Gunsmoke over Texas

by Bradford Scott

  After a look at him the punchers decided it best not to argue. With some grumbling, under their breath, they went to work on the fence. Soon the hole was open to the cattle grazing some distance off. Slade led the way to the next hole. The hands obeyed orders and within an hour all the fences were down.

  Slade rolled a cigarette and regarded his men in silence for a moment, then he said, “It’s nonsense to think that oil in the water would poison cattle. A heavy flow of uncontrolled gas, yes, but oil, never. In the first place if there was a heavy scum on the water as there is on the creek to the south, the cows wouldn’t drink it, and even if they did, it wouldn’t hurt them. You haven’t found any dead stock around the creek, have you?”

  The hands were forced to admit they never had.

  “And you never will,” Slade said. “These holes were deliberately poisoned with arsenic or strychnine, arsenic most likely. I examined the rocks and there was no frosting of arsenic crystals on them, but I suppose you’ve had some heavy rains since the holes were fenced? I thought so. Which would cause the water to rise enough to wash away any arsenic riming that might have been left. But no matter how much poison was dumped in the holes the water would purify itself in a few days. There is a constant flow from springs into the holes which would take care of that. Unless the holes are poisoned again, which I consider unlikely, nothing more will happen. But we’ll keep a watch on them just in case. Incidentally, I drank some of the water yesterday and didn’t get any belly cramps.”

  The cowboys cursed and glared southward. “Want us to keep this quiet, boss?” a wizened old puncher asked.

  Slade considered for a moment. “No,” he decided. “If the word is spread around that we’ve caught on to what was done it may tend to alleviate the danger of further poisoning. Nobody would be likely to come snooping around knowing he’d be taking a chance on eating lead.”

  “What about that spoiled grass down toward the creek?” another puncher asked.

  “The answer to that I don’t know as yet,” Slade frankly admitted. “The grass roots are undoubtedly being killed by oil seepage, but how it comes the seepage extends so far beyond the field is a question that right now I’m not prepared to answer. I never heard of anything like it before and I don’t understand it.”

  As he spoke he automatically raised his gaze to the hill crests on the west. Abruptly his eyes narrowed a little. From this particular angle he observed something he had not noticed before; the slope of the rimrock was reversed. The slope of the valley was indubitably from north to south, but the slope of the rimrock was just as definitely from south to north. Slade had a feeling that there was an important significance to the phenomenon, just what he couldn’t at the moment determine; it would require some thinking out. He dismissed the problem for the time being and turned his attention to more immediate matters.

  “We’ll ride east and have a look at the canyons and draws over there,” he told his men. “I’ve a notion those gulches will require considerable combing. The old man figures to run his shipping herd north to the railroad next week and seeing as we have the time he wants to add as many beefs as he can to it. The Bradded R and the Turkey Track up to the north have decided to join with us and have a round-up so they can roll herds, too. The old man wants to get the round-up started tomorrow if possible and it won’t hurt for us to look over the ground a bit today while we have the chance. It’s logical to believe those gulches will comb to advantage; cows hole up this time of the year.”

  A careful going-over of the broken ground proved Slade’s surmise was correct; there were plenty of fat beefs seeking the coolness and good grass of the canyons.

  “We’ll have our work cut out for us in these cracks, but it’ll pay off,” he said. “Well, I guess we’d better be heading for home.”

  Old Tom’s reaction to Slade’s account of the poisoned waterholes was explosively profane.

  “That was just an act of pure danged cussedness, nothing less,” he concluded. “Just somebody trying to start trouble.”

  “Yes,” Slade agreed thoughtfully, “it sure looks like somebody had just that in mind, to start trouble.”

  “The blasted sidewinders!” growled Mawson. “The devil with them! Let’s start figuring that round-up. I’m going to see to it that you are made round-up and trail boss; I want somebody handling the chore I can depend on.”

