Authors: Bradford Scott
As they headed for town, Slade and the sheriff fell back to where they could talk uninterrupted.
“Station master sure had the jitters when that wagon didn’t show up per schedule,” Carter observed. “He was in on the scheme, of course.”
“And so, evidently, were some people not supposed to be,” Slade replied.
“Not much doubt as to that,” Carter agreed. “He came running to me and told me about it. I told him I was willing to bet you were out there looking after things and to stop bothering. Thought I’d better ride out to meet you, though, just in case you were getting lonesome.”
“Thanks for your confidence,” Slade smiled. “For a while I was beginning to think I was pulling a real blooper.
“I refrained from questioning the clerk as to just how the scheme was supposed to be worked,” he added. “We’ll have a talk with him when we reach the office. He may be able to tell us something of importance. I rather doubt it, though. Whoever is heading the bunch working this section is too darned smart to leave any loose ends hanging.”
There was excitement aplenty when they reached the stage station. The bodies were removed, sacks of grain tossed aside, and a stout money pouch hauled out. The station master sighed with relief as he stowed it in his safe.
“There’s plenty in that poke, a consignment to the Amarillo bank,” he said. “If we’d lost that, our insurance rates would have gone sky high. My company is greatly beholden to you, Mr. Slade. I venture to predict you will shortly hear from them.”
The horses were cared for, the bodies of the slain outlaws packed to the sheriff’s office and laid out. People thronged in to view them. Several persons were confident they had seen the pair hanging around various bars. The Washout was mentioned in particular.
After a while Carter shooed out the crowd and he and Slade and the bank clerk went into conference.
“The whole affair was supposed to be handled with the strictest secrecy,” the clerk explained. “The money was placed in the wagon just an hour or so before daylight, when it was darkest and quietest. Guards were stationed, out of sight, to keep watch over it until the stage pulled out.”
The sheriff turned to Slade. “Well, what do you think?” he asked.
“It would appear,” the Ranger replied, “that somebody is able to learn things. I’d say somebody who had learned the shipment was to be made today kept watch on that bank all last night. Of course there was one glaring error made.”
“How’s that?” Carter said.
“In assigning this gentleman to drive the wagon instead of handing the chore to some trusty farmer. That was a dead giveaway were somebody keeping tabs on the bank. A single glance told me he was no farmer. Told somebody else, too, the chances are.”
“Guess you’ve got the right of it, per usual,” said Carter. “Well, it all worked out not too bad. Now suppose we mosey over to the Trail End for a bite to eat; I’m feeling lank.
“Come along, son,” he told the clerk. “Guess you can stand a helpin’, too; you look sorta peaked.”
“And I feel that way,” the clerk replied with a wan smile. “But I’m mighty glad, and thanks to Mr. Slade, that I’m able to feel at all. I wouldn’t have bet on it when those devils rode out of the brush. I got a look at the eyes of one of them peering through his mask, and there was frozen murder in them.”
“Happen to notice what color they were?” Slade asked.
The clerk shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he admitted. “I just got the general effect. But I think I’d know them if I saw them again. Hope I never do.”
The sheriff chuckled. “Let’s go eat,” he said.
The balked robbery was the chief topic of discussion at the Trail End, and it was some time before Slade and his companions were permitted to eat without interruption.
“A pity Norman and Griswold weren’t around to hear about it,” observed the sheriff. “Griswold said something about riding in later this evening, maybe he will. And when Norman hears about it, the chances are he’ll come piling in, too, to get details. And Jerry along with him, of course. She wasn’t at all anxious to return to the spread this morning, but figured she’d better. Wouldn’t have been bad to have had her along with you when the ruckus started. She’s a darn dependable gal.”
“Yes, she’s all of that,” Slade agreed, “but I’m glad she wasn’t there when those blue whistlers were fanning my face — was a rather warm go for a while. Fortunately, the devils were using their sixguns to hold up the wagon. If they’d been packing rifles the story might have had a different ending.”
“Guess you figured they’d do just that,” the sheriff guessed shrewdly.
