“I’ll throw that ornery toad in the calaboose!” the sheriff raved.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Slade differed. “Right now there is not an iota of proof against Eldon Parr that would stand up in court. I am confident, in my own mind, that Parr is the man we’re after, but being confident about something and proving it to twelve gentlemen in a jury box are horses of a different color. There is no doubt in my mind but that Parr wrecked that ship, the “Compostella,” murdered her crew and stole whatever of value was in the captain’s safe, but I couldn’t prove it—yet. I’ll need a little more time to make it possible for you to drop your loop. And that’s got me bothered, I’ll admit. If the hellion is allowed to run loose, it won’t be long before somebody else is murdered.”
“What are we going to do?” the sheriff asked helplessly.
“First, we’re going to try to prevent a range war between sheep-and cowmen,” Slade replied. “Parr’s other activities must wait for a while. Get your horse, we’re going to pay a visit to the cowmen of the section. Perhaps between the three of us we can cool them down a bit and persuade them not to start a ruckus right off.”
Ross hurried out to throw the rig on his mount. Marie turned to Slade.
“Walt,” she said, “why are you so intensely interested in this business? Do you, as Felipe, the cook, maintains, ‘just go about doing good?’”
“Not exactly, I fear,” he replied. “Well, I guess you have a right to know; but it must be strictly a secret between us.”
“Another one?” she questioned, with a smile. “Well, I’m used to it.”
He drew something from a cunningly concealed secret pocket in his broad leather belt and handed it to her. She gazed at the famous silver star set on a silver circle—the feared and honored badge of the Texas Rangers.
“I suppose I should have guessed it,” she said slowly. “You are just what I’ve always heard a Ranger is. Well, just so you don’t range too far. I’m not very hopeful, however,” she added.
Outside sounded the sheriff’s shout. Slade slipped the badge back into its hiding place, and they joined Ross at the hitchrack.
All day long they rode from ranchhouse to ranchhouse. The section was thoroughly aroused, and threats were voiced. But Sheriff Ross declared flatly that he wouldn’t stand for an unprovoked attack on the sheepmen, while Slade used all his powers of persuasion in an endeavor to induce the cowmen to view the matter with equanimity. He felt that Marie’s presence and support had a moderating effect.
Ultimately, from each was extracted a reluctant promise not to resort to violence unless the herders first committed some overt act.
It was a promise, however, that was usually tempered with, “But I can’t guarantee the boys won’t get out of hand if the blasted critters stray onto our range.”
As they rode back to town, under the stars, Slade remarked, “Well, we’ve done the best we can. I believe we did cool them down a bit, but it won’t last. I’ve got to rustle my hocks and bring this thing to a head.”
“What do you plan to do?” Ross asked.
“Think it over, for the present,” Slade replied evasively.
He was “thinking it over,” very seriously, planning and reviewing his next move. He did not see fit to confide in his companions because he felt the chore he had in mind could be performed better alone.
They reached town rather tired and very hungry, for they’d had nothing to eat since a cup of coffee and a snack at a ranchhouse around noon.
“We’ll put up the broncs and then head for the Post Hole,” said Ross. “I’m about ready to topple over.”
They proceeded to do just that. Frog-lip Fogarty greeted them warmly.
“Cat’s fine,” he replied in answer to Slade’s question. “Getting better all the time; scratched the cook again because he was slow handing out the liver. We’ve named him Eat ’Em Up.”
They had just finished a very bountiful repast when Eldon Parr entered. Ignoring the hostile glances cast in his direction, he approached the table. Sheriff Ross regarded him with decided disfavor.
“So you did it!” he growled.
“I am within my legal rights in running sheep onto open range,” Parr replied coldly. “Is that not so, Mr. Slade?”
“You are within your legal rights,” the Ranger conceded.
“And, Sheriff,” Parr continued meaningly, “I expect my men to enjoy the protection of the law.”
“They’ll get it, so long as they stay within the law,” Ross answered.
“Thank you,” Parr said, and walked out.