  • • •

  The round-up got under way the following morning. When the other owners appeared on the scene old Tom insisted that Slade be appointed boss of the round-up. The Bradded R and Turkey Track owners, who had met Slade at the funeral of Jess Rader and had already sized him up, offered no objections.

  Slade had all the responsibility and was absolutely in control of the round-up, for it is an unwritten law of the rangeland that not even an owner can dispute or question the round-up boss’ orders.

  His first act was to select his assistants from the cowboys gathered for the work. Each was put in command of a group of riders who would thoroughly scour the range in search of vagrant cattle as well as large bunches.

  “I don’t want any mavericks when this chore is over,” Slade told them. “Mavericks left after a round-up are a sign of careless combing. I want everything out of the canyons and brakes, and I want cows, not excuses.”

  The hands resolved there would be neither mavericks nor excuses. They didn’t hanker to do any explaining to this particular round-up boss.

  Slade sent the riders out in troops. Each troop would spread out over the range, dividing into smaller parties which presently scattered until the men were separated by distances that varied according to the topography of the country. Each man had to hunt out all the cattle on the section over which he rode. On the broken ground near the hills and in the canyons careful searching for small clumps or cannily holed-up old mossybacks was necessary.

  The cows were gathered up in groups as large as the rider or riders could handle and driven to a designated holding spot where they were held in close herd. After the round-up boss decided a sufficient number had been assembled, the riders mounted fresh horses and the business of cutting out the various brands began. Into the milling, bawling and thoroughly bad-tempered mass went the riders, and it was a difficult and dangerous task. The cows dodged, the horsemen swore and finally the critter in question, mad as a hornet, was shoved to where the cut was being formed. Next the beefs were driven before the tally man who carefully checked off the brands. According to brand, the animals were distributed to the subsidiary holding spots of the various ranches.

  Day after day the cowboys toiled in the dust and heat. Group after group of cattle streamed in. The various herds steadily grew larger. Only choice animals were held on this particular beef round-up, the others would be allowed to drift back onto the range.

  Slade set his night guards with care. He didn’t think anybody would attempt a widelooping while the herds were at the holding spots, but a foolhardy raid might easily set off a stampede that would scatter the cows, mad with fright, all over the range, which would necessitate doing the work all over.

  And while automatically attending to his numerous chores, he was constantly studying the bleak hills that soared up on three sides, for he was confident that somewhere in their granite breasts was locked the explanation of the recent weird happenings in the once peaceful valley. One day, near the close of the round-up, he hit on an old trail, little more than a game track, that wound up the fairly gentle side slope of a canyon. To all appearances it led to the rimrock far above. Acting on a sudden impulse he sent Shadow up the narrow track. An hour later he came out on the rim.

  From where he sat his great black horse on the dizzy eminence the view was splendid; the valley and its surrounding hills were spread before his eyes like a map. He studied the green floor so far below him. Yes, the valley slope was definitely from north to south, but the hills were different. To the south they were much higher than to the north. A definite reversal of contours. He envisioned the
terrain as it must have been a million, perhaps ten million years before. The whole great basin was a sheet of tossing water. Yellow sand banks extended far into the wide inland sea. Its verge was a mass of tall reeds and stupendous vegetation in which huge monsters, scaled and tailed, wallowed and fought. Farther back was the bold shore line that now formed the hills which encircled the bowl. Even the surface of the shore line was doubtless naked stone, while near the water the monstrous vegetation grew with incredible rapidity, died as swiftly and fell, layer on layer, into the turgid water, sinking to the primal ooze, washed over by silt and sand, sinking deeper and deeper under the accumulated weight, while in the dark depths the slow and subtle chemistry of nature wrought unexplainable change.

