That broke the tension. The cowboys shook with suppressed mirth. Even old Tom indulged in a wan chuckle.
“Put a thin pillow or a folded blanket under his head,” Slade directed. “Cover him well and somebody sit beside him. We won’t move him till the doctor gets here. I’m ready to bet a hatful of pesos that he’ll pull through.”
Old Tom Mawson wiped the sweat from his face, and there was a glitter of tears in his eyes as he gripped Slade’s hand.
“Feller,” he said thickly, “I believe you’re right. There’s no use for me to try and say anything for what you did, but if you ever want a favor from me, no matter how big, I want you to ask and ask quick.”
Slade smiled down at him, his even teeth flashing startlingly white in his bronzed face. “Well, sir,” he said, “there’s something you can do for me right now; I’d sure appreciate a bite to eat. And I’d like to put up my horse.”
Mawson instantly began shouting orders to the cook. “I’ll take care of your cayuse myself,” he finished.
“Much obliged,” Slade replied. “I’ll walk out with you, though. Old Shadow is sort of shy about anybody putting a hand on him without my okay.”
A moment later Mawson was exclaiming admiringly over the great black horse who accepted his ministrations with dignity after Slade formally “introduced” the ranchowner.
With Shadow properly cared for, Slade and Mawson returned to the house. Slade examined young Clate again and was satisfied with his appearance; he seemed to have drifted into a natural sleep. Leaving him on the dining-room table with two watchful cowhands sitting beside him, Slade walked out to the kitchen with Mawson.
“And now, sir,” he said as they sat down, “I’ll tell you all I know of what happened up there on the rimrock trail.”
As the story progressed, Mawson’s lined face hardened and his frosty eyes blazed with fury. “That danged oil crowd!” he declared. “There ain’t nothing they won’t do when they’re on the prod against you.”
Slade studied him a moment. He suspected that Mawson was a leader of the cowmen of the section.
“Those fellows I saw didn’t ride like oil workers,” he objected.
“Oh, I don’t mean the fellers who drill the wells and put up the derricks and so on,” Mawson explained. “I mean the operators and their guards they hired to watch the wells — they’re just paid gunmen of the worst sort — and the bunch of crippled crawlers they brought in to set up in business in that infernal town they built. It’s a crowd ornery enough to eat off the same plate with a snake. And every owlhoot from the Big Bend country and Mexico and every place else makes that town his headquarters. This used to be a nice peaceable section with nice folks living in it, but now!”
“You’ve had trouble with the oil folks?” Slade asked.
Mawson barked at the cook to rustle his hocks and get food on the table and answered, “If ruining my grass and poisoning my stock and widelooping cows is trouble, I’ve had plenty of it. A whole section of my south range is spoiled. The first well a young whippersnapper named Bob Kent drilled spouted oil all over the section. And I’ve found plenty of my cows stretched out dead from the stinkin’ stuff.”
“You mean, sir, that a gas well ran wild and poisoned stock?” Slade asked.
“Ain’t no gas wells so far as I’ve heard about,” Mawson replied, “but there’s oil over everything.”
“Gushers, eh?” Slade commented.
“Reckon the first one Kent drilled was what they call that,” Mawson said, “but it didn’t last long, just a few days. Plenty of oil, but since that they have to pump it out, I understand.”
Slade nodded and looked thoughtful. “A gushing well usually has one of two explanations,” he remarked. “Either pressure induced by confinement in a restricted area, sometimes by a field being at the bottom of an underground slope, or the pressure exerted by a gas pocket. An extensive gas pocket may mean a gushing well for a long time, perhaps to the full extent of its producing life. The first sort experiences a swift diminishing of pressure and quickly becomes a pumper.”
Mawson glanced at him curiously. “You talk like you know considerable about the oil business, son,” he commented.
“Oh, I’ve been around a few fields in my time,” Slade replied with truth. He did not explain that his experience had not been restricted to observation. Nor did he deem it necessary to explain that before joining the Rangers, he had graduated from a famous college of engineering, a profession he still intended to follow some day and the knowledge of which had more than once proved valuable in the course of his Ranger activities.