“The nervy sidewinder!” Ross snorted. “I believe he’d mosey into a den of grizzlies if he took a notion.”
“Yes, a cold proposition,” Slade agreed. “I notice he was wearing a coat tonight,” he remarked with apparent irrelevance.
“Meaning?”
“Also noticed that there was a slight bulge under the left shoulder,” Slade added.
“A shoulder holster man, eh?” commented the sheriff. “It’s a fast draw, for a man who knows how to use it.”
“And I’ve a notion Parr knows how to use it, despite his protestations that he is not adept in the use of a gun,” Slade said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised at anything where he’s concerned,” grunted Ross. “Well, let’s have another drink. How about you, Marie?”
“I’ll take some more coffee, if you don’t mind,” the girl replied.
“Goes for me, too,” Slade said.
“Oh, all right, I’ll string along with you,” the sheriff surrendered. “I hope it don’t keep me awake.”
“Nothing will keep me awake tonight,” Slade answered. “It’s been an exhausting day.”
Marie smiled.
18
THREE HOURS before dawn, Slade slipped quietly from his room and descended to the hotel lobby. The old night clerk drowsed at his desk. Slade passed without causing him to raise his sleepy head. He made his way to the stable which housed Shadow, opened the door with the key the owner had given him, got the rig on the big black and led him forth, closing and locking the door behind him.
The streets were deserted; there was no sign of activity of any sort. The waves on the beach sounded loud in the great stillness. Here and there a night light glowed dimly. Otherwise, the town was a ghost town, devoid of inhabitants to all appearances. For Port Lavaca slept. Shadow’s hoofs clicked softly as Slade turned his nose north by slightly west. Once out on the prairie, he quickened his pace and rode steadily. He was all set to put the test to the first move of his plan to outwit the wily outlaw leader.
He had gathered from Al Hodson the approximate location of the flock of sheep. He figured he had plenty of time to reconnoiter the terrain before daylight and was confident of what he would find there.
Having carefully thought out the whole matter, he had endeavored to put himself in the outlaw leader’s place, to reason as he would reason. He believed he had succeeded.
Finally he spotted the flock, a whitish blur in the starlight, the sheep huddled together in sleep. It was bedded down on the open prairie, not a grove or thicket within a mile. Without hesitation, he rode forward boldly and paused a few yards from the assembled woollies. They raised their heads and grumbled a little, then went back to sleep.
“Just as I figured,” he told Shadow, “the flock is not guarded at night. Parr doesn’t care what happens to it. If a bunch of punchers get out of hand and ride over and slaughter and scatter the sheep, he won’t give a hang. Then his case against the cowmen will be made. Meanwhile, his men will be free to operate at will, with all attention focused on the sheep-cattle row. Very clever! The gent has plenty of wrinkles on his horns.”
It was clever, but Parr had made a fatal slip in not fully realizing and taking into account the shrewdness of El Halcón.
The real secret of Walt Slade’s outstanding success as a Ranger lay in his uncanny ability to think as the outlaws thought, to anticipate their actions and provide ag
ainst them. There were plenty of Rangers with fast gunhands, cold nerve and undaunted courage. But Slade not only outshot the owlhoots, he out-thought them.
He glanced at the stars. “Guess we’d better be moseying, feller,” he said. “Come daylight there’ll be three or four gents riding around out here, ostensibly keeping a sharp lookout and standing guard over the woollies. You’ll notice the flock is placed within sight of anybody riding the north-south trail, and horsemen are frequent on that trail. They see the sheep, they see the herders, and draw their own conclusions. Which is exactly what Parr wants them to do. Okay, we’ll see if we can’t tangle that smart and salty gent’s twine for him. That is, if he doesn’t tangle ours. He’s no pushover and may well be weaving a snare for us while we think we’re setting a trap for him. Well, we’ll see.”
He turned the horse and rode swiftly south by east, arriving at Port Lavaca an hour after sunrise.
After caring for Shadow, he repaired to the hotel lobby, where he found Marie.
“So! Out prowling again, eh?” she remarked resignedly. “All right, let’s go, I waited to eat breakfast with you.”
