“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “With a few words you did what I could not do for all my persuasion and promises of reward. The herders are brave men, once the cloud of superstition is swept from their minds. They will fight like demons at your behest. I think that if the men of steel attempt to raid the flock they will get a lesson they will not soon forget. That is, if any are left alive to remember.”
“I hope so,” Slade said. “But it’s a salty outfit, and whoever is heading it has plenty of wrinkles on his horns. One little slip and it can well be us instead of them.”
“I have no fears as to the outcome,” said Lopez. “In fact, I’d like to ride with you.”
Slade shook his head. “I think it is better for you to remain here and be in evidence should anybody be keeping tabs on the place,” he decided. “We don’t want them to get unduly suspicious and suspect that a trap is being set for them.”
“Doubtless you are right,” Lopez conceded. “When do you plan to move?”
“Depends on the weather,” Slade replied. “I want a stormy day and night, if possible, and from the looks of the sky we might have that tomorrow. From appearances I’d say a storm is brewing out in the Gulf and should hit here during the next twenty-four hours or so, that is, if it doesn’t happen to veer, as Gulf storms have a habit of doing.”
Slade spent the afternoon riding over the spread with Don Miguel. He quickly decided it was a good holding, well watered and grassed and kept in fine condition. There were thousands of sheep and a good herd of cattle. He congratulated Lopez on the excellence of his property.
“Yes, I am comfortably fixed,” the other returned. “But I have many poor relations, and there is always somebody else in need of help. I seldom have much ready money on hand, especially at this time of the year. Getting a flock to market will be a great help right now.”
Slade nodded his understanding; his regard for Miguel Lopez had risen mightily, and he resolved that the flock in question would get to market, no matter who tried to stop it.
The haze thickened as the afternoon wore on. Through it the sun shone a weird magenta color. No leaf stirred. The grassheads stood stiffly erect. A dead calm had fallen.
“Storm coming, all right,” Slade said. “From the looks of things, I’d say it’s liable to be a real one; I know the signs. Well, that’s what I hoped for.”
Returning to the ranchhouse, Slade made sure everything was in readiness for an early start the following morning. He found the herders cheerful and confident. The five vaqueros who had won the toss-up, one being Sebastian Hernandez, the range boss, looked on the coming trip as a schoolboy looks on a holiday. They were a different caliber from the herders—more intelligent, more apt to scoff at all superstition. Slade was confident they did not consider the men of steel to be supernatural beings and were anxious to come to grips with them. Even their antipathy for sheep did not deter them.
“We will keep to the windward side of the stench,” said Hernandez. “The pastores do not need our help to handle the flock.”
During the night the wind rose, blowing in fitful gusts from the northwest. Another period of calm followed. Then it began blowing again, a steady and slowly strengthening blast from the southeast. Yes, another storm was bellowing in from the Gulf. Slade eyed the overcast sky of morning with satisfaction.
7
SHORTLY AFTER the gray daybreak the flock got under way. Overhead the cloud wrack flowed out of the southeast, a leaden canopy that seemed to press down on the earth like a giant waterfall. The wind, slowly increasing in violence, developed a hollow moan. A wild day and an equally wild night appeared in the making.
The sheep, docile creatures in excellent condition, walked steadily, covering ground much faster than they appeared to. A vaquero, garbed as a herder, led a mild-eyed old horse, saddled and bridled.
Slade rode well in front of the flock, Hernandez, the range boss, beside him. The Ranger constantly scanned the trail ahead and the terrain over which they passed. The range boss was also vigilant and alert.
Hernandez was intelligent and Mission-educated. He spoke good colloquial English and was equally fluent in Spanish. He chuckled as he glanced back at the vaqueros, who were riding with the herders.