  Followed a long period of upheaval, when the mountains spouted fire and the waters shook to terrestrial thunderings. Slowly the shore line rose higher, and the bed of the wide sea sank. A mighty convulsion, when the earth writhed in agony, caused the great fault that culminated in the subsidence of a wide area to the south to form what was now the desert. The slope of the sea floor reversed under the volcanic hammerings. The water, deprived of surface flow by the heightening of the hills, shrank to shallow pools and marshy lagoons and vanished altogether. Next came a slow process of weathering down, then more volcanic action. The encircling wall that had been the shore line was rent and shattered. Fissures like the canyon beneath came into being. Streams again flowed into the basin, now much shallower, and cut channels across its surface, made their way down the slope from the cap rock and lost themselves in the sands of the desert or by way of subterranean channels reached the Rio Grande and the sea. And that was how the rangeland that was now Weirton Valley came into being.

  Walt Slade pondered all this while he studied the hills. He wondered just how deep the reversal that tilted the valley floor from north to south continued. For upon the possible depth of the reversal depended a nebulous theory that was building up in his mind and might lead to the explanation he sought. Heavy with thought, he rode back down the trail to supervise the final round-up chores.

  That evening the various herds were driven to their home pastures where they would be held for a few days until the drive north to the railroad and the shipping pens got under way.

  “Best handled round-up I ever had anything to do with,” declared old Tom Mawson. The other owners nodded sober agreement.

  The following afternoon Slade rode to Weirton, feeling that he should keep an eye on the activities of the oil town. He did not follow the Chihuahua but rode directly south to the creek before turning west, desiring to study its environs a bit more. Upon reaching the ford he splashed his horse through the water and entered the town. He found Bob Kent busy around his workings. The oilman paused in his activities to greet Slade and have a talk.

  “That darn Blaine Richardson has got me bothered,” he confessed. “Yesterday he rode down to the desert with two of his best drillers and a pack mule. He came back toward evening but he didn’t bring the drillers or the mule with him. Looks like he’s establishing a permanent camp down there. I wonder if he has got the right notion and that down there was the real inland sea and the best deposit. I’m half of the notion to buy a hunk of that land from the state on the chance that he might be right.”

  Slade shot the oilman an exasperated glance. “Kent,” he said, “even a limited knowledge of geology should tell you that the desert was never part of the inland sea.”

  “But that engineer from the Spindletop field said it was,” Kent protested.

  “If he did, he lied,” Slade replied shortly. “No certificated engineer would make such a mistake. The desert was at one time but a continuation of the hills to the east and west, part of the shoreline of the sea that covered what is now Weirton Valley. The desert came into being in the course of the subsidence that created the Balcones Fault. It was never under water, at least at no period that is covered by geological and petrological survey, and the period of scientific survey covers the formation of oil pools.”

  Kent looked a little blank, but convinced. “And then you’d say there is no oil under the desert?”

  “I would hesitate to make such a dogmatic statement,” Slade replied. “We must take into consideration the fact that we do not know what occurs or has occurred in the depths of the earth. Through overflow or seepage there might possibly be some oil under the desert, although I consider it highly improbable. But even if there is, it would be but a shallow deposit that would not compare with what you have up here. My advice to you is to leave the desert alone and not waste your money acquiring title to any of it.” He paused, and then let the full force of his level eyes rest on the oilman’s face. “And Kent,” he added, “I want you to keep what I’ve just told you under your hat. Don’t talk to anybody about it. If it becomes common knowledge that you’ve learned what you did today, you may come up missing some dark night.”

  Kent looked decidedly startled. “What the devil do you mean?” he asked.

  “I mean,” Slade told him, “that there’s something very strange going on in this section. Just what it is I don’t know, but I’m convinced that whoever is back of it will stop at nothing including murder to keep from being thwarted in whatever they have in mind. And I have a feeling that Blaine Richardson’s activities down on the desert in some way ties up with the business.”

  Bob Kent shook his head in a bewildered fashion. “I can hardly follow just what the devil you’re talking about,” he admitted, “but dang it, you’ve got me scared.”

  “Stay scared and the chances are you’ll last longer,” Slade advised. “Right now I don’t believe you are in any personal danger, but a few careless words reaching the wrong pair of ears may mark you for elimination. Don’t forget it.”

