It was a big freight wagon loaded high with provisions and other articles. There was nothing strange about a wagon being on the trail, but this one looked out of the ordinary. It was tilted askew—that gave it a lopsided appearance.
“Right rear wheel came off,” Slade remarked to Shadow. “Fellows are trying to get it back on and not having any luck.”
Two figures were working over the axle. One was tall and bulky, the other slender, not very tall and slightly built, dressed in overalls, soft blue shirt and broad-brimmed “J.B.” set at a jaunty angle. And as Slade drew nearer he saw red-gold curly hair under the hatbrim; the smaller of the pair was a girl.
A moment later he recognized the man to be Al Hodson, the rider for Waring who had had the row with Eldon Parr.
The recognition was mutual. Hodson let out a glad whoop.
“Slade! Feller, am I glad to see you. I figured I’d have to unload this shebang. Maybe between the two of us we can get that blasted wheel back on.”
“Should be able to,” Slade agreed as he dismounted and approached, glancing at the girl, who looked expectantly at Hodson.
“Oh, I forgot,” said the puncher. “Marie, this is Walt Slade —I was talking to you about him. Slade, this is Marie, Phil’s sister.”
There was laughter in Marie Waring’s very big and darkly blue eyes as she acknowledged the introduction.
“Really, Mr. Slade,” she said, “I seem to have known you for quite a while. You are indeed nearly all that Al and my brother have talked about for the past week.”
“Then they gave somebody else a rest,” Slade smiled.
The laughter in her eyes spilled over to her red lips, which parted to show little teeth as white and even as Slade’s own.
“Oh, what they said was not at all derogatory, just the reverse,” she replied.
“How about this blasted wheel?” Hodson broke in. “Maybe with this tree branch for a pry we can manage to lift the wagon and Marie can slide the wheel on the axle.”
“I don’t think we’ll need the pry,” Slade differed. “It’ll just be in the way. You take the wheel and be ready to slip it on the axle.”
“Feller, you can never lift that wagon by yourself,” Hodson protested. “I don’t believe there is a man in Texas who could do it.”
“Remains to be seen,” Slade said cheerfully as he bent his knees and gripped the axle with both hands. “Be set with the wheel to shove it on when she comes up.”
Slowly he began to straighten. Great muscles leaped out on his arms and shoulders, threatening to burst the fabric of his shirt. And as he straightened, the axle rose until it was parallel to the ground.
“On with the wheel,” he said. “Careful, don’t pinch my hands. That’s right.” He shifted his grip. Hodson shoved hard on the wheel, and it slid smoothly into place. Slade eased off till the tire was resting firmly on the ground and stepped back.
Hodson was staring at him unbelievingly. The girl was also staring. The cowboy shook his head.
“Now I’ve seen everything,” he declared.
“Good deal of a trick to it,” Slade deprecated the feat.
“Uh-huh, quite a trick,” Hodson agreed dryly.
“Got the cap?” Slade asked.
“Yes,” said Marie. “I picked it up back along the trail.” She handed it to him.
“A wrench?” Slade said to Hodson. “And something that’ll do for a pin?”
“I got a box of tools” said the puncher and began rooting about in the wagon to produce them. A few minutes later the cap was firmly in place.
“All set to go,” Slade said, wiping the axle grease from his hands with tufts of grass.
Hodson was staring at Shadow, his eyes alight with the real horse lover’s admiration.
“Blazes! What a cayuse!” he said. “Never saw his equal. Bet he rides smooth as a baby carriage.”
“He does,” Slade agreed. He reacted to a sudden impulse aroused by Hodson’s enthusiasm.
“Like to fork him for a while?” he added. “I’ll handle the team.”
“I sure would!” Hdoson exclaimed and turned toward the horse. The great black’s ears slanted backward and his eyes rolled.
“It’s okay, Shadow,” Slade said. The ears pricked forward.
“All right,” he said to Hodson. “You won’t have any trouble with him.”
