But now the plucky guard, a former card dealer, was in action. His right hand darted forward, a stubby little double-barreled derringer spatted into his palm and boomed like thunder. One of the outlaws went down, the other glanced toward the report and the second barrel of the derringer tore half his face off.
Slade heard a sound outside the car and went sideways in a convulsive leap as a gun blazed from the darkness. His Colts let go twice. Thumbs hooked over the hammers, he held his fire an instant, heard a clatter of hoofs on the nearby street, fading into the distance, and began replacing the spent shells with fresh cartridges.
“The blankety-blank got away!” the guard bawled indignantly.
“Yes, and I’ve a notion he was the he-wolf of the pack,” Slade replied. “Well, anyhow we did a pretty good chore of mopping up,” he added, glancing at the still forms sprawled on the floor.
“I was hoping and praying I’d get a chance to use my sleeve gun,” said the guard. “They cleaned my holster, of course, but I guess they never thought of my derringer. Anyway, they overlooked it.”
“And you sure got a chance to use it at just the right time,” Slade replied. “The odds were a mite lopsided. Now suppose you hustle across town and locate the sheriff. Chances are he’ll be at the Trail End, awaiting me. If he isn’t, look in his office.”
“Okay,” said the guard and hurried out. Slade turned to the elderly paymaster, who still sat rigid in his chair, white to the lips. Evidently he was not used to such bloody doings. Slade’s quiet, musical voice seemed to relax him.
“Now suppose you tell me just what happened,” he suggested. “How did those horned toads get the drop on you?”
“I was working on the payroll,” the other replied. “The guard was sitting beside me. All of a sudden we heard what seemed to be somebody tapping on the window over there. Naturally we both looked in that direction. Those four devils crashed in the door and, as you cowboys say, caught us settin’; we couldn’t do a thing.”
“Fortunate that you didn’t try to,” Slade said. He glanced at the safe and the bulging sack on the floor.
“Would have made a pretty nice haul, eh?” he remarked.
“Yes, they sure would have,” replied the paymaster. “Not only are we paying off here tomorrow but there’s money, too, for Tucumcari. You saved my company a lot, sir; they’ll have something to say to you. Yes, there’ll be a nice reward coming your way.”
“The chance to be of service was reward enough,” Slade answered.
“And I’ve a strong notion, sir, that you saved Potter, the guard, and myself from being murdered,” the paymaster added, with a shudder. “Those devils struck me as the sort not to leave witnesses.”
“You could be right,” Slade conceded. In fact, he thought it quite likely, especially if Shaw had used some of his cowhands for the chore; he’d find out about that later.
“Listen!” the paymaster suddenly exclaimed.
“Somebody’s coming.” He glanced nervously at the door.
“The boys from the other end of the yard, the chances are,” Slade said as he sat down and began manufacturing a cigarette. “They must have heard the shooting and are coming to investigate.”
Shouts were sounding outside, and the pad of hurrying feet. Another moment and the car was filled with excited trainmen volleying questions.
The paymaster answered, stressing the part Slade had played. Somebody suddenly shouted—
“Why, it’s Mr. Slade, Sheriff Carter’s new deputy! Been hearing plenty about him. You sure did a good chore here, Mr. Slade. If the hellions had got away with what’s in the safe, we’d have all died of thirst tomorrow.”
A general laugh followed the sally. Appreciative glances were cast at Slade.
“Don’t forget the part the guard played,” Slade reminded them. “He sure got into action at just the right time.”
“Uh-huh, John Potter is okay, and a salty hombre,” observed a conductor.
“Don’t touch the bodies,” Slade warned. “I want the sheriff to see them as they are. He should be along shortly. By the way, take a good look, though, and see if you’ve ever seen them before.”
The trainmen peered at the dead faces and one and all shook their heads.
“Nope, never clapped eyes on the sidewinders before,” said the conductor. “Ornery looking hellions. Well, they got just what was coming to them. Here’s the sheriff.”
Potter, the guard, and the old peace officer strode in, two deputies trailing after them. Carter bent over
and scanned the bodies, glanced at Slade and shook his head.