“And you’re sure there are no gas wells?” he added.
Mawson shook his head.
“And still you’ve had cows poisoned?”
“Plenty of ‘em,” Mawson insisted. “The danged oil gets everywhere. The creek down there that supplies all my south pasture with water is plumb ruined. The stuff is all over the water in a thick scum and the cows won’t drink it, but it seeps into the holes farther north where they do drink and it kills them.”
Slade stared at the rancher, who undoubtedly believed what he said, but which to him sounded rather incredible.
“It’s the ruination of this section, that infernal oil strike!”
“I’m not so sure,” Slade returned quietly. “I’ve a notion it’s liable to turn out the best thing that ever happened here.”
“What’s that?” Mawson demanded.
“For instance,” Slade continued, “I’ve a notion you could use a railroad line down here.”
“We could,” Mawson agreed. “It would do away with a mighty bad seventy-mile drive. But we’ll never get one.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Slade said. “I happen to know that the C. & P. has for some time been considering a line to the south and on into Mexico.”
“Tarnation!” exclaimed Mawson, “it’s a desert to the south of here and a mighty bad one.”
“A desert provides no insurmountable obstacle to railroad building,” Slade replied. “In fact, once they get over the cap rock and down to the desert floor, it makes for construction at low cost and low cost maintenance to follow. I heard the route chiefly under consideration is to the east of this valley, but with the oil field going strong and guaranteeing plenty of business for the road and a growing town right here, I predict they’ll change their plans and build straight down from McCarney, coming close to the field and passing over the cap rock.”
“Would make for mighty handy shipping,” admitted Mawson, adding pessimistically, “but the way things are going we won’t have any cows to ship by the time it gets here. In addition to the poisoning, we’ve had more cows widelooped in the past month than in two years before.”
Slade nodded but did not comment. He was content to let the seed he had planted in Mawson’s mind do a little growing.
Slade enjoyed a really excellent meal, old Tom having coffee to keep him company. He had finished eating and was rolling a cigarette when hoofs sounded outside and the white-bearded old frontier doctor from Proctor, the cattle town to the north, came hurrying in. He nodded to Mawson and the others and went to work without delay. He removed the bandages, stared at Slade’s handiwork and picked up the fragment of splintered rib and turned it over in his fingers. Then he spoke to Mawson.
“Who did it?” he asked peremptorily.
“Who shot him?” Mawson replied. “I wish I knew, Doc Cooper.”
“The devil with that!” snorted the doctor. “I ain’t interested in who shot him. That’s for you to take care of. I mean who did this chore of operating on him?”
Mawson called to Slade who still sat smoking in the kitchen. Doc Cooper started slightly as his glance took in the Hawk’s towering form.
“Yes,” he remarked, almost as if repeating something he had once said before, “the world lost a mighty fine surgeon when you decided to be a cowboy. Surgeon’s hands, no nerves, and the guts to go through with a thing like this without hesi
tating.” He turned to Mawson.
“Tom,” he said, “if you begin right now and keep on the rest of your life, you wouldn’t be able to make up to this big feller what he did for you. Clate would have been dead long before I got here if it wasn’t for him. As it is, I figure he’ll be up and getting into more trouble by this time next month. Now clear out of here, all of you, and let me finish this chore. There isn’t much but routine work to do but I don’t want you in my way. You stay here, young feller,” he added to Slade. “I’ll need somebody to handle the chloroform and pass me things. I want to straighten out the end of the broken rib, anchor it and make sure there’s proper drainage. Outside, everybody else!”
Mawson and the cowboys left the room. Doc Cooper closed both doors, turned to Slade and held out his hand.
“What in blazes are you doing over here, Walt?” he asked in low tones.
“What are you doing here, Doc?” Slade asked as they shook hands.
“Got tired of the Panhandle a couple of years bach and moved down here,” Cooper replied. “Figure to move to Weirton soon; most of my practice is down there of late and getting better. How’s McNelty?”
