. The sheriff spoke.

  “I been doing a little nosin’ around,” he said. “I found out that Frayne has a whoppin’ big balance in the bank here. Guess every time the bunch made a haul, he deposited his share of the loot. And there’s the Open Door, too, and several good horses in his stable.”

  “The ultimate disposal of his assets is for the county and the state to determine,” Slade said, “that is, if no heirs are discovered, which I consider likely.” He chuckled.

  “There may be certain legal technicalities involved that will present difficulties. I know very well that Frayne perished in the river, but there is no definite proof to that effect. A lack of his body as evidence of his demise may delay proceedings. Well, that is no concern of ours; our chore was to rid the community of Frayne and his bunch. We accomplished it.”

  “Yep, all plumb proper,” Carter agreed.

  “And now, I suppose, you’ll be heading back to the Post to see what old Cap Jim has lined up for you,” said Carter. “Everything under control here, that is till another bunch of horned toads move in and you’ll have to come back for another clean-up.”

  “Guess that’s about the size of it,” Slade admitted.

  “But first he’s going to spend a few days at our casa, resting up,” Jerry stated decidedly.

  Some days later, as she watched him ride away to where duty called and new adventure beckoned, she remarked to herself:

  “Remember saying I wasn’t the waiting kind, but I guess I’ll have to be for a while now.”

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  Copyright © 1967 by Leslie Scott. Published by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency. All rights reserved.

  Cover Images © 123RF/Jeanne Hatch

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-4964-8

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4964-9

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-4962-1

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4962-5