“Darned if I don’t believe he understood just what you said!” exclaimed Hodson.
“He did,” Slade answered. “He allows nobody to put a hand on him unless I give the word.”
Hodson swung into the saddle and cantered forward joyously. Slade turned to the high seat of the wagon. Marie paused.
“Won’t you give me a hand?” she said demurely. “That step is rather high.”
Slade laughed, cupped his hands about her slender waist. The next instant she was on the seat, breathless and rosy.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “Do you always handle women like—like a sack of oats?”
“There’s a difference,” he replied as he mounted beside her and gathered up the reins. “A sack of oats stays put.”
“And a woman?”
“She’s usually where you don’t expect to find her, as of today, for instance,” Slade answered.
She laughed. “Yes, riding a peaceful trail, you hardly expected to rescue a damsel in distress, like a knight of old.”
“I imagine the knights of old found more women than Holy Grails,” he replied, smiling. “Much the same, however, for both are holy.”
She regarded him curiously. “Do you really mean that?”
“Of course,” he replied. “Without women the world would not go on; they are the source of life.”
“I never thought of it in that light, but it is a nice thought,” she said. She giggled.
“But they have to have help,” she added.
“And that is also a nice thought,” he said, his eyes dancing.
Miss Waring’s long and dark lashes drooped, and she did not answer.
They rolled on, Hodson pacing along ahead, leaning over now and then to talk to Shadow and stroke his glossy neck. The trail had veered slightly to the north, and the low ridge was now not more than four hundred yards distant. Slade, as usual, was constantly scanning his surroundings.
He saw the puff of whitish smoke near the crest of the rise. And even as the spiteful whiplash crack of the distant rifle reached his ears, Al Hodson reeled in the saddle and fell, his face visored with scarlet. Shadow instantly halted and glanced back inquiringly at his master.
Marie screamed. Slade leaped from the wagon, raced to where Shadow stood and slid his Winchester from the saddle boot. He flung the long gun to his shoulder and sprayed the rise crest with bullets, weaving the muzzle back and forth until the rifle was empty. As he shoved fresh cartridges into the magazine he thought he saw a shadow of movement on the crest and sent three quick shots at it. Nothing happened, however, so far as he could see. He turned to where Hodson lay, Marie kneeling beside him. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he approached the motionless form; he feared that in obeying a kindly impulse he had sent the cowboy to his death. For there was no doubt in his mind as to whom that slug had been intended for.
13
HOWEVER, he heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief as he drew near. Hodson was muttering and rolling his head from side to side with returning consciousness. As Slade probed the vicinity of the ragged tear just above his right temple, from which blood was still oozing, he opened his eyes and swore feebly.
“Take it easy,” Slade told him. “Don’t try to sit up yet.” He fumbled in his saddle pouch for medicants. A few minutes later the wound was smeared with antiseptic salve, padded and bandaged. Slade wiped the blood from the cowboy’s face with a clean hankerchief. He had found no indications of fracture and believed the puncher was not seriously injured.
“Stay with him,” he told Marie, and climbed into the wagon. He quickly rearranged the cargo so Hodson cou
ld lie down and returned to the patient.
“Think you can sit up now?” he asked.
“Sure,” Hodson replied, suiting the action to the word. He held his head in his hands and swore again. Then he grinned wanly. “I’m okay,” he said.
Helping him to his feet, Slade led him to the wagon and assisted him to climb aboard.
“All right, stretch out and stay there,” he directed. “We’ll get you to the ranchhouse and send somebody for the doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Hodson protested. “I’m okay; you fixed me up fine. It’s just a scratch.”
“So it appears, but we’re taking no chances,” Slade replied. “You know there is such a thing as concussion. People receiving head injuries and thinking themselves all right have been known to tumble over a few days later with a stroke. We don’t want that to happen. I’ll roll you a cigarette, that should help.”
“Did you get the blankety-blank?” Hodson asked as he gratefully accepted the brain tablet and puffed vigorously. “I thought I heard you shooting. I don’t think I ever really passed out completely.”