“He’s fine,” Slade replied. “Doc, I want to ask you a few questions while I’ve got the chance. What’s Tom Mawson’s standing in this section?”
“Reckon he’s just about run it for a good many years,” Cooper replied as he began laying out his instruments. “He owns the best spread in the section and his neighbors look up to him. Has a hefty finger in the political pie. Honest enough, so far as I’ve been able to learn, and a pretty good feller, but he knows how to hate. Somebody will catch it over what was done to Clate, you can bet on that.”
“Has he any bad enemies?” Slade asked.
Doc shook his head. “None that I’ve ever heard of, unless you want to call the oil people enemies,” he replied. “He’s on the prod against them for fair and it’s only natural that they resent his attitude. He claims they’re ruining what was a nice cow country. No doubt but the oil has played havoc with his south holding, and the same goes to an extent for another spread over to the east, the Bradded R. Grass killed, or close to it, for a couple of miles north from the creek that is their south line. And the creek surface is all covered with a thick oil scum so the cows won’t touch the water.”
“Mawson says cows that drank from his waterholes farther north were poisoned,” Slade remarked.
Cooper shrugged his shoulders and passed Slade the chloroform bottle. “So I’ve heard,” he replied noncommittally.
“And what do you think of that?” Slade asked.
“About the same as you do, I reckon,” Cooper answered. “Might be possible, but doesn’t seem to make sense.”
Slade nodded, his eyes thoughtful. “Otherwise has there been much trouble?”
“Stray shootings like the one tonight, quite a few robberies of one sort or another and plenty of cattle stolen,” Cooper replied. “No doubt but the oil strike brought in a rough crowd — that town grew up almost overnight and you know what that means. Naturally all the owlhoots within travelling distance sort of congregate there. Just like it was up at Beaumont and at the Gladwell strike. The cattlemen don’t like it, which isn’t surprising, and blame the oil operators for everything.”
“What is the operators’ side?” Slade asked.
Doc shrugged again. “As I said, there have been some shootings and some payroll robberies, and a well set afire that came dang near to burning up the town. The operators got mad and hired guards to protect their property, and you know the sort of hellions whose guns are for hire. The cowmen say those guards are responsible for most of the shooting and robbing and cow stealing, them or friends they brought in and tip off to what’s easy pickings. No proof been advanced by either side, but that doesn’t change folks’ temper much.”
“Plenty of trouble in the making, as I guess is to be expected,” Slade agreed. “Well, we’ll see.”
“Oh, you’ll enjoy it,” Doc snorted. “You’re loco as any sheepherder that ever scratched a tick, but I suppose that’s why you stay on with the Rangers instead of being an engineer like your dad planned for you.”
“Oh, I will be some day,” Slade replied cheerfully. “You know how it was, Doc, because of the loss of our ranch due to blizzards and droughts and Dad’s untimely death I was unable to take the post-graduate course I’d planned for after college. So, having worked with Captain Jim during summer vacations, I decided to sign up with the Rangers for a while. I’ve kept up my studies and have already gotten about as much as I’d have gotten from the post-grad. I’m about all set, but I aim to stick with Captain Jim for a while yet.”
“Uh-huh, and end up like him,” Doc grunted, “a spavined old coot with the temper of a teased snake. Well, is there anything else you want to know? I’ve finished with this young hellion.”
“One more question,” Slade said. “You say Mawson’s holdings run down to that creek to the south of here?”
“That’s right,” nodded Doc. “His and the other holding; the creek is their south line.”
“And how about the land south of the creek?”
“They used that as open range,” Doc answered. “It was state land, but now the oil drillers and the Weirton folks have it. Young Bob Kent, who started all this, got title to a strip first and put down the first well. He owns the land most of the town is on. I understand Mawson and the neighbors talked of getting title down there but never got around to it. Put it off till it was too late. Anything else? No? Okay, call ‘em in.”
THREE
AFTER SEEING TO IT that Clate Mawson was properly put to bed, Doc Cooper drank a cup of coffee and departed.