“Yes, I did,” Slade admitted. “That’s why I kept well back from where I estimated they’d hit the stage. Sure had me puzzled for a little while when they allowed the coach to pass.”
“But not for long,” put in the bank clerk.
“And is there ever anything you don’t think of!” snorted the sheriff.
“Plenty,” Slade replied, “but it is fairly obvious that as a rule men use hand guns for close work. I gambled on them doing just that.”
Neither Carter nor the clerk appeared much impressed by the explanation.
“Now what?” asked the former.
“I think that after another cup of coffee, I’ll go down to the Washout for a while,” Slade said. “I wish to have a talk with Yates.”
“Guess you can do that safely,” said Carter. “Figured those hellions will hardly show up in town tonight. Hello! Here comes Clifton Hart. Looks like he’s been doing some riding.”
The Boojer-H owner did give that impression. His clothes were dusty and, Slade thought, he appeared tired. He waved to the occupants and made his way to the bar, where he downed his first drink at a gulp, ordered a second, and consumed it more slowly, staring moodily into the back-bar mirror.
“I’ve a notion something happened that don’t set well with him,” remarked Carter. “Expect he’ll be ambling over to tell us about it.”
However, Hart did not at once approach the table. Slade decided to wait a while before leaving on the chance that he would.
He did, and slumped wearily in a chair. The others glanced at him questioningly.
“Lost more cows last night,” he announced. “Rather big bunch, too.”
“Any notion where they went?” Carter asked.
“We traced them to not far from that blasted river valley, then lost the trail on the heavy grass,” Hart replied. “I figure they must have gone into the valley then on to New Mexico. So we hightailed west until we figured we should be ahead of them, holed up and waited. They never showed. Guess they traveled faster than we thought they would, or maybe had more of a start than we thought. Anyhow, they didn’t show up. When we got back to the
casa
, I grabbed a fresh cayuse and headed for town. Yep, reckon they made it to New Mexico, all right.”
“Past Tascosa and all the plazas at the upper end of the valley!” Carter said incredulously.
“Where else?” Hart countered. The sheriff didn’t have the answer.
For a long moment, Slade studied the rancher.
Abruptly he arrived at a conclusion.
“Brian,” he said, “like to play another hunch?”
“I’ll play anything you have in mind,” Carter instantly replied.
“Okay,” Slade said, shoving his cup aside and rising to his feet, “haul your deputies away from the bar and let’s go get our cayuses. Like to come along, Mr. Hart?”
“Of course I’ll come along — my cows, weren’t they? I reckon you’re after the hellions that ran them off.”
“Those gentlemen may be an incidental,” Slade answered. “My foremost objective is your stock. Come along, I’ll explain while we ride. I figure we have no time to waste.”
“You’ve already had one helluva busy day,” growled Carter, downing his snort and standing up.
“Nice night for a ride,” Slade countered smilingly. “Shadow and I both need exercise. Let’s go!”
Ten minutes later they were riding north under the stars, at a fast pace.
Slade knew of another way across the valley, east of the route he usually followed. It was one that was very little traveled, for at that point fording the Canadian was dangerous, the quicksands being formidable if the water was at all high.
However, at the present stage of the river, he believed it could be negotiated without too much risk. At any rate, he decided to chance it. As they rode, he explained what he had in mind.
“When I rode into the valley from the north,” he said, “I was struck by the evidence that a short time before, cows were run
out
of the valley by way of that slope where I entered the valley. After thinking about it a while, I recalled that the poor devil of a valley dweller mumbled something about talking before he died. Then later I learned that Keith Norman had lost some stock just a few nights before. It wasn’t difficult to deduce that the fellow had somehow stumbled onto them and had mentioned the fact to somebody. That was why he was murdered, to shut his mouth. Beginning to understand?”
“Go on,” growled Carter. “Let’s hear the rest of it.”
“There isn’t much ‘rest’,” Slade replied. “Just this, in my opinion the wideloopers ran Hart’s cows into the valley and hid them there during the day, not hard to do at the point, where hardly anybody lives. After giving the impression that they were run into the valley, and then, presumably, to New Mexico, they’d slip them out under cover of darkness and run them north to the Oklahoma hills, where there are always buyers glad to get stolen stock. Now do you understand?”