“I doubt it,” Slade answered. “I was shooting blind. I’ve a notion he kept on going. If he did, he’s gone. If he didn’t, let him stay there to poison the coyotes and the buzzards. I’m not going up there to find out. May look the ridge over when I ride back this way, if I am of a mind to.”
“But who the devil could it have been?” Hodson wondered. “Eldon Parr ain’t no good, but I can’t see him going in for this sort of a dry-gulching just because I twitted him about smelling of sheep. And I don’t know of anybody else who’d want to down me.”
“One tall man atop a black horse looks very much like another,” Slade replied pointedly.
Hodson stared at him; so did Marie.
“You—you mean the hellion was after you?” the puncher asked.
Slade shrugged his broad shoulders. “I ride a black horse,” he said. “At that distance he couldn’t have recognized features.”
“I see,” Hodson said slowly. “Reckon that outlaw bunch they call the men of steel don’t feel over kind toward you after the shellackin’ you’ve given them of late.”
“Plausible to think so,” Slade conceded.
Hodson swore with fervor. “Excuse me, Marie,” he said, “but that’s just the way I feel about it.”
“Go ahead and don’t mind me,” the girl told him. “If I had the habit, I’d do some myself.”
“Right!” growled Hodson, gingerly feeling his wounded head. “Well, feller, if you need any backin’ in your row with those blankety-blanks, count on me. And that’ll go for the rest of the boys, and Phil, too.”
“And for Marie,” Miss Waring added, looking as if she meant it.
“Well, with that kind of backing I don’t see how I can lose,” Slade smiled. “Now we’ll head for home.” He climbed onto the seat. Marie took her place beside him.
“Giddap, cayuses,” he told the horses. “Some hot coffee will do that punctured gent a lot of good.”
The wagon rolled on, Shadow pacing sedately behind. Slade constantly scanned the rises, although he did not think the dry-gulcher had lingered.
In due time they reached the W Diamond ranchhouse, big and old but in an excellent state of repair. Phil Waring was on the veranda, and several of the hands were loitering about the yard. They all came hurrying forward, volleying questions, as Hodson’s bandaged head appeared.
Explanations followed, Hodson and Marie doing most of the talking. Waring swore better than Hodson did, and shook hands with Slade.
“Sure hope you got the blankety-blank,” he said.
Slade noticed that the owner’s left hand and wrist were bandaged.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“Oh, I was out on the range the other night during that blasted rain,” Waring explained. “I was wet and cold and tried to get a fire going under a cliff. Everything was so infernally wet I couldn’t make it. So I tore a piece off the tail of my shirt, opened a couple of cartridges and dampened the powder and rubbed it into the rag to make a slow fuse like we use sometimes when blowing water holes. Figured to start the shavings with that. Guess I didn’t dampen the powder enough, for it flared and scorched my hand.”
“You can lose an eye that way,” Slade warned, his own eyes thoughtful.
Waring called a wrangler to care for the horses. He was properly introduced to Shadow, and the big black followed him to the barn. Hodson was led into the living room and made to lie down on a couch, and a hand was ordered to ride to town and fetch the doctor.
“I’ll get the coffee going. Soon be time to eat, too,” Waring said and headed for the kitchen, Marie accompanying him.
“Phil, just who and what is he?” she asked in low tones.
“Sis, I don’t know,” her brother replied. “The Mexicans call him El Halcón—The Hawk—and there are folks who say he’s an owlhoot.”
“I don’t believe it,” she declared flatly.
“To tell the truth, I don’t either,” Waring conceded. “Sheriff Ross and Doc Price seem to think mighty well of him, and Mig Lopez and Froglip Fogarty cottoned to him right away. The Mexicans swear he’s God’s right-hand man, and judging from the things he’s done since he coiled his twine here, I’ve a notion they may be closest to the right of it.”
“Yes, I think they are,” Marie said. “Anyhow, I think he is the handsomest man I ever laid eyes on, and the most charming.”
