Gunsmoke over Texas

by Bradford Scott

  “A cave!” he shouted to Mary. “This is a break! Wait a minute.”

  He dismounted and groped his way into the opening. He wrung the water from his hand and felt of the rock wall. It was perfectly dry. From an inner pocket he fumbled his bottle of matches which he was confident had escaped the general wetting. Shaking one forth, he scratched it on the wall. The flame revealed a flat rock floor sloping slightly outward. It also revealed heaps of leaves and twigs driven in from time to time by the wind. He scraped a pile together. They were tinder dry and when he applied the flame of a second match they burned up brightly. He scooped up more twigs and fed the blaze.

  “Ride in and bring Shadow with you,” he shouted to Mary. “We’re in clover.”

  Gratefully the exhausted horses shambled into the cave. The girl dismounted stiffly. Her teeth were chattering like castanets and she was numb with cold, but she managed him a rather wan smile.

  “Get your slicker off and hunker close to the fire,” Slade told her. “Now you keep it going with this stuff I’ve raked together. I saw brush growing along the base of the cliff. I’ll go out there and bust loose some heavy stuff to make a real blaze.”

  He groped along the base of the cliff till he encountered the growth. Then he quickly broke off an armload of dead lower branches. They were damp but the heat of the burning leaves and twigs quickly dried them and they caught fire. Soon a very respectable blaze was going. Slade brought load after load of fuel from the growth until the flames were soaring to the rock roof and the shallow cave was delightfully warm.

  “I’ll pack in a few more loads of the heaviest stuff I can find to keep her going and then we’ll eat,” Slade told the girl. “How you feel?”

  “Oh, I feel wonderful now,” she replied. “I’m perfectly warm and I’m drying out. And anyhow we’re safe from those danged drygulchers. I hope they all got burned up or drowned or something.”

  Slade chuckled and went for more wood. A few more loads and he decided they had enough to keep the fire going for several hours. Next he got the drenched rigs off the horses and stacked them against the wall. He hauled the provisions from the saddle pouch and laid them out. Mary got busy with the skillet while he filled the bucket from a stream of water pouring down the outer rock. Soon bacon was crisping, eggs frying and coffee bubbling.

  With the resilience of youth and perfect physical condition, both had thrown off their fatigue and they laughed merrily over the just past harrowing experiences as they sat on the bed of leaves they had raked together and ate their simple meal. Full fed and content, Mary stretched out beside the fire and smiled up at him.

  “This is perfectly cozy,” she said.

  FIFTEEN

  THE GRAY LIGHT OF DAWN was seeping into the cave when Slade awoke. Mary was still sleeping sweetly. He arose noiselessly so as not to disturb her and went outside for a look at the sky. The storm was over, the air perfectly still and the world green and fresh with morning. Remembering that there was still some coffee left he filled the bucket with water from a depression in the rock and started getting a fire going.

  Mary awoke and sat up, knuckling her eyes. She ran her fingers through her tousled curls and gave a moan of despair.

  “The sight I must look!” she wailed.

  “What I was wondering,” Slade said, “was how the devil a girl can look so darn pretty this early in the morning.”

  “Nice of you to say it, but I don’t believe you,” she replied. “I can’t get my eyes open!”

  “There’s a puddle right outside, go douse ‘em in that,” Slade told her.

  “I will,” she said, and scrambled from the cave. She was back in a few minutes rosy and panting.

  “Here, have some coffee,” Slade said, “that will wake you up.”

  They drank the coffee and while Mary washed the utensils in the pool of water outside the cave, Slade got the rigs on the horses. He soon got his bearings and found a way down the slopes. Less than two hours later they were out on the prairie. They had covered a couple more miles when they sighted a group of horsemen riding swiftly from the north.

  “This is getting too frequent to be funny any more,” Slade growled as he loosened the Winchester in its scabbard.

  “Do you think it could be those men again?” Mary asked apprehensively.

  “I don’t know,” Slade replied. “I didn’t figure they’d hang around out here after daylight, but you never can tell about such a bunch. Get behind me and stay there.”