“All right, boys,” the conductor said to his companions, “back on the job. Work to do if we hope to take it easy tomorrow night. Much obliged again, Mr. Slade, you’re a real hombre.”
They strode out, waving their
adios.
The sheriff began turning out the outlaws’ pockets, revealing nothing of importance save plenty of money, which he confiscated for the county treasury. Slade examined the seams.
“More alkali dust,” he announced. “They’ve all been out on the desert; part of the widelooping bunch, all right.”
“They’d have done better by themselves to have stayed there,” grunted Carter. His gaze fixed on Slade, who was sopping up the blood that trickled down onto his hand from his bullet-creased arm.
“And you for a visit to Doc Beard,” he said as he inspected the outlaws’ guns.
“Reg’lation artillery,” he reported. “Wonder how about their horses? Should be around somewhere close.”
“I think they followed the hellion who got away,” Slade replied. “Not sure, though.”
“Take a look, Hartley,” the sheriff ordered his saturnine chief deputy. “We’ll have these carcasses moved out of your way, pronto,” he told the paymaster. “I’m going to leave one of my deputies with you, just in case. Right, Walt?”
“I doubt if there will be an encore, but best not to take chances,” the Ranger concurred. “It’s an unpredictable bunch, and we don’t know how many more might be waiting around somewhere.”
“And I’m taking up my post outside, where I can
see in all directions,” declared Potter. “I craves peace and quiet for the rest of the night.”
The chief deputy returned to report no trace of the horses, which did not surprise Slade.
“Take a look at the rumholes while you’re here,” Carter told him. “Cal, you stay in the car.”
As they headed for Doc Beard’s office, Slade remarked, “Thought it just possible you might recognize the devils as some of Shaw’s cowhands.”
“I didn’t,” Carter replied. “Ain’t over surprising, though, seems they never come to Amarillo, except a couple that sometimes accompanies him when he visits town, always the same two. I’ve gathered the rest of them do their drinking at Tascosa, can’t even say for sure about that. Seems nobody knows anything much about them, not even Keith Norman, their neighbor to the east. Oh, he’s a shrewd one, no doubt about that. Say, how in blazes did you catch on to what was in the wind tonight?”
“I didn’t,” Slade admitted. “I just played a hunch. You know we’ve been beating our brains out trying to figure what Shaw might pull next. All of a sudden it came to me that the paycar would make a nice haul. And Thankful Yates had mentioned four questionable looking characters visiting his place and appearing to be watching for somebody. So, as I said, I played a hunch.”
“And, as usual, the hunch, as you call it, was just another case of going over all the angles and adding ’em up correctly. Well, here’s Doc’s office and there’s a light burning; the old coot never seems to sleep. Come on, I want him to look you over.”
Personally, Slade paid the light wound no mind, but went along with Carter, to relieve his anxiety.
Doc Beard thought little of it, too. He cleansed the
slight cut and applied a couple of strips of plaster, to the accompaniment of a running fire of caustic remarks.
“Out!” he concluded. “I crave shuteye. Yes, I’ll hold an inquest tomorrow, two o’clock; just a waste of time. Out!”
“And now what’s next?” asked the sheriff, when they were on the street.
“I figure the Trail End and a cup of coffee won’t go bad,” Slade decided.
“And I can stand a snort or two before going to bed,” said Carter. “Things were quieting down when I left. Guess the boys have got rid of most of their spare change and are feeling a mite tuckered. They’ll be there with bells on tomorrow night, though. Heard forty or fifty more will roll in before morning. The Division Superintendent was in and told me he doesn’t figure on anything much tomorrow except getting the camp cars in shape, and they’ll be rarin’ to go.”
The Trail End crowd had pretty well dispersed, the dance-floor girls and the orchestra were gone, and Swivel-eye was getting ready to politely request the diehards to get the blankety-blank hell outa there. Slade had his coffee, the sheriff his drinks and both headed for bed, the Ranger quite pleased with the day’s work. With the able assistance of John Potter, the paycar guard, he had managed to eliminate four more of the outlaw band and felt that Shaw might be running out of hired hands.