At the Post Hole, a waiter smiled sleepily but served them deftly enough. Eat ’Em Up, the cat, strolled in from the kitchen, rubbed against Slade’s leg and purred loudly.
“He remembers you,” Marie observed, adding with feminine accuracy, “only he isn’t.”
“Isn’t what?”
“He isn’t a he, he’s a she. No wonder it fell for you, head over heels.”
“Anyhow, she didn’t scratch me,” he smiled.
“She should have, the way you turned her over to someone else and walked out on her. Well, like all other women, she’ll have to learn to take it. How about some more coffee?”
They enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, after which Slade rolled and smoked a cigarette. Pinching out the butt, he said, “Ready to travel? We’ll head back to the spread as soon as you are.”
The ride to the W Diamond ranchhouse was peaceful, and Slade spent the day loitering around the yard and talking with Waring and those of the hands who were not out on the range. But again the dark before the dawn the following morning found him in the saddle, riding swiftly south by west.
“Well, Shadow, here it comes, the big test, which will prove whether or not my hunch is a straight one. I think it is, but you can never tell for sure about such things. Freakish, all right, but not beyond what is to be expected from a mind like Eldon Parr’s. Somehow, I believe, he stumbled onto the formation and realized the use to which it could be put. The fellow’s no mean geologist, and I’ve a notion, too, that he has had considerable to do with the sea. June along, horse, and let’s see if we’re following a cold trail. Betcha we’re not.”
Shadow’s answering snort seemed to say he didn’t approve of gambling in any form and was taking no bets. Slade chuckled and glanced at the eastern sky, which was already flushing a tremulous rose.
The stars grew pale and paler still, dwindled to needlepoints of steel piercing the black velvet robe of the night. The rose in the east deepened to scarlet, flamed crimson, shot and spangled with gold. Spear upon spear of glorious light flashed to the zenith, fell earthward like glowing javelins to pierce the shadows, fire and melt the veils of mist. A bird sang a joyous note, and it was day.
Slade rode on through the increasing warmth as the sun climbed higher. It was halfway up the long slant of the eastern sky when he sighted, still dim with distance, the long and low ridge which fronted the coastline of rough water. As he drew nearer, he saw that the northwestern slope was much more rugged, for erosion had denuded the limestone core of the rise. Also, it was cracked and broken and fissured, the effects of frosts and thaws throughout the ages.
Before long he was riding not far from its base, turning Shadow’s nose more to the east. And shortly he uttered an exclamation.
Scoring the softer earth were many small prints, the marks left by the sharp chisel-hoofed feet of sheep. There were also some hoofmarks of cattle, and many left by the irons of horses, some of them comparatively recent.
“Told you it was a straight hunch, horse,” he exulted. “Here’s where they bring the wide-looped stock to load it on the ships. Now all we have to do is find out how they do it.”
“Which may prove more of a chore than you think,” Shadow appeared to observe complacently. Slade chuckled and rode on, scanning the broken slant of the ridge with meticulous care.
Really, he didn’t need to, for the prints were perfect guideposts. On they led, then turned abruptly toward the slope. A moment later the Ranger saw that they led to the mouth of an opening some ten or twelve feet wide by eight or better high which scored the face of a beetling, clifflike formation.
Tense with excitement, he rode up to the opening. Then he turned in the saddle and scanned the prairie. He could see for miles over the level surface. Nowhere was there any sign of life.
“Looks like we’ve got everything to ourselves,” he remarked. “Not wearing a tail.”
Nearby was a bristle of thicket. Dismounting, he led Shadow to it where the growth cast a cooling shade. He slipped out the bit, loosened the cinches.
“Now you can take it easy while I investigate that crack,” he said. Shadow responded by beginning to crop grass. Slade looked about and spotted a stand of sotol, a very prevalent growth in the section. He broke off a number of dry stalks for torches, lighted one and entered the cave, the floor of which had a sharp downward slope. Holding the torch aloft and keeping close to the side wall, which was studded with knobs and juts of stone and scored by crevices, he strode along cautiously, scanning the floor for obstructions or pitfalls and seeing none.