  A moment later, however, he uttered an exclamation of relief. “It’s your dad and the boys, riding down here to shoot me for keeping you out all night, I expect,” he said.

  They rode on steadily to meet the advancing troop. Old Tom jerked his blowing horse to a sliding halt.

  “What the devil happened?” he demanded. “I’ve been worried half to death.”

  “Oh, the rain caught us and we decided to spend the night in a cave,” Mary explained blithely.

  Her father snorted. “Can’t you be serious for a minute? Walt, what did happen?”

  But it was Mary who told him, vividly. Mawson and the punchers shook their heads and muttered oaths as the tale progressed. When it was finished, Mawson turned to Slade.

  “Walt,” he said, “it seems this whole family keeps getting deeper and deeper in debt to you all the time.”

  When they reached the ranchhouse and he had a chance to talk with Slade alone, old Tom took a very serious view of the matter.

  “They’re out to get you, son,” he said. “It’s a bad bunch that will stop at nothing. I’m worried.”

  “Well, they haven’t had much luck so far,” Slade answered, “and they are getting sort of whittled down. If I can keep on accounting for one or two each time they tangle with me, after a while there won’t be any left.”

  “Yes, if your luck doesn’t run out on you,” Mawson grunted. “I’m beginning to be scairt that maybe I made a mistake when I persuaded you to stay on here.”

  Slade was silent for a few minutes. He was thinking things over and he abruptly arrived at a decision. He fumbled with a cunningly hidden secret pocket in his broad leather belt and laid something on the table between them. It was a gleaming silver star set on a silver circle, the feared and honored badge of the Texas Rangers!

  Old Tom stared at the symbol of law and order. “Well, I’ll be darned!” he rumbled. “So that’s what you are! I might have known it — you do things like a ranger.”

  Suddenly his eyes widened. “Say, something’s beginning to click!” he exclaimed. “Walt Slade! I thought that name sounded sort of familiar when I first heard it, but there are lots of Slades in Texas and I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Aren’t you the ranger they call El Halcon?”

  “I have been called that,” Slade admitted.

  Old Tom gazed almost in awe at the man whose exploits were legend throughout the Southwest.

  “El Halcon!” he repeated. “The ranger nobody can kill! No wonder those hellions ain’t been having any luck with you. Well, if this don’t take the hide off the barn door. And McNelty sent you over here, eh? I wrote to him and I’ve been wondering why I didn’t hear anything. I couldn’t think old Jim would let me down. I knew him back in the old days before he was a ranger.”

  “Captain Jim never lets anybody down,” Slade replied. “He got your letter, and letters from the oilmen, too, incidentally, and he thought it might be a good notion for me to drop over here and have a look-see.”

  “And do you know who’s reponsible for the hell-raising?” Mawson asked eagerly.

  “Yes, I think I know,” Slade admitted, “but knowing isn’t proving, and that’s just how the situation stands at present. I think Wade Ballard is the brains behind the outfit, with Blaine Richardson as his field man, and the devil knows how many other hellions working with him, although I don’t believe there are overly many. They operate like a comparatively small, close-knit bunch.”

  “Wade Ballard!” Mawson repeated incredu
lously. “He always struck me as a purty nice sort of feller. What the devil has he got against me?”

  “Nothing,” Slade replied, “but you’ve got something he wants — the Walking M spread.”

  “The Walking M!” Mawson exclaimed. “Tarnation, he ain’t no cattleman.”

  “No,” Slade agreed, “but in my opinion he is an oilman and a darned smart engineer who probably got kicked out of legitimate practice because of something off-color he pulled. That, of course, is just surmise on my part, but I’d be willing to bet money on it.”

  “But if he ain’t a cattleman, why does he want the Walking M bad enough to be willing to commit murder to get it?”

  “That,” Slade replied, “I’ll discuss with you later. I want Bob Kent to be present when I do. Do you mind if I bring him up here?”

  “I can even put up with an oilman if you ask me to,” growled old Tom.

  “I’ve a notion you’ll find him a pretty good sort, just as you found Arch Caldwell a pretty good sort,” Slade predicted.