Of course a leader of his proven ability could enlist replacements, but not likely of the same calibre as the members of his original outfit whom Slade believed to have been chosen for ruthlessness and intelligence. Well, things weren’t going so bad, although his main
objective would not be achieved until he eliminated, one way or another, the shadowy head of the bunch.
Yes, Tobar Shaw was a shadow. As elusive a hellion as El Halcon had ever locked horns with. Oh, well, he had gone up against somewhat similar rapscallions, to their disadvantage. He went to bed and slept soundly.
The inquest was much the same as the former one. Slade and John Potter were warmly praised for doing an excellent chore. The four vinegaroons got exactly what was coming to them. Plant ’em and forget ’em!
Thankful Yates, who had attended the inquest, drew Slade aside. “They were the four hellions I told you about,” said the Washout owner. “The ones I said I didn’t like the looks of.”
“So I judged,” Slade replied. “And you say they didn’t talk to anybody while in the Washout?”
“That’s right,” answered Thankful. “Though, as I said, they ’peared to be sorta on the lookout for somebody. Maybe you?”
“Could have been, though I rather doubt it,” Slade conceded. “Well, your estimate of them was confirmed.”
“In the likker business you sorta get so you can pick ’em,” said Thankful. “Be seeing you. Hope you bring Miss Jerry Norman in soon; I like her.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised if I do,” Slade said. “In fact, I’ve got a feeling she might show up in town today. Young Joyce Echols was in the Trail End for a little while last night, Sheriff Carter said, and he’d tell about the bust due for tonight. That is quite likely to bring in old Keith and Jerry; they sort of take to payday busts.”
“Be seeing you,” Thankful repeated and headed back to his place.
Once again Slade spent some hours sauntering about town in the hope of learning something significant, and did not.
Meanwhile in the railroad yards, gold was flowing from the paycar in a Pactolian stream, be it permitted to compare that prosaic conveyance to the fabled river whose sands were reputed to consist of the precious metal. Anyhow, plenty of
dinero
was being handed out and the saloons and other entertainment spots were preparing to reap the harvest.
And very likely, Slade feared, there would be trouble before the night was over. Such establishments as the Trail End and the Washout were run strictly on the up-and-up and managed to keep order or something resembling it. But there were other places of dubious reputation, to put it mildly, where anything could happen and usually did.
Which gave the Ranger food for thought. Such conditions might well provide opportunity for gentlemen of the Tobar Shaw brand.
Sheriff Carter was of a like opinion, and worried. “I’ve got five specials swore in, but there’s a lot of territory to cover,” he said. Slade nodded in sober agreement.
The day jogged along in green and gold and sunwashed air. Already the streets and the drinking places were crowded. Cowhands who had heard about the bust were riding in to take part in the celebration. The business people were also in a holiday mood, knowing that the payday bust for the railroaders was just a forerunner to the added prosperity the big job of expanding the yards would bring. Amarillo was all set to stand up on her hind legs and howl.
At present it was a jovial howl of excitement, pleasure and good fellowship. Later, after the dark
closed down it would very likely take on a sinister note, a lethal whine rising to a screech, raucous and deadly. Such was usually the case in any frontier town when quick-tempered young men fared forth with weapons at their belts.
And far to the west, four men rode purposefully as they headed for the Cowboy Capital on a mission of vengeance.
The object of said mission, had he been aware of what they had in mind, would not have been particularly perturbed, being confident of his ability to cope with any such attempt. Slade enjoyed a leisurely dinner in the crowded Trail End and conferred with Sheriff Carter. His prediction to Thankful Yates proved correct and while they were talking, old Keith Norman rolled in with Jerry in tow.
“Heard about the doin’s here tonight and she pestered me into bringing her in,” he said to Slade. “I told her you’d be too busy to be cluttered up with females, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“I expect I’ll be able to spare her a minute or two,” El Halcon smiled as he pulled out a chair. “Peaceful enough here, so far, save for a lot of noise.”
“Lot of noise is right,” grunted Norman as he sat down. “Those railroad fellers have voices like locomotive whistles and they sure believe in using ’em. Waiter!”