Her brother chuckled. “Careful,” he said wamingly. “He’s all of that, but he’s also the sort that always has his eyes on the next hilltop; remember that.”
“I’ll try hard to forget it,” she retorted. “And you’re trying to get him to sign on as range boss, aren’t you?”
“If I can argue him into taking it,” Waring answered.
“I’ll add my powers of persuasion to yours,” she promised. “Felipe, start the coffee heating,” she told the cook, a Mexican, and was inspired to add, “We have El Halcón as a guest.”
The old cook’s eyes widened, and he bowed his head. “It is as if our Lord paused to break bread with us,” he said simply.
“See?” said Waring.
“Yes, I see,” she replied slowly.
They returned to the living room. Marie went upstairs. Slade and Waring smoked and talked, while Hodson drowsed on the couch. He roused up to say, “Slade, tell him about that wrecked ship you and Lopez found; folks were talking about it in town.”
“How’s that?” Waring asked. Slade gave an account of the incident, to which Waring listened intently.
“Wonder what they were after?” he remarked when Slade paused. “Never can tell about those Gulf ships; they pack all sorts of stuff. Some of it the Customs people never get a look at. Must have been something worthwhile. Reckon the poor devils on the ship never had a chance.”
“It looked that way,” Slade agreed.
“And they set a false beacon to lure her onto the rocks,” Waring said thoughtfully. “But how in blazes did they get on and off without leaving any tracks?”
“I’d like to have the answer to that one, but I haven’t got it,” Slade replied.
Marie came down at that moment. She wore a dress that Slade thought set off the sweet lines of her small figure admirably. Her glossy curls were neatly brushed, her eyes were bright, and there was a touch of color in each creamily tanned cheek.
“Gosh!” Waring exclaimed with brotherly tact, “first time I’ve seen you in anything but overalls and a shirt for a month.”
She met Slade’s laughing gaze, and the color in her cheeks deepened.
“The boys are coming in—time to eat,” said Waring. “Come on, Slade, you’ll have to take potluck.”
The “potluck” was highly satisfactory, for old Felipe outdid himself in deference to the honored guest.
Dinner was a hilarious affair. The hands twitted Hodson about his injury and flatly refused to believe his version of the affair as vou
ched for by Slade and Marie.
“You’re just covering up for the horned toad,” they declared. “We know what happened. Drunk, fell out of the wagon and cracked his skull. Lucky he landed on his head, otherwise he might have got hurt. Skull’s just like a terrapin’s —solid bone all the way through.”
They waited anxiously for the verdict, however, when Doc Price arrived a couple of hours after dark. The old practitioner glowered at Slade.
“Might have known it,” he said. “No rest when you’re around.”
“But, Doc, you don’t want to be arrested for vagrancy, do you? No visible means of support,” the Ranger protested.
“Don’t worry about me,” said Doc. “I put one over on the undertaker. Signed a partnership agreement with him the minute you showed up. We’ll both get rich. All right, Hodson, let’s have a look.
“A good chore of padding and bandaging,” he nodded to Slade. “Nothing to worry about, just a scalp cut. He’ll be looking for a chance to get hanged tomorrow. Hope he makes it. Sure I’ll spend the night, Waring. Should be some business for me before morning, with Slade here. I brought all of my tools when I heard he was squattin’ with you.”
“It would seem you are a rather terrible person, though you seem so nice, Mr. Slade,” Marie said.
“Really, I don’t deserve such a reputation,” El Halcón protested. “Doctors are always prone to exaggerate. That’s to keep the patient’s mind off his troubles.”
“Patients don’t have troubles—they unload ’em on the doctor,” Price grunted. “Where do I sleep tonight, Phil?”
“Same room you always use, next to mine down the hall,” Waring replied. “Sis, give Slade the big room at the head of the stairs. Show him to it so he can stow his pouches.
Bullets for a Ranger_A Walt Slade Western Page 9