“I think my muchachos are less allergic to the odor of sheep than they claim to be,” he said. “I think they were just a trifle dubious of the men of steel. Such things seem absurd viewed from a nineteenth century viewpoint, but to the more ignorant of my people they are very real. My people, many of them, live in the past. And the legend of the men of steel is very old, older than the Mexico of today. The ancient Aztecs who followed the Toltecs in what is now Mexico believed that their Hiawatha would some day return, coming from the black waters, as they called the sea. And they believed he would be white. That is why the Aztecs at first welcomed the invading Spaniards and treated them with reverence. They came from the black water, and they were white. So they must be from the spirit world.”
He paused to light a husk cigarette and then continued.
“It did not take the Aztecs long to become disillusioned, but the legend persisted, and persists to this day. The legend of the men of steel who would return and rule the world is still very much alive. So when men who appeared to be clad in medieval armor suddenly appeared, it is not remarkable that they were viewed with terror by men who otherwise are brave enough. The herders, and many others, feared to resist them, dreading the awful retribution which would be inflicted on them by the Powers of Darkness. Death was preferable to an eternity of indescribable suffering.”
“And some smart gent well versed in history and legend saw opportunity and proceeded to cash in on it,” Slade observed. “Well, it has occurred before, in many parts of the world.”
“That is so,” agreed Hernandez. “But the play on superstition may turn out to be a two-edged sword. Take yourself, for example, The peones of the river villages, the herders and many others firmly believe that you have been touched by the hand of El Dios, and because of that the spirit world has no power over you. So they will follow you blindly and without fear. Being under your protection, they believe that they also are immune.”
“And what do you believe, Sebastian?” Slade asked laughingly.
“I believe,” the other returned gravely, “that the peones and the herders are right. For any man who lives an honorable and upright life and dedicates that life to the service of others is touched by God’s hand and is under His protection. And no real harm can come to him no matter how great the danger seems to be.”
“Thank you, Sebastian,” Slade said, and his cold eyes were suddenly very warm indeed.
They rode on in silence. Slade’s attention was fixed on a range of low, brush-covered hills that started up abruptly some seven or eight hundred yards to the north. Twice he saw what appeared to be a moving shadow among the shadows.
“Sebastian,” he said, “there’s somebody pacing us up there on those rises. He’s trying to keep under cover but isn’t doing a very good job of it. I believe they are going to come to our lure and will attempt something after we make camp tonight.”
“I hope so,” Hernandez replied cheerfully. “I never shot a ghost, and I want to see what effect my bullets will have on one. But your eyesight is amazing. I also have been watching those hills and saw nothing. You are sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Slade replied. “There it is again, just a flicker against the growth. He’s keeping tabs on us, all right.”
Hernandez stared northward and shook his head in admiration.
“I can’t see a thing,” he confessed. “How the devil do you do it?”
“Perhaps I’ve had rather more experience at this sort of thing,” Slade replied. “Men who ride the border of outlaw land learn to see and hear what others do not.”
Hernandez gave a derisive snort. “Outlaw land!” Then his eyes grew pensive, and he shot a keen look at his companion.
“Hmmm!” he said. “I wonder?”
&n
bsp; “Don’t wonder out loud,” Slade smiled, having a pretty good notion of what the other was thinking.
“I won’t,” the range boss promised, “but I sure am wondering.”
The day continued stormy, with the steady blast roaring up from the southeast and with occasional splatters of rain. The sheep had to face the wind, which retarded their progress. They were bleating querulously by the time the brush-and grass-grown rise where Slade had had the run-in with the men of steel was reached.
“This will be it,” the Ranger told the others. “Be dark before long—already getting gloomy. Here we’ll make camp, at the edge of the brush Plenty of grass for the woolies over to the right. Okay, you know what to do, Everybody get busy. First get a fire going and make ready to cook. A surrounding and some hot coffee will help a lot.”
“A man always shoots better on a full belly,” Hernandez remarked. The others chuckled.
The tired sheep began nibbling grass. The horses grazed contentedly, veering away from the flock. A meal was cooked and eaten with the appetite of hungry men. Afterwards cigarettes were rolled and smoked. Overhead the wind boomed, but the thick stand of growth minimized its force below. The sky was black as ink, the night very dark.