After finishing their drinks, Norman and the sheriff moved to the bar for a word with acquaintances, leaving Slade and Jerry alone at the table.
“Now tell me what all has happened since I saw you last,” the girl said. “Don’t hold back anything, dear, for you know sometimes I can help you.”
He told her everything, including his conviction that Tobar Shaw was the head of the outlaw bunch. Jerry did not appear particularly surprised.
“Somehow I never liked him,” she said. “Courteous and well spoken as he is. Why I don’t know—call it a woman’s intuition, if you will, I just don’t. Whereas Mr. Ditmar, who is what I suppose you would call a rough-and-ready sort, I do like. He strikes me as being honest and sincere. I know Sheriff Carter has always been a bit suspicious of him, but I didn’t go along with that.”
“He is honest and sincere,” Slade interpolated. “Sort of has a chip on his shoulder and is inclined to get rough if provoked, but completely trustworthy.”
“So I figured him,” Jerry said. “When he was at our place we got him to talking about himself a little. Told us how his parents died when he was very young and how he was reared by a shiftless old uncle who also died, when he was fourteen. How he worked at odd jobs to support himself, became a cowhand, and saved his money. Frankly admitted that he won a good deal of it at cards. Anyhow accumulated enough to buy his spread. Appears to be ambitious and wants to get ahead.”
“He will,” Slade predicted. “His sort usually does. If some good woman can just get hold of him I feel pretty sure he’ll make a go at it.”
“Don’t be hinting,” Jerry giggled. “I’m not interested that way, as you very well know. Though I suppose if one can’t have the moon, one should be satisfied with sixpence, as the saying goes. Oh, well, even though you can’t hold the moon, it’s nice to have it shine on you now and then. Disappears for a while, but always comes back.
“And now I have something to tell you, dear,” she added seriously. “Late this afternoon, Shaw and three men rode this way. We saw them as we rode down
the trail from the casa. I’m sure they were headed for Amarillo, although we did not see them again. I thought you’d like to know.”
“You’re right,” he replied. “And it may be of help. At least I can pretty well count on the hellion being in town tonight. Thanks for telling me.”
“But those terrible men being in town may mean danger for you,” she worried.
“Forewarned is forearmed,” he returned lightly. “I don’t think there’s anything to bother about.”
Suddenly a thought struck him. “By the way, do you think Shaw saw you and Uncle Keith headed for town?” he asked.
“He could hardly have missed seeing us riding from the ranchhouse to the trail,” she replied. “However, they speeded up right after they passed us and we didn’t overtake them. Why?”
“Just wondering,” he evaded. She regarded him doubtfully but did not question him further.
“Going to take me to the Washout tonight?” she asked.
He hesitated, that disturbing thought working in his mind. Oh, the devil! She’d be as safe one place as another and they had plenty of friends in the Washout.
“Okay, if you wish me to,” he agreed. “A little later. Hadn’t you better have something to eat?”
“I could stand a bite,” she admitted. “Have coffee with me.”
Slade summoned a waiter and gave the order. He smoked and sipped his coffee while she ate.
Norman and the sheriff approached. “We’re going over to Tumulty’s place for a little while,” the latter announced. “You going to stick around here?”
“We’re going down to the Washout a little later,” Slade replied. Carter shot him a sharp look and his brows drew together.
“All right,” he said. “Chances are I’ll see you there.”
Now the Trail End was really beginning to hop. The bar was crowded and so was the dance floor. Every table was occupied. The roulette wheels spun merrily. The musicians fiddled madly. There were bursts of song, or what was apparently intended for it, and a constant bumble of loud-voiced conversation.
Jerry’s eyes were sparkling, her cheeks flushed. “I like it,” she said, “and I’ll bet the Washout is even livelier.” Slade thought that very likely it was, and he experienced a slight qualm of uneasiness over his ready acquiescence to her request to take her to the lake-front place. Thankful Yates usually kept pretty good order, but the Washout was frequented by a rougher crowd than was generally to be found at the Trail End. Trouble could cut loose there. Oh, well, they’d make out.