“Blast it! I’ve a notion you have the right of it,” said the sheriff. “And — ”
“And if we can get there before the cows are moved on, I believe there’s a chance to recover the stock and at the same time, with luck, to perhaps drop a loop on the rustlers. I don’t think they’ll move the critters until well past dark, for there are a couple of trails they’d have to cross that are traveled in the early evening. It’s a long drive to Oklahoma, but in the broken country to the north, a real wasteland where nobody lives, there are places where they could hole up for another day, if necessary.”
“By gosh! I believe it will work!” exclaimed Carter. “Sure worth a try. Say! It means the sidewinders pulled one last night and then made another try, for the bank money, today. They sure move around.”
“There were but five in the bunch that endeavored to tie onto the bank money,” Slade pointed out. “I’m confident the outfit is larger, perhaps a dozen members, or close to it. Four or five men could easily handle the wide-looping; for their sort that is in the nature of a routine chore. I’d say they split up to pull the two jobs.”
“Quite likely,” agreed the sheriff.
They rode on, north with a veering to the east, Slade studying the brush fringed lip of the valley, which steadily drew nearer.
“Right ahead is where we’re making for,” he finally announced. “Okay, down we go, and let’s hope the river behaves itself. A little too much water and somebody may be a goner.”
The down slope was not too difficult to negotiate. When they reached the river, Slade called a halt and for some moments sat studying the unpredictable stream. Finally he said:
“The rest of you stay here while I make a try at it alone.”
“Say,” began the sheriff.
“Do as I tell you,” Slade interrupted. “Shadow will warn me if there is danger ahead. Stay here.”
Carter subsided to growls and grumbling, but obeyed orders. Slade put the great black to the water.
Shadow was suspicious of what was ahead of him, but he stepped out steadily, Slade’s gaze sweeping over the star dimpled surface. The posse watched him apprehensively. Shadow moved on and without mishap reached the far bank, although twice he hesitated, lifting his hoofs gingerly.
“Okay, come ahead,” Slade called in low tones. “Pears to be all right, but don’t push your horses; let them do the choosing.”
Slade proved right in his surmise that the river was low enough to render the crossing feasible, but it was a ticklish business, facing the constant threat of the quicksands, and there was a general sigh of relief when the posse reached the far shore without mishap and continued on their way across the Valley to the north slope, which posed no difficulty.
“Now west,” Slade said. “We’ll soon know if we’re on a fool’s errand. Hug the brush and keep your eyes and ears open.”
As they rode, he constantly scanned the terrain ahead. After a bit he slowed the pace, his vigilance increasing.
“All right, this is far enough,” he decided at length. We will leave the horses here, where they should be in the clear. Hope they’ll stand and not kick up a racket.”
“Chances are ours will,” said Carter. “They’re well-trained brutes. How about yours, Hart?”
“He’s a very quiet cayuse and stays put,” the rancher replied.
Cautiously, they stole forward on foot, soon reaching the point where the crossing began.
“Now all we can do is wait and see what happens,” Slade announced. “If they are down there and getting ready to move, they’ll shove the cows ahead up the slope and be bunched behind them. When they show over the lip, Brian, call on them to surrender. They won’t, you can be pretty sure of that, so shoot fast and shoot straight. Being on the ground with them mounted, we should enjoy a certain advantage, but we can’t afford to take any chances. It’s a desperate bunch, every one a killer.”
“Glad you didn’t decide to handle this one all by yourself,” Carter muttered, loosening his gun in its sheath.
“Circumstances and conditions being what they are, I deemed it inadvisable,” Slade returned in little above a whisper. “All right, now, no more talking.”
Slowly the minutes ticked off. Nowhere was there a sign of movement. No sound broke the great hush of the rangeland, save the occasional note of some night bird. Overhead the stars glittered, silvering the prairie with an eerie and deceptive glow.
More minutes passed, and Slade began to wonder if they were too late, the wideloopers having already left the valley with the stolen stock. If so, they could have turned in any direction, rendering trailing them almost out of the question.
Then a sound did break the silence, loud enough for even the other members of the posse to hear, the bawl of an angry cow that resented being shoved up the steep slope.
“Get set,” Slade breathed. “It’s showdown!”
Louder and louder grew the bawling of the cattle. Now the clash of hoofs on the stones could be heard. Another moment and a string of shapes flowed over the lip of the sag, surging forward under the shove of those behind.
The last cow reached the level ground. After them came four horsemen, clumped together — huge, grotesque in the star gleam. Slade nudged the sheriff. Carter’s voice rang out:
“Up! You’re covered! In the name of the law!”
A volley of startled exclamations, the blaze of a gun! A bullet screeched past, close. The posse opened fire.
• • •
Back and forth gushed the reddish flashes. It was almost blind shooting in the uncertain light, but as Slade predicted, the advantage was with the men on foot, hugging the brush. A widelooper fell. Slade squeezed both triggers and another reeled from the saddle. The two remaining spun their horses about and went storming down the slope. Slade ran forward and emptied his guns at the clashing of irons on the stones; but two horses kept on going.
“Guess that’s the best we can do,” he said, stuffing fresh cartridges into the cylinders of his Colts. “We didn’t do too bad.”
“You’re darn right we didn’t,” chortled Carter. “Got the cows back and collected us a couple of scalps. Altogether, chalk up a day for our side. Let’s take a look at what we bagged.”
By the aid of matches, the dead outlaws were examined.
“I’ve seen both of the ornery-lookin’ scuts,” a deputy declared.
“Remember where?” Slade asked. The deputy hesitated.
“I think the Open Door,” he finally replied. “Not plumb sure. Could have been the Trail End, or maybe the Washout.”
“
That
blankety-blank rumhole, I’ll put a lock on the front door, yet!” raved the sheriff. “Yates ‘pears to be all right, but that pack rat’s nest draws owlhoots like molasses does flies.”
“A saloonkeeper can hardly ask credentials of his customers,” Slade pointed out. “These fellows could pass very well as average cowhands or chuck-line riders.”
“Oh, I reckon so,” said the sheriff and again subsided to growls and grumbles.
Slade ran his eyes over the herd, which had settled down to cropping grass.
“Better than a hundred head,” he observed.
“And that runs into money,” said Hart. “I’m one heap beholden to you, Mr. Slade. Would have hit me hard.”
“Everything’s all right that ends that way,” Slade replied cheerfully. “Well, guess we’d better start them home. Will take us the rest of the night, I’m afraid.”
The outlaws’ horses had bolted but a short distance and, like the cows, were busy lining their bellies as best they could, hampered by the bits. They were easily rounded up, the bodies roped across the saddles and the triumphant procession got under way.
Slade’s prediction wasn’t far off; the east was glowing rose and gold when the cows were shoved onto their home pasture and the hungry and weary posse headed for the
casa
and something to eat and a few hours rest before the long drag to Amarillo, the two bodies being placed in the barn.
“Well, one thing is sure, we’re thinnin’ ’em out,” the sheriff remarked to Slade. “Including the one we didn’t find, these two make six altogether. Not bad! Not bad!”
“But the head of the outfit is still on the loose,” Slade replied. “And until he is corralled we can look for more trouble. He’s one smart hombre, all right, and so far we haven’t a thing on him.”
“Any notion who he might be?” asked Carter.
“Just a vague idea,” the Ranger answered. “Hardly an idea, in fact, with mighty little to go on. Well, we’ll see.”
Carter nodded and asked no questions. To do so, he knew, would be just a waste of time.
“And there goes my prime suspect,” Slade remarked reminiscently a little later.
“You mean Hart?” prompted Carter.
“Yes, Hart,” Slade replied. “For a while things pointed at him very nicely, the convenient situation of his spread, the tough bunch he has riding for him, his intense curiosity relative to myself. But last night when he was telling us about his widelooped cows, I studied him very closely, his eyes, his mouth, his expression as he talked, and arrived at the conclusion he was telling the truth. The sequel proved he was. So he’s out the window, leaving me very much up in the air.
“Too many figures of speech, but they all apply. Well, I’ll just have to do a bit more nosing about and see what comes of it.”
Slowed by the awkwardly burdened led horses, the day was well along toward evening when they reached Amarillo and another siege of excitement. This time quite a few people recalled seeing the two slain outlaws hanging around the lake-front bars. The Washout and the Open Door were especially mentioned.
“Looks like the sidewinders have their headquarters here,” the sheriff remarked.
“Yes, it does,” Slade agreed. “Not strange, though; Amarillo is strategically located for such a bunch. I’m just a mite curious about Tascosa, too. May take a ride over that way. And I also plan to contact some of the valley dwellers, particularly those of the Mexican
plazas
. They’ll talk to me.”
“Yep, your
El Halcon
reputation paying off,” Carter conceded. “But how about Griswold? We were both looking sorta sideways at him for a while.”
“Personally, Griswold appears to be all right,” Slade answered. “But remember, sometimes a man’s workers may get out of hand, unbeknownst to him, and turn to side lines. We know little about his hands other than they appear to be a trouble hunting bunch of salty hombres. Not that I’m intimating there is anything off-color where they are concerned, but we can’t afford to miss any bets, circumstances being what they are.”
“You’re darn right,” Carter agreed. “Got to look sideways at every jigger who might qualify. And in this blasted owlhoot center I’m scared I’ll get swivel-necked. No matter which way you look, you can spot some wind spider capable of anything.”
“Hardly that bad,” Slade smiled reply. “But you’re not too far off. Always the way with a frontier town, and Amarillo is still in the nature of a frontier town, with new faces showing up all the time. Well, we’ll do what we can and hope for the best.”
“And right now I figure the best thing would be to go and tie onto something to eat,” Carter suggested. “Huntin’ down outlaws always makes me hungry.” He glanced at the bodies.
“Hellions didn’t have anything on ’em worth while except money. Well, suppose we can’t hope to hit the jackpot every time, like you did with that hunk of paper you fished from that other one’s shirt pocket. Let’s go get that surrounding.”
After eating, Slade relaxed comfortably with coffee and a cigarette. That is, he relaxed physically. Mentally he was anything but relaxed. He felt he had made some headway against the outlaws, but not enough. And he hadn’t been sent to the section to loaf around saloons and enjoy the music.
But, blast it! Saloons seemed the only places he could learn anything, and even they had not been productive of much. And his next stop would be a saloon. After a bit, he pinched out his cigarette and tossed it aside.
“I’m going down to the Washout, and perhaps the Open Door,” he told Carter. “Don’t expect to be gone very long. Suppose you’ll stick around here for a while?”
“Reckon I might as well,” the sheriff replied. “Okay, and keep your eyes open; you’re not overly popular in certain quarters about now.” Slade promised to do so and sauntered out.
He was watchful and alert as he walked toward the lake, for he did not take the sheriff’s warning lightly. There was little doubt but that the outlaws would be anything but friendly where he was concerned. Two setbacks in a single day and night were not calculated to improve their tempers. Given the slightest opportunity they would very likely attempt something against him.
Might find himself on a very hot spot, but just the same he would welcome a chance for a showdown, especially if the leader of the outfit might decide to try his own luck, seeing as his subordinates hadn’t met with any success.
As he neared the lake front, he decided to visit the Open Door first. He wondered if Erskin Frayne had returned from his night ride.
When he entered the saloon he saw he had. Frayne was standing at the far end of the bar, debonair, neatly attired, appearing composed and at peace with the world. He greeted
El Halcon
cordially.
“Took me a nice long ride,” he announced. “Have to get away from this racket for a spell every now and then or go loco. That’s the greatest drawback to this business; after a while one begins to develop cauliflower ears. I stopped at Tascosa for a while, then rode west and onto the desert. Thought I might pay Tucumcari a visit, but there appeared to be a storm building up in the south — the dust banners were floating out from the sand dunes — and thought better of it. Those dust storms are something to reckon with.”
Slade thought it interesting that Frayne, from Arizona, appeared to be familiar with the Tucumcari and its vagaries. However, he did not comment, only nodded agreement.
“The boys are all talking about your recent exploits, and no wonder,” Frayne went on. “You have certainly accomplished a lot in a short period of time.”
“Just so happened that opportunity came my way,” Slade replied. Frayne smiled.
“The establishment of law and order in the section is highly important,” he continued. “Otherwise, people will be reluctant to settle here, and what these great open lands need more than anything else is people. For example, fully half of my customers are farmers who are in the nature of new arrivals. Without them, I’d be operating at a loss. Yes, you have been doing the community a great service.
“Part of the way after leaving Tascosa on the return trip, I rode through the Canadian River Valley,” Frayne added. “I found the geological phenomena there quite interesting. Reminded me of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River in miniature. Without a doubt, the taller cliffs depict several petrological eras.”
“Yes?” Slade acquiesced, looking vague.
“Ever happen to notice it in the course of your rides?” Frayne asked.
“I fear a layman seldom understands such matters and doesn’t pay them much mind,” Slade replied.
“I suppose so,” Frayne agreed. He motioned to a bar-ender to fill glasses.
After a bit of casual conversation, a somewhat puzzled Ranger left the Open Door and headed for the Washout. Why did he bring that up, he wondered, apropos of Frayne’s ruminations anent the geological peculiarities of the Canadian River Valley. On another fishing expedition? Possibly, but why? After a while a possible solution presented itself, but Slade was not ready to accept it yet. He entered the Washout in a very thoughtful frame of mind.
Anyhow, he felt, if Frayne’s objective had been to ascertain if he were familiar with such matters, his curiosity had not been assuaged and he had learned nothing from the noncommittal answers to his questions. He dismissed the subject for the moment.
The Washout was crowded and noisy, per usual. Old Thankful greeted him and they discussed recent happenings.
“You’ve sure got things hopping,” the owner chuckled. “Hard to tell which is the most talked about, your walloping owlhoots or your singing. It was sure wonderful how you figured just what those vingaroons would do.”
“Really, there was nothing wonderful about it,” Slade denied. “It was such an old trick that I wonder why people will keep falling for it, but they do. I’ve encountered it a number of times. The rustlers headed for the valley, or so it appeared. In fact they did. But they didn’t do what Hart and his men figured they would. Hart was convinced they were running the cows to New Mexico, by way of the valley. So he did what he thought the logical thing to do, headed west over the prairie, where he could make much better time than by way of the valley, hoping to intercept the wideloopers beyond Tascosa and the upper valley plazas. Would have been fine, only the thieves didn’t play the game according to the rules. And I’ve learned that outlaw procedures almost always follow a pattern. It did this time. They drove the cows into the valley, holed them up slightly to the east of where they descended the slope, where nobody lives, waited until dark when they’d have a clear field, then started on their drive north to Oklahoma, confident they wouldn’t be trailed.
“Yes, a neat little scheme, only it didn’t work.”
“That’s right, because
El Halcon
was on the job and a jump ahead of ’em,” chuckled Yates.
“It’s just that I’ve had some experience with such matters,” Slade said. “Just watch, it’ll happen again here when another bunch starts working the section, really they never change, which works to the advantage of the law-enforcement officer, making it possible for him to often anticipate their moves.”
“
Some
law-enforcement officers,” Yates answered, pointedly. “I’ve noticed the run-of-mill variety don’t seem able to make much headway against the horned toads.”
Slade smiled, and changed the subject.
“Business is good, per usual,” he remarked, glancing toward the crowded bar.
“Yep, it is,” Yates agreed. “Getting new folks all the time. By the way, I heard those two hellions you packed in were seen in my place. I’d like to have a look at them. All right to drop around tomorrow?”
“They’ll be in the office,” Slade replied.
“Okay, I’ll do that,” Yates promised. “‘Scuse me a minute, there’s Pete yelpin’ for more stock.” He hurried off to care for the bartender’s needs. Slade rolled a cigarette and sat sipping his drink and pondering his recent conversation with Erskin Frayne and puzzling over it.