“Made to order for us,” Slade observed. “And I suppose those hellions think it’s made to order for them, too. Well, we’ll see about that. Time for everybody to move; we won’t take chances here in the firelight too long. Pile green wood on the fire so it’ll smolder and not give out much light.”
The order was obeyed. The flames died down to a feeble flicker. The shadows drew closer. The herders and the vaqueros got busy around the fire. Soon blankets wrapped around bundles of twigs and branches were in place, very satisfactorily simulating sleeping men.
“Look more like herders than herders themselves,” said Hernandez. “Only they smell better.”
“You’re no perfume of the rose yourself,” came the indignant retort. Hernandez chuckled and placed a bundle of dry wood handy. The old horse, on its back a hunched and nodding figure that looked exactly like a weary night guard, paced slowly and sedately around the huddled flock, as it had done many a time around a cud-chewing herd. From time to time it paused to crop a little grass, then ambled on, as it would do all night long if nothing bothered it.
At the edge of the growth, the herders and vaqueros, the spare blankets over their shoulders, lounged comfortably against tree trunks. Slade stood a little apart, vigilantly alert, straining his ears to catch any sound above the steady clamor of the wind.
The hours passed slowly and tediously. Slade did not expect anything to happen before nearly midnight, but he couldn’t afford to gamble on it. Their hope of coming through the venture successfully and unscathed depended on the element of surprise. If the raiders suspected what they were up against, they would make provisions against it and the hunter might well become the hunted. So he schooled himself to patience, and waited. The herders were growing a bit restless, but a sharp command spoken in a low voice quieted them.
Finally Slade heard the sound for which he had been waiting—the clash of a horse’s iron on a stone. A moment later he could make out the soft clump of hoofs on the muddy trail. The sound came from the east and was very faint. Only the ears of El Halcón could have caught it.
“Get set,” he whispered to his companions. “They’ve pulled up at the edge of the brush to the east. Something will break any minute now. Hold your fire till I give the word.”
Dead silence, other than the warring of the elements, resumed. Slade tensed expectantly, every sense strained to hairtrigger alertness.
With the suddenness of a thunderclap the silence was shattered to shards. Shattered by a blast of gunfire. The figure on the horse’s back lurched and swayed. The horse snorted and went away from there, the figure reeling drunkenly, a perfect simulacrum of a badly wounded man managing to stay in the hull. The blanket rolls about the smoldering fire twitched and jerked as bullets hammered them, then lay without sound or movement.
There was a long moment of tingling suspense. Then into the circle of faint firelight crept four figures. The herder standing next to Slade gasped as the flicker glinted on metal breastplates and caps. He touched the frightened man’s shoulder with a reassuring hand. Then he stared intently at the figures creeping toward the blanket rolls.
Something wasn’t as it should be. His mind worked at racing speed to counteract the unexpected. He stepped forward half a pace and his voice rolled forth.
“Elevate! You’re covered!”
The men of steel jerked around spasmodically. Slade caught a gleam of shifted metal, and both his guns let go with a crash. The growth quivered to the roar as all the herders seemed to fire at once.
Down went the four men of steel, like automatons held erect on a single severed string. The herders whooped with triumph. Slade’s voice rang out again.
“Back! Back into the brush! Move! Farther back!”
The command was obeyed without question, and not an instant too soon. From farther along the growth came another bellow of gunfire. Slugs ripped through twigs and branches in the space they had occupied a moment before.
Wheeling about, Slade fired at the flashes as swiftly as he could pull trigger; the herders joined in.
A wailing curse echoed the reports, and another. Then a voice boomed a command. There followed a prodigious crashing in the brush and the thud of hoofs on the trail.
Slade groped to where he had leaned his Winchester against a convenient trunk, seized it and raced to the edge of the growth. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a compact body of horsemen riding madly eastward. Before he could line sights, the darkness swallowed them. He emptied the rifle in their general direction, but with little hope of scoring a hit. The herders blazed away merrily till he called a halt.