Jerry finished her dinner and glanced suggestively at her table companion.
“Shall we go?” she said. “I expect Joyce Echols and some more of the boys will be there; they like the Washout, too.”
Slade was more than usually watchful as they threaded their way through the crowd on the streets, for it was fairly obvious that Tobar Shaw and his three henchmen were somewhere in town. And that disturbing thought still persisted, based on the fact that Shaw very probably knew Jerry liked the Washout and would doubtless inveigle him into taking her there. But as he said, forewarned was forearmed; he would be very much on the alert in the Washout,
although it seemed a bit ridiculous to think the unsavory bunch would attempt anything there.
“Tonight, you do exactly as I tell you, and when I tell you,” he told the girl as they neared the lake-front place.
“Don’t I always, dear?” she replied.
“Yes, guess you do,” he admitted. “But things are rather rowdy tonight, don’t forget that.”
“I have nothing to fear when I’m with you,” she replied.
“I appreciate your confidence in me,” he smiled. “Hope it won’t be misplaced.”
“It won’t be,” she said confidently.
The Washout was lively, all right, whooping it up to a fare-you-well. Thankful Yates noticed their entrance at once and came hurrying to greet them, the inevitable bottles under his arm.
“Felt sure you’d be along,” he said. “Saved that little table over there not far from the door, where there’s fresh air coming in—sorta foggy in here. Joyce Echols and a couple more of the boys are down at the other end of the bar. How are you, Miss Norman? Nice to see you again.”
“And nice to see you, Mr. Yates,” Jerry returned, extending her hand, over which Thankful bowed gallantly. He summoned a waiter to bring glasses.
“Your favorite wine, and my private bottle for Mr. Slade,” he said as he filled the glasses to the brim.
As they sipped their drinks, Slade studied the crowd. There were a great many railroad workers, a fair sprinkling of cowhands, citizens from uptown, and quite a few others he recognized as lake-front habitués—about whom the less said the better—quite likely on the watch for the unwary with a snort too many under their belts. Robbing drunks and
pilfering wallets were some of the nice little practices they indulged in.
Gradually his attention focused on three men standing at the end of the bar nearest the door, who appeared to be absorbed in their drinks. They wore the garb of railroad workers—overalls, jumpers, and cloth caps. They did not seem to be mingling with the others. He was about to pass them over as of no consequence when his keen eyes noticed something that instantly put him on the alert.
Showing under the sagging cuffs of the overalls were not the laced, hobnailed shoes favored by the railroad workers but
rangeland riding boots!
After that, while chatting with Jerry, his eyes never left the trio.
Young Joyce Echols came ambling over from the bar. “Come on, Jerry, give me a dance,” he requested. “Walt won’t mind, will you, Walt?”
“Certainly not,” Slade replied. “Take her off my hands for a spell—my ears are buzzing from her chatter.”
“I’ll remember that, Mr. Slade, at just the right time,” she promised and headed for the dance floor, Joyce’s arm about her trim waist. Although not seeming to do so, Slade’s gaze concentrated on the three men at the end of the bar. His hands rested on the table top, his thumbs hooked under the edge.
Suddenly they whirled to face him, hands streaking under their jumpers.
Over went the table, Slade behind it. Slugs hammered at the top but failed to penetrate the thick oaken boards. A bullet fanned his face. Another clipped a lock of hair from the side of his head. He drew and shot over the edge of the table, left and right, left and right.
One of the killers crumpled up like a sack of old clothes. A second reeled slightly. Then he and his companion dashed for the door. Slade threw up his guns but was forced to hold his fire. For now there were men between him and the target, frightened men who had jumped up from their tables and were diving in every direction to get out of line with the flying lead. He leaped to his feet, charged toward the door, and was engulfed in the swirling crowd.
Thankful Yates came roaring forward, sawed-off shotgun in hand, and was also swallowed up. Slade untangled himself, righted the table, sat down and began rolling a cigarette with fingers that spilled not a crumb of tobacco.
Jerry was beside him. “Oh, darling, are you all right?” she gasped.
“Never felt better,” he returned, touching a match to the brain tablet. “What did you do with