“No sense in me hanging around,” he told old Tom. “Just keep him quiet. You can give him some broth when he wakes up. I’ll drop in tomorrow evening for a look at him.”
Tom Mawson saw the doctor to the door and then returned to the living room. He eyed Slade a moment.
“Just passing through, son, or do you aim to stick around a while?” he asked.
“Depends,” Slade returned. “I may try to tie onto a job of riding for a spell, after a while; seems to be a nice section.”
“Well, if a job is what you’re looking for, you can stop right now,” Mawson said emphatically. “Nothing would please me better than to have you sign up with me. Not just because anything I’ve got you’re welcome to. I really need somebody dependable to give me a hand right now. Clate getting knocked out puts me on considerable of a spot. He’s just about run the spread for the past few years. Curly Nevins is my range boss, but Curly’s even older than me and rather stove up. He’s all right but he can’t get around like he used to any more than I can and with all the trouble bustin’ loose hereabouts of late it’s a bit too much of a chore for a couple of old jiggers to try to handle.”
“I’ve a notion I could do a lot worse than to sign with you and I’m likely to take you up on it,” Slade replied. “First I want to ride down and look over the oil strike town and maybe just loaf around for a few days. Sort of feel the need of a rest, then we’ll see.”
“Okay, we’ll let it go at that,” Mawson agreed, “but the job is plumb wide open whenever you want it and I’d sure like to have you. So you want to look over that danged town, eh? You won’t get the smell of it out of your nose for a week, and the reptiles you’ll find crawling around down there smell worse than the infernal oil.
“And now I figure a mite of shut-eye is in order,” he added. “I sure feel all in. You sleep here in the casa, son. Curly Nevins does and a couple more of the older hands. We’ve got lots of room and I’ve got no women folks here now. My wife died ten years ago and my gal is off to school. She’ll be back in another week or so, incidentally. She’s a fine gal, just turned twenty. Clate is a couple of years older. Okay, you take the room to the left at the head of the stairs. If you want anything just call me; I sleep at the end of the hall.”
Slade got his saddle pouches and Maws
on led the way up the stairs, opened the door and lighted a lamp.
“Nobody in the room next to you,” he remarked. “That’s the one Mary, my gal, uses when she’s home. Good night, son, see you in the morning.”
Slade did not go to bed at once, however. He moved an easy chair to the open window and sat down. Drawing the greasy leather cap from his saddle pouch he examined it carefully, running a finger along the ragged tear made by the bullet that knocked it off the horseman’s head on the rimrock trail. There was no doubt in his mind but the torn headgear had been worn around the oil wells; it reeked of the stuff. Which, he was forced to admit, lent some credence to Tom Mawson’s contention that the oil workers or their associates had had a hand in the shooting of young Clate. But the mysterious riders of the rimrock trail had been wearing rangeland garb and they rode like cowhands. Funny sort of a rainshed for a cowboy to be wearing, though. That required some explaining. Of course there was no reason why a former cowhand shouldn’t be working around the wells. The pay was better than following a cow’s tail and not all punchers were so wedded to range work that they wouldn’t leave it even for more money. Well, maybe he would learn more tomorrow. Anyhow, it appeared things were just as lively as Captain McNelty predicted he’d find them.
Slade chuckled as he recalled the interview that preceded his ride to Weirton Valley. Captain Jim had been in a bad temper anyhow, but when he ripped open a letter and read its contents he exploded for fair.
“A troop they want just because the danged oil strike over there is spoiling the grass!” he snorted. “And me with a section about half the size of the rest of the United States to police with not a fourth of the men needed to do the job, and trouble bustin’ loose along the Border! Sheriff can’t handle the trouble! Got to have Rangers to keep it down! What’s Texas coming to, anyhow!”
Slade had managed to keep a grin from his lips, but he couldn’t keep it out of his eyes. Captain Jim glanced up from the letter and glared at his lieutenant and ace-man.
Gunsmoke over Texas Page 2