  Mawson looked dubious but did not argue the point. “And do you think you can figure a way to drop a loop on the sidewinders?” he asked.

  “I think perhaps I can, with Kent’s help and yours.”

  “Well, you’ll get mine, anything I can do,” Mawson declared. “Where does Kent come in on the deal?”

  “He provides the know-how,” Slade answered, adding with a smile, “and you provide the money, or part of it.”

  “Well, I ain’t got over much right now, but every cent I can lay my hands on you’re welcome to,” Mawson instantly agreed.

  “It’ll be very much in the nature of a gamble,” Slade said. “But unless I’m mistaken, and I don’t think I am, and you draw the right card to fill your inside straight, you’ll never have to worry about money again.”

  “I always sort of liked to gamble,” chuckled Mawson. “And after all, what can an old jigger like me do for fun except guzzle whiskey and gamble? Oh, to be sixty again!”

  The following morning, Slade rode to Weirton and hunted up Bob Kent.

  “Want you to take a little ride with me, Bob,” he announced. “Sure,” responded Kent. “Where to?”

  “Up to visit Tom Mawson.”

  Kent looked considerably startled. “What you got against me that you want me to get shot?” he demanded.

  “I don’t think you’ll get shot, at least not at the Walking M,” Slade smiled. “In fact, I’ll guarantee you won’t.”

  “Okay,” Kent agreed dubiously. “I only hope you just haven’t had too much of the Black Gold’s tarantula juice and are suffering from some sort of delusions.”

  They didn’t get shot on the way to the Walking M, nor after they got there. Old Tom received Kent cordially enough and they sat down to dinner together. Later Mary whispered to Slade, “You’re a miracle worker if there ever was one. An oilman sitting at Dad’s table!”

  SIXTEEN

  AFTER THEY REPAIRED to the living room and cigarettes were lighted, Kent and Mawson glanced expectantly at Slade. He smoked in silence for several moments before speaking, his eyes deep in thought. First he laid his ranger star on the table. Kent’s eyes goggled.

  “Well, I’ll be hanged!” he exclaimed.

  “Hope so,” Slade returned cheerfully, “but we’ll talk about other things before we take that up. I feel a little explanation of conditions here as I see them is first in order. Bob, your deductions relative to this section were accurate, so far as you went! This whole valley was at one time an inland sea, but as I told you, the desert to the south never was. To begin with, I want you to recall in your mind the contours of the hills to the east and west, the hills that once formed the high shoreline of the inland sea. You will realize that the slope of this whole section was once from south to north.”

  Kent’s brows drew together and he thought for a moment. “Darned if I don’t believe you’re right about the hills, now that you call it to my attention,” he said, “but the slope of the valley is definitely from north to south.”

  “Just so,” Slade agreed, “the slope of the hills is still south to north as it always was. But in the course of upheavals after the drying up of the sea water, or possibly even before, the surface trend of the basin reversed, while that of the hills remained the same.”

  “Sounds logical,” Kent admitted. Mawson nodded his understanding.

  Slade paused again, then spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. “Remember now, what’s coming is my own personal deduction based on a survey of the terrain and the peculiar phenomena manifesting themselves subsequent to Kent’s initial oil strike; I wouldn’t venture to advance it as a positive statement of fact, although I’m confident in my own mind that I’m right. In my opinion the reversal of slope obtained to no great depth, geologically speaking. The trend of the lower levels remains the same as when the sea was in existence. And the lower trend governed the formation of the oil pool that underlies the valley. Begin to see what I’m getting at, Bob?”

  “I believe I do,” Kent replied, his eyes glowing with excitement, “but keep on talking.”

  “Okay,” Slade said. “In my opinion what you drilled into, Bob, was a mere backwash that flowed over a subterranean ridge in the course of the creation of the deposit to form the pool your wells tapped. That’s why your pressure eased off so quickly. The pool is comparatively small and because it was a backwash and was not originally closely confined, it never developed any great pressure.”

  “I’m beginning to get it!” Kent exclaimed, “but go ahead.”