For several hundred yards he groped his way along the steep descent of the bore. Abruptly the wall to his left, which reflected the torchlight, vanished and was replaced by thick darkness the torchlight could not pierce; the cave had widened greatly. And to his ears came a faint whispering, coming and going, and a draft of salt air bent the sotol flame. Without a doubt, the rocky tunnel led to the sea.
“I was right!” he exclaimed aloud. “But I still don’t know how they do it.”
He had covered a couple of hundred yards when the rock wall to his left suddenly resumed, and he again found himself in a tunnel some thirty feet in width. He advanced cautiously, peering and listening, until he was something like two hundred yards down the narrowed stone tunnel. Abruptly he realized that the whispering had loudened to a murmur which grew to a mutter, a low rumble. He halted, staring and listening. Then he whirled and ran for his life.
He had covered less than half the distance to where the bore widened when he saw the pale vision of terror that accompanied the sound—the crest of onward rushing water!
19
THE TORCH flickered out, extinguished by a blast of wet air. He hugged the right wall as the water swirled about his ankles, rose to his knees. Frantically he plowed through it, clutching at the knobs and spikes that protruded from the wall, hooking his fingers into crevices. The water frothed about his thighs, his waist, rose breast high. Were it not for the knobs of stone by aid of which he hauled himself along he would have been swept off his feet and destroyed. As it was, he was verging on despair. His strength was ebbing. The torrent was washing his shoulders, flinging spray into his face, choking him, stopping his breath. It was lapping his chin when at last it began to shallow, which it did swiftly. He hurled himself forward, sloshed through a final film, staggered onward a few steps and sank to the rocky floor, utterly exhausted, his breath coming in hoarse gasps, his heart pounding like an overburdened engine.
For minutes he lay prone. “This won’t do,” he muttered as he revived a little. His teeth were chattering with cold, his body aching from the terrific pounding of the water. Summoning all his strength, he floundered to his feet and staggered up the steep incline. After what seemed an eternity of painful effort he reached the open air. Shadow gave an inquiring snort as he sat down on the grass, removed his boots and
emptied them of water. He waved reassuringly to the horse and stretched out in the warm sunshine. At once his drenched clothing began to steam, the chill that seemed in his very bones to evaporate.
For quite a while he lay motionless, then, his strength returning, he sat up, fumbled his papers and tobacco from their waterproof pouch, shook a dry match from a tightly corked flat bottle—the cowboy’s waterproof matchbox—and rolled and lighted a cigarette. He smoked it slowly, in deep drags, pinched out the butt and tossed it aside.
“Well, I was right in every detail,” he told Shadow. “Made one little slip, though, that very nearly caused me to get my comeuppance. I shouldn’t have made it, either, after seeing how that inshore current rushes into the east cave mouth. Really inexcusable for me not to realize what that meant.”
Shadow cocked an attentive ear. Slade continued:
“What I carelessly overlooked is the fact that from the outer east cave mouth, the slope is steeply downward. As a result, a head of water accumulates at the bottom of the slope before the trend reverses to a much more gentle upward slope in this direction. When the tide rises, and it rises very swiftly on that shore, the accelerated current shoves the head of water up the gentle slope, precipitately, so that it rushes across the widened cave and boils into the downward sloping tunnel which ends in the west opening at the bay’s edge. Just a simple example of hydraulics. Understand?” Shadow snorted and reached for a mouthful of grass.
“Well,” Slade added, “I’m feeling pretty good again and somewhat dried out, so I’m going to have another peek into that hole. This time I think I’ll find what I’m looking for.”
Securing more torches, he re-entered the cave. When he reached the point where it widened, he turned sharply to the left and a moment later saw what he was searching for.
Close to the end wall of the widened cave were three large, roughly constructed flatboats or lighters. They were set on rollers made of carefully trimmed tree trunks, and each was fully a dozen feet wide and more than twenty-five long.
Bullets for a Ranger_A Walt Slade Western Page 13