“They’ve gone,” he said. “Let’s see what we bagged. Easy, now; if one is only wounded, he could be dangerous.”
However, there was no need for caution; the four raiders were dead, riddled with bullets.
Hernandez threw dry wood on the fire. It blazed up with plenty of light. Slade bent over one of the still forms.
“Look!” he said disgustedly. “Sheets of tin wrapped around their chests and laced in the back! And tin caps! There are your men of steel. Don’t look very steely now, do they?”
The herders swore in two languages, glaring at the bodies. “Capitán, we were fools,” one said. “But we will be fools no longer. Do you think the others might come back?” he added hopefully.
“Not them,” Slade replied. “They got a bellyful. I think we nicked one or two of them.”
“How did you catch on that these four weren’t all of them?” Hernandez asked.
“There was too much shooting in the beginning for just four men,” Slade replied. “They were smart, all right. Held back a reserve in case something went haywire.”
“And if it hadn’t been for your quick thinking, some of us would have gotten it,” Hernandez declared. “Muchachos, I guess we should say gracias to El Halcón for being alive.”
“Si,” was the answer. “Those who ride with El Halcón do not die; it is others who die, like these ladrones.”
“Well, I guess that settles the men of steel, at least so far as our herders are concerned,” said Hernandez.
“Yes, it means the end of that myth, but it doesn’t mean the end of a smart and salty outlaw bunch,” Slade reminded him. “There were a dozen or more that skalleyhooted. They’ll get over their scare, and this setback won’t stop them from operating. I think the men of steel masquerade is over, but we’ve still got to look for trouble in the section so long as they are mavericking around. Well, we made a start, anyhow. Think I’ll collect me a souvenir.”
He reached down, gripped one of the tin shirts with his steely fingers and ripped it down the front, the soft metal tearing easily. He folded it carefully into a compact square and stowed it in his saddle pouch.
There was nothing outstan
ding about the dead outlaws so far as Slade could see. They were of a type common enough to the border country. Under their “armor” they wore conventional rangeland garb. Their pockets revealed nothing of significance other than a rather large sum of money, which Slade told Hernandez to divide among his men.
“Now suppose we see if we can locate their horses,” he suggested. “They should be somewhere close, unless they followed the others.”
With dry branches for torches, they quickly located the four horses grazing along the edge of the growth. Two bore HF Bar brands, the other two a Triangle A and a Four Dot, respectively.
“The HF Bar is an east Texas brand, Neches River country; I’m not sure about the others,” Slade commented. “Means nothing, the chances are; horses can be bought, traded or stolen.”
However, he carefully memorized the brands against possible future need.
With Hernandez accompanying him, Slade scouted along the trail to the east for some distance but discovered no more bodies. Evidently none of the fleeing outlaws had been seriously wounded.
“Well, now we’ll take a chance on a little sleep,” he told his companion. “I’ve a notion the storm is going to blow itself out before morning. We’ll use those horses to pack the bodies to town with us. The sheriff can put them on exhibition. Somebody might recognize them. First, though, we’ll run down the night guard horse and get the rigged-on dummy off so he’ll be comfortable.”
They had no difficulty retrieving the horse in question. Having gotten over his scare, he had returned to the grassland and was nosing about, the straw-stuffed shirt and overalls hanging lopsided from the saddle.
8
THE MORNING did dawn beautifully bright and clear. The wind had died to a gentle breeze, the sunshine was golden, the sky deep blue. The sheep, critters that took things in stride and had been little disturbed by the hullabaloo of the night before, marched along sturdily. The old night guard horse, freed of his burden, trudged contentedly in the rear. The bodies of the dead outlaws flopped grotesquely across the saddles of their mounts, and nobody paid them any mind. The herders and vaqueros chattered gaily and swore amiably at one another. It was in the nature of a triumphant march with the victors loaded with spoils in the shape of the money taken from the outlaws’ pockets, which would insure a nice bust in town.
Bullets for a Ranger_A Walt Slade Western Page 5