  “So in my opinion, the main and deepest reservoir is not under the mesa, but up here to the north. In other words, if my deduction is correct, Mr. Mawson has got a fortune under his land.”

  “The devil you say!” exploded old Tom.

  “Mr. Mawson, I believe he’s right,” Kent exclaimed excitedly. “Tell us how you figured it out, Walt.”

  “That two-and-a-half-mile strip of spoiled grass and the scum of oil on the creek puzzled me,” Slade explained. “To me, it didn’t make sense to think that it was caused by seepage from the oil field on the mesa. But still I couldn’t understand it till one day I realized that the rimrock slope was not from north to south but from south to north. That started me thinking hard on the matter and I arrived at certain conclusions. In my opinion there is a minor fault either following the course of the stream or slightly to the north of it. When Kent brought in his wells, the subterranean jolting and jarring in consequence doubtless widened that fault and extended it nearer the surface. Oil from the big reservoir up here, which is almost certain to be under great pressure, rushed into the fault and seeps through crevices into the water and up to the grass roots.”

  He paused to light a cigarette and then continued. “But I hesitated to mention my theory to anybody because there was, and is, a flaw in my reasoning. There is a bare possibility, remember I say a bare possibility, that the oil follows a fault from the pool under the mesa. Personally I don’t believe it does, but even such a remote contingency caused me to be a bit reluctant to altogether trust my own judgment. Then all of a sudden I had my theory corroborated by somebody else.”

  “Who?” asked Kent.

  “I’m coming to that,” Slade smiled. “I had already arrived at the conclusion that somebody was out to ruin Mr. Mawson financially, to put him on very much of a spot for ready cash. His cows were poisoned and he had more stock widelooped than anybody else. Then when the attempt was made to destroy his big shipping herd in Hanging Rock Canyon, the thing was perfectly obvious. But who, and why? Then he told me that Wade Ballard had tried to buy land here to the north, giving him a cock-and-bull story about the railroad possibly planning to build shops and a big assembling yard down here. Right away I knew that Ballard had formed the same conclusion about the oil that I had.”

  “Wade Ballard!” Kent ejaculated. “Why he’s just a saloon man.”

  “There is where you’re very much wrong,” Slade replied soberl
y. “Wade Ballard is a brilliant engineer or scientist who somehow took to riding a crooked trail. Wade Ballard knows there’s a fortune under the Walking M and he and his sidekick Blaine Richardson are out to get it.”

  Kent shook his head in amazement. “I’m not surprised about Richardson, but Ballard always struck me as a pretty nice feller,” he said.

  “He’s got plenty of personal charm to go along with his intelligence,” Slade conceded. “He has the ability to get along with most everybody. Even Mr. Mawson got to thinking pretty well of him.”

  A thought struck Kent. “But why is Richardson drilling a well out on the desert?” he asked.

  “As a blind,” Slade replied. “To attract attention away from up here. Ballard knows that there is always a chance of somebody stumbling onto what he has learned. You didn’t get very far with your scientific education, Bob, but Ballard doubtless fears you got far enough to possibly figure the thing out, especially if the production of your wells starts falling off, as I figure it will before long, and you get to wondering where the devil the oil went that you know should be here. But with you and the other oilmen running circles around yourselves out on the desert you wouldn’t be giving any thought to the land north of the creek. Richardson has been doing the spade work against just such a contingency.”

  “I bet it was Richardson fired those wells!” Kent exclaimed.

  “Naturally,” Slade said. “Part of the plan to keep the cattlemen and oilmen on the prod against each other and to lessen the possibility of an oilman buying land north of the creek. That’s where they slipped, though. I was convinced that somebody connected with the oil field fired the wells. No cowhand would have the know-how.”

  “Are you going to grab the scoundrels and throw ‘em in the calaboose?” Kent asked.

  Slade smiled a little. “On what charge?”

  “Why — why I guess murder would do as well as any other,” Kent replied. “They killed one of Mr. Mawson’s cowboys, didn’t they? And two men died when that first well was fired. And there have been several other killings in the section that I’ll bet they’re responsible for.”