  “I won’t,” Kent promised. “From now on I ain’t even going to talk in my sleep.”

  “A good notion,” Slade chuckled.

  “But what about you?” Kent asked.

  “Oh, I hope nobody hereabouts is aware of what I know,” Slade replied cheerfully. “Don’t see any reason why they should be.”

  Kent shook his head again. “You’re a funny feller for a wandering cowpoke,” he said.

  “Perhaps, for a wandering cowpoke,” Slade agreed with a smile.

  But despite what he said to Kent, Walt Slade knew well that he himself was marked for death and did not relax his vigilance.

  A little later he headed back for the Walking M, riding the Chihuahua Trail that edged closer and closer to the hill slopes as it trended north.

  Slade continuously studied those wooded slopes, carefully noting the movements of birds and the little animals that scuttled through the growth. Abruptly his attention centered on a bristle of growth a little ways up the slope past which he was riding. Over the thicket several birds were wheeling and fluttering and uttering sharp cries. What had disturbed them, he wondered.

  His eyes dropped to the dark clump of growth where each outer branch and twig shimmered in the sunlight. Even as a spurt of whitish smoke wisped from the brush he was going sideways from the saddle. He struck the ground on the far side of his horse and lay motionless just beyond the outer edge of the trail, half hidden by the short grass. The hard, metallic clang of a rifle shot slammed back and forth among the cliffs.

  Shadow trotted on a few paces, then paused to glance back inquiringly at his master’s huddled form.

  ELEVEN

  FOR LONG MINUTES NOTHING HAPPENED. Slade still lay sprawled in the grass. The birds that had flown higher at the sound of the shot were again swooping and crying over the topmost branches. Otherwise the thicket was devoid of sound or motion.

  Then abruptly there was movement in the growth. The branches parted and a horseman rode cautiously into view; he was followed by another. Slowly, bending low in their saddles, rifle barrels jutting forward, the drygulchers descended the slope. They could just make out the body of their victim lying motionless beside the trail.

  What they hadn’t seen was
Slade drag his Winchester from the saddle boot as he fell. Now he lay with his cheek cuddled against the stock, his eyes glancing along the sights.

  On came the drygulchers, walking their horses. They relaxed a little. One turned his head to speak to the other. Slade lay utterly motionless.

  Nearer and nearer drew the slowly pacing horses. Slade counted off the distance — three hundred yards, two hundred and fifty, two hundred. His finger tightened on the trigger. And abruptly one of the killers sensed that something was not just right. He straightened in his saddle, clamped his rifle butt to his shoulder. Slade pulled trigger.

  The report of the heavy rifle rang out like thunder in the stillness and before the echoes slammed back, the foremost drygulcher threw up his hands and pitched headlong. His companion yelled with fright and fired wildly, the bullet hissing over Slade’s body.

  A second time the Winchester spoke. Two riderless horses galloped off a little ways and paused snorting and blowing, staring back with rolling eyes at the two sprawled shapes on the ground.

  For long minutes Slade lay motionless, his glance shifting from the bodies of the drygulchers to the thicket above. He saw the irritated birds settle into the growth. They did not rise again and he cautiously got to his feet. Cocked rifle ready for instant action he climbed the slope to where the two bodies lay; as he neared them he lowered the hammer of the rifle. He had gotten both the fanging sidewinders dead center. But he knew well that if he hadn’t noticed the way the disturbed birds were acting up and seen the sunlight glint on the rifle barrel as it was shifted to line sights, he would have gotten it dead center.

  The two drygulchers were hard looking specimens, even in death. One had a vaguely familiar look but Slade could not place him at the moment. Their pockets discovered nothing of significance, they wore regulation rangeland garb, each packed a heavy sixshooter in addition to the rifles lying nearby. The rigs on the horses were ordinary and the animals bore meaningless Mexican skillet-of-snakes brands.