Authors: Bradford Scott
When Slade went to sleep, the contrary Canadian was little more than a trickle past Estaban’s garden. When he awoke, it was a raging torrent, far up on its banks, which here were quite high, its surface dotted by floating debris.
“Must have been heavy rains up around the head waters,” he observed to Estaban. “What we got here was the tail end of the storm, I imagine.”
“Si,”
agreed Estaban, “but now it is fine.”
It was, the sun shining brightly in a sky of clearest blue, the wind but a gentle breeze. Birds sang in the thickets, little animals went about their various businesses. All was peace and quiet, the restful quiet of nature.
After a hearty breakfast, Slade said goodbye to his host and continued his ride up the valley, following the bank of the brawling stream. After covering about three miles, he knew he must be drawing near the old plaza of which Estaban spoke — now, according to the old Mexican, occupied by the questionable “farmers.”
He approached the site of the village warily, slowing Shadow’s gait, peering and listening. At the edge of a final bristle of growth, quite some distance from the plaza, from where he had a view of the cluster of adobes, he drew rein and studied the old structures and their environs.
Nowhere could he note any signs of occupancy at the moment. No smoke rose from a chimney, no sound other than that of the river broke the silence. He saw that some ground had indeed been broken, as if making ready for the sowing of crops, and nearby was a not too large excavation, now filled to the brim with rainwater, the res-reservoir of which Estaban spoke. Slade saw at once that the reservoir had been started long before, presumably by the builders of the plaza. The present occupants were but deepening and widening it.
“Well, looks like the hellions are off somewhere,” he re-marked to Shadow. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re up to some devilment. Well, nothing we can do about it, so we’ll just mosey along till we come to one of the villages where folks live. With good luck, we might learn something.”
He had covered perhaps four miles more when again, and abruptly, he pulled to a halt. From no great distance ahead had come the clang of a shot.
For several minutes he sat silent, motionless, scanning the terrain ahead. Then again a report sounded, another and still another, from apparently just about the same distance as the first.
“What in blazes!” he wondered aloud to his mount. “Corpse and cartridge session? Sounds a bit like it. We’ll just wait a bit and see what happens.”
He was totally unprepared for what did happen.
Around a bend in the river, a couple of hundred yards ahead, something appeared, rolling over and over in the fierce current. At first he thought it but a log that had been washed into the stream and was about to shift his gaze back to the trail. Then suddenly his keen eyes noted something. It was not a tree limb thrashing the water, but a human arm. The “log” was a man!
“What in blazes!” repeated the astonished Ranger. Before he could say more, the man swept past him, one arm still stroking feebly.
Slade whirled his horse, his voice rang out:
“Trail, Shadow, trail! We’ve got to get ahead of him! Trail!”
The great black bounded forward, spurning the ground with his clashing irons. The current was swift, but not so swift as Shadow. Quickly he overtook the near-exhausted swimmer, who hadn’t enough strength to make it to the bank. He forged ahead while Slade scanned the water, endeavoring to spot a point less liable to be the abiding place of quicksands. He whirled Shadow to face the stream.
“Take it!” he shouted.
Shadow took it, with a squeal and snort of protest. He plunged into the water, and almost instantly was swimming.
Slade glanced upstream. The man in the water was being swept toward him at race-horse speed.
“A little farther, feller, a little farther,” he urged.
Shadow extended himself, reached the middle of the stream. Straight at him rushed the swimmer. Slade leaned far out in the saddle and made a frantic grab. His hand closed on the still feebly flailing arm and he was nearly torn from the saddle. He stayed in the hull, still clinging to his quarry and with a mighty heave hauled him across the horse’s withers.
But the added weight was too much for Shadow. His head went under, broke surface, went under again. Still clinging to his helpless burden, Slade flipped from the saddle, gripping the bit iron. Freed of the weight, Shadow broke surface still again, facing the bank from which he had entered the stream. Another quick grab and Slade had shifted his hold to a stirrup strap. Shadow plunged forward, the current hurling him downstream. For a moment Slade thought they were all three done for. Were the horse rolled over, they’d very likely never make it to the shore.
But just as disaster seemed inevitable, Shadow’s irons hit bottom. Another moment and he was splashing through the shallows of the shoaling river. Slade let go the stirrup strap, shifted his grip to the shirt collar of the man he had rescued and sloshed after the horse and up the bank. He was breathing hard, but he had swallowed no water and was little the worse for the hectic experience. Shadow gave a snort of utter disgust and glared at his master.
“Feller, you did yourself proud,” Slade told him. Shadow did not appear impressed by the compliment.
“Two-legs!” his answering snorts seemed to say. “Two-legs! They’re plumb loco!” He gave a last explosive snort and reached for a mouthful of grass.
Slade was about to turn when he heard a sound, the clash of hoofs coming from the west. Another moment and a horseman dashed around a nearby stand of growth. With a startled yelp, he jerked his mount to a halt and went for the gun hung butt-to-the-front on his left side, a cross-pull.
He was fast, lightning fast, but not quite fast enough. Even with the handles of his guns wet, Slade beat the draw. He shot with both hands, and again. He was taking no chances for there was no telling how many more of the devils might be following. The fellow was fairly hurled to the ground by the slugs smashing his breast.
“Guess that one is all,” he remarked to Shadow.
“
Capitan
, there was but one,” a voice gasped behind him. He turned to the man he had rescued from the river, perceived he was a young Mexican, little more than a boy. He saw, too, something that was not river water staining the left sleeve of his shirt as he propped himself weakly on his right elbow.
“Lie down again, and don’t move your arm,”
El Halcon
warned. “We’ll talk later.”
He slit the shirt sleeve to reveal a bullet hole through the fleshy part of the upper arm. It was bleeding, but not copiously.
Some staple provisions and other articles in his saddle pouches were pretty well soaked, but his medication, wrapped in waterproofing, were okay. Very quickly he had the wound smeared with salve, padded and bandaged. He also had waterproofed tobacco, and matches in the cowboy’s waterproof container, a tightly corked bottle. Rolling a cigarette, he set it between the young fellow’s lips, waited until he had taken several deep drags.
“Now,” he suggested, “you can tell me what happened. Why were you shot?”
“He shot the
patron
, dead I think, and seized the money,” the
muchacho
babbled, his face working.
“Easy,” Slade admonished. “Take it easy and start from the beginning. Why was the
patron
shot? What money are you talking about?”
“The money the
patron
received for the sheep he sold yesterday, a large sum,” the youth replied. “It was in a buckskin sack, lying on the table. Suddenly that
ladrone
you slew appeared in the doorway. He shot the
patron
before he could reach for his
escopeta
, seized the sack. I was in the kitchen. I ran out the back door. He shot at me, and again, and again. One bullet pierced my arm, as you saw. I threw myself in the river, for I knew death for certain was behind, while I might survive the flood waters. My wounded arm hampered me and I could not reach the shore once I was beyond his sight. Evidently he rode after me, hoping to overtake me did I not drown in the river. Praise be to
El Dios
, and
Capitan
, I live.”
“I see,” Salde said. “Think you can ride to your
patron’s casa?
”
“
Si
, I can ride,” the other replied. “My strength it quickly returns, thanks to
Capitan’s
hands of skill.”
“Okay, I’ll catch the cayuse — seems to be about over its fright and tractable, and we’ll learn if the
patron
is really dead,” Slade said.
He approached the dead outlaw’s horse, which did not offer to run but thrust its muzzle into his hand and blew softly, an action Shadow regarded dubiously.
First, Slade fumbled in the saddle pouch and drew out a rawhide poke.
“Guess this is the
patron
’s money, yes?” he said.
“It is,” the boy replied. Slade dropped it back in the pouch. Before helping the
muchacho
to mount, he examined the dead robber, a hard-looking customer with a keen-looking, intelligent countenance, featured by a high-bridged nose, a tight mouth, and eyes set deep in his head. Altogether, rather at variance with the average brush-popping owlhoot. An able man with a quick mind was Slade’s conclusion. And no doubt about him having a fast gunhand. Had he not already pretty well made up his mind as to the identity of the leader of the pack,
El Halcon
might have been inclined to think that by great good fortune he had bagged the head of the bunch. Very likely, though, the head man’s most dependable lieutenant to whom difficult chores could be entrusted. If so, downing him hadn’t been too bad. His pockets produced nothing of significance save money, quite a bit of it, which he handed to the Mexican youth.
“Will take care of your doctor bill,” he said. The boy murmured his thanks and stowed it away. Slade lifted him to the saddle, mounted Shadow, and they rode together the short distance to the flock-owner’s abode, a well-built cabin. Slade helped the other to dismount and they entered the house, where a man lay sprawled on the floor.
Slade bent over him, felt of his heart, explored the vicinity of a blood-oozing gash in the side of his head.
“He isn’t dead, but I’m afraid he is rather badly hurt,” was his verdict. “I don’t think there is a skull fracture, but I can’t be sure. He needs a doctor as quickly as we can fetch one. How far to the nearest plaza?”
“It is less than two miles,” the youth replied.
“Think you can ride there, get help and have somebody sent to Tascosa, which is but a few miles farther on, for a doctor? I would prefer not to leave the
patron
for the time being.”
“
Si, Capitan
, I can ride,” the boy replied. “Soon I will return, with others.”
He set out at once. Slade felt sure he would make it without difficulty. Young and vigorous, he was quickly recovering, even after being shot, suffering severe shock, and nearly drowning.
Slade did another chore of patching up. After ministering to the best of his ability to the sufferer, a middle-aged man with a kindly face, he gently lifted him and placed him on a nearby couch. After which he repaired to the kitchen, where he found a pot of coffee, still warm, on the stove. Filling a cup with the steaming liquid, he rolled a cigarette and sat down to relax a little.
He wondered if the dead outlaw had really been a member of the band he was trying to run down, or just a lone wolf thief who saw an opportunity for illicit gain. He rather fancied the former, but knew he could be wrong. Well, when the villagers arrived from the nearby plaza, he might learn something.
All in all, it hadn’t been a bad morning’s work, he felt. He had at least rid the community of a nefarious character and recovered the stolen money. Nope, not too bad, and might well work further to his advantage.
After finishing the coffee and cigaratte, he gave his patient a once-over. His heartbeat appeared stronger, his breathing less labored. Slade believed he might regain consciousness even before the arrival of the doctor with a stimulant. He poured more coffee, rolled another smoke, and resumed his chair to await the arrival of the villagers.
He didn’t have too long to wait. Before the cigarette was finished, they came streaming down the valley, on horseback and muleback. Dismounting, they hurried into the cabin. A grizzled old fellow in the lead gave a glad cry:
“
El Halcon!
Ever where there is need, there is
El Halcon!
Praise be to
El Dios!
”
Others recognized him and came forward to bow and press his hand. Slade had a kindly word for all.
Quickly he gathered from their excited chatter that the injured flock owner was a wealthy man as valley riches went, the owner of a large number of sheep. Slade had already noted quite a few woolies grazing on the pastures to the north of the cabin.
“I think he’ll make out,” Slade answered eager questions. “He got a bad lick, but fortunately it missed a vital mark by an inch or two.”
“And were it not for
El Halcon
and his care, there would be two dead who deserved not death, instead of one who deserved it richly,” said the old spokesman for the group. “Is there aught we can do,
Capitan?
”
“Yes,” Slade replied. “Some of you can ride down to where the body of the
ladrone
is lying, just a short distance, and fetch it here. I expect I’ll pack it to Amarillo and turn it over to Sheriff Carter.”
“Assuredly,
Capitan
” said the old man, who was the head man of his plaza. He at once dispatched several on the errand.
In a short time they returned with the body. All gathered around to view it.
“Anybody recall seeing him?” Slade asked. There was a general shaking of heads. Slade asked another question, casually:
“Wonder if those folks who are farming down the river a piece might remember seeing him?”
“It is possible,” the old headman admitted. “But sure I am he was not present when I talked with them a short time ago.”
Others who had paid visits to the newly arrived “farmers” were of a like opinion. It began to really look like the fellow had been a lone wolf, working on his own, although not necessarily so. Slade reserved judgment for the time being.
Before the doctor arrived, the injured flock owner did recover consciousness. Slade plied him with hot coffee and cigarettes and shortly he was able to sit up and talk intelligently.
However, he could add nothing to what the young fellow, his herder, had told Slade. He had been shot down the instant he turned to face the intruder. He was profuse in his gratitude to Slade.
A couple of hours passed and a voice outside called:
“Here comes Doctor Hastings.”
The stocky old frontier practitioner entered. Slade remembered him well from the course of other visits to Tascosa.
“See you have everything under control, per usual,” he remarked as they shook hands. “Why’d you bother me?”
“I figured Fernando,” Slade replied smilingly, gesturing toward the wounded sheepman, “should have an expert look him over.”
“Huh!” grunted Hastings. “You’re more of an expert than many a hellion who’s qualified. Let’s have a look.”
He removed the bandage, examined the wound and its area, nodded his head.
“He’ll be okay,” he said. “You did all that was really necessary, Walt. I’ll give him a sedative and he’ll make out.”
Which he proceded to do, and replaced the bandage with a fresh one.
To the Mexican boy he gave but a cursory examination beyond changing the pad and bandage.
“Have a stiff arm for a few days, that’s all,” he said. “Tough as a pine knot. Have to kill him with a club to get the Resurrection Day started. How you been, Walt? Suppose you’ll be heading back to Amarillo? Give Brian Carter regards for me.”
Slade promised to do so and the doctor departed for Tascosa, after a cup of coffee and a sandwich.
Most of the villagers rode with him, but a couple decided to spend the night, including the old headman of the village, just in case they would be needed. One got busy in the kitchen preparing a meal for all hands.
El Halcon
was fairly sure the ruckus with the outlaw had occurred within the confines of Potter County, and anyhow he preferred to put the body on exhibition in Amarillo rather than Tascosa. So after eating, he asked a question of the headman:
“Isn’t there a way out of the valley near here?”
“
Capitan
, there is, less than a mile farther on,” the oldster replied. “I will guide you there do you desire to leave the valley.”
“That’ll be fine,” the Ranger accepted. “I’ll load up the gent sleeping outside and we’ll amble.”
He secured the outlaw’s grazing horse, flipped the bit back into place and fastened the body across the saddle with his tie rope. Getting the rig on Shadow and saying goodbye to Fernando, the sheepman, and the others, he rode off with the headman, followed by the blessings of all who watched him depart.
The way up the slope proved easy to negotiate. After shaking hands with the old headman, Slade tackled it and reached the lip of the valley without mishap. Once away from the brush-fringed edge, he rode with a carefree mind, for on the open prairie he had no cause for fear. Not long after dark, he reached Amarillo.
“So! Just going for a nice quiet little ride, eh?” Sheriff Carter snorted when Slade arrived with the result, of his “quiet” ride. “You couldn’t ride around the block without getting mixed up in some sort of a ruckus. All right, let’s have it.”
Slade told him, in detail, for he wanted the sheriff’s opinion of the matter.
“And you figure the sidewinder was one of the bunch?” Carter said, when the Ranger paused.
“My opinion leans that way, but I wish I knew for sure,” Slade replied.
“Oh, the chances are he was,” declared Carter. “What he pulled sounds just like one of their capers. Anything else?”
In answer, Slade reviewed old Estaban’s account of what his watching
amigo
had seen, and of the doing of the “farmers” living in the old plaza. The sheriff said some things best forgotten.
“And you feel sure they
are
part of the bunch?” he concluded.
“Of that I am convinced,” Slade answered. “I’m puzzling over to what use to put the knowledge.”
“How about setting a watch on the devils and trailing ’em?” Carter suggested.
“It would be very difficult to do,” Slade said. “We can hardly set a watch twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Besides, there is no adequate cover near the plaza and they would very likely slip out undetected. If we can just get an inkling of what they are planning to pull, knowing they are using the plaza as a hole-up and, incidentally, as a devilish clever cover-up, might prove to be an advantage; I’ll have to think on that a bit. And there’s just a chance that somebody giving the body a once-over might be able to tell us something of value, although that is rather too much to hope for, I’m afraid.
“There are quite a few folks outside who followed me here. I told them to wait until you called them in; guess you might as well.”
Carter opened the door and soon the office was crowded with the curious.
However, the results of the mass examination were largely negative. Several persons vaguely remembered seeing the dead man in some bar or other. The Washout was mentioned, and the Open Door, but when pressed for details, nobody could provide anything definite.
“Perhaps when the bartenders drop in, they’ll be able to recall something,” Carter predicted hopefully. “Bar-keeps see thing other folks miss.”
“Perhaps,” Slade agreed, but without enthusiasm. “Well, I’ll care for the horses and then a bite to eat won’t go bad. Meet you at the Trail End after I change clothes; these look a trifle the worse for wear.”
“Okay,” Carter replied. “I’ll get rid of these work dodgers pronto.”
This he proceeded to do, after acquainting the crowd with how the body was acquired — of course not mentioning old Estaban’s story.
Slade gave Shadow a good rubdown, saw to it that the outlaw’s mount, an excellent critter, was properly cared for, and then repaired to his hotel room and changed to a clean shirt and overalls and dry boots. After batting his hat against the wall a couple of times, he decided it would do, congratulating himself on the fact that the “bonnet-strings” — chin strap — had behaved properly and kept it from being washed away in the course of his dip in the Canadian River.
When he reached the Trail End, he found Sheriff Carter already at table. Hands were waved in greeting, but the sheriff had spoken his piece, definitely, to the crowd, and only a few of Amarillo’s more prominent citizens came over to congratulate him on his latest exploit.
“Figured you wouldn’t want to be bothered while you were eating, so I told the hellions to lay off,” Carter explained.
“Glad you did,” Slade replied. “I can stand a little peace and quiet for a while.”
“So I thought,” the sheriff said. “By the way, Thankful Yates dropped in for a look at the carcasses of those two wide-loopers, right after you left for your
quiet
ride. He said they were in his place, all right, several times, but always behaved, and he didn’t pay ’em much mind. Oh, yes, Erskin Frayne showed up too, and gave ’em a once-over. He couldn’t remember seeing ’em at the Open Door. Reckon those jiggers who thought they saw ’em there just thought.”
“Possibly,” was Slade’s noncommittal response, the furrow between his brows deepening a trifle.
“Say! I figured it would happen,” Carter exclaimed as they were eating. “Knew he couldn’t stay away after hearing about Hart’s widelooped cows and the way you figured to get ’em back. Jerry’s with him, too, of course.” He waved his hand and beckoned. Jerry and old Keith Norman made their way to the table and occupied the chairs an alert waiter at once placed for them.
“She wouldn’t give me a minute’s peace,” Norman explained. “Threatened to ride in by herself, and I didn’t want her gallivanting over the range alone and in the dark.”
“Don’t you believe it,” Jerry said. “He was just as anxious to come in and hear about everything as I was. Fussed at me for taking so long to make ready.”
“Always has to be packin’ along a passel of women’s fixin’s,” grumbled Norman. “Says she don’t wanta always be looking like a hoyden, even though she is one at heart.”
“Don’t you think I’m right, Walt?” Jerry asked.
“Oh, he’ll agree with you,” her uncle broke in. “Knows better’n to arg’fy with a woman. Don’t get you anything, does it, Walt?”
“Well, that depends,” was the qualifying answer.
Jerry slanted her big eyes toward him and smiled cryptically.
“Never mind,” she said, “I want to eat; I’m starved, per usual. Heaven help my poor figure!”
“I would say it doesn’t need any help,” Slade said, with an appreciative glance.
“And I reckon you are in a position to pass judgment,” remarked the sheriff.
Jerry wrinkled her nose at him and repeated, “I want to eat. Somebody call a waiter.”
The sheriff obliged and the want was speedily taken care of.
After Jerry and old Norman finished their meal, a cowboy of her acquaintance asked her to dance. Old Keith wandered over to the bar for a jabber with some oldsters there, and Slade and the sheriff had an opportunity for a little private conversation.
“And you figure that horned toad in the office was one of the supposed to be farmer bunch?” Carter asked.
“So I would assume, although it appears he was not seen in their company,” Slade replied. “Perhaps he didn’t spend much time there. Was probably in the nature of a field man for the big fellow. Anyway, somehow he learned about the sale of the sheep and that the owner had the money in his possession and decided or was told to make a play for it. Doubtless the latter. When he shot the owner he just creased him, although it is very likely he would have finished him off had he not been interrupted. I gathered that the boy, who worked at night, had been sleeping in a room off the kitchen and presumably the fellow wasn’t aware of his presence and his unexpected appearance in the kitchen threw him off balance a mite. Anyhow, the boy managed to make it to the river with nothing worse than a hole through his arm. The owlhoot grabbed his horse and lit out after him, not wishing to leave any witnesses because, for some reason or other, he was not masked. That’s the way I figure it.”
“And I’d say you’ve figured it just about right,” agreed Carter. “Darn lucky for both of ’em you happened along when you did.”
“Quite likely,” Slade had to admit. “It was doubtful if the boy’d have been able to make it to shore; his strength was just about gone when I sighted him, and he’d lost a good deal of blood. Oh, well, things happen that way sometimes.”
“Especially with
El Halcon
around to sorta help ’em happen,” commented Carter. “Well, if the hellion was one of the bunch we’re trying to drop a loop on, looks like we can chalk up another for our side.”
At that moment, Keith Norman came back from the bar and the conversation was discontinued.
“Hello!” Norman suddenly exclaimed. “Here comes Josh Griswold of the G Square. Say, that jigger sure has changed of late. Dropped in at my place yesterday for a visit. Talked real nice and sociable, a lot different from what he used to be. Can’t understand what got into him.”
Sheriff Carter, who did understand, smothered a chuckle under his mustache, but refrained from comment. He waved to Griswold to join them, invited him to take a load off his feet and have a snort. The G-Square owner accepted both invitations and nodded cordially to Norman and Slade. Jerry finished her dance and also rejoined them. The sheriff glanced at the clock.
“Guess we’d better amble back to the office and open up for a spell, so folks can get a look at that carcass,” he suggested.
Griswold pricked up his ears. “Mean to say you’ve got another one?” he asked.
“That’s right,” said Carter. “Like to take a look at him?”
Griswold conceded he would. Norman also desired a look-see. Jerry decided to stay right where she was.
“Now don’t go gallivanting off somewhere,” she urged Slade, who promised not to. Griswold downed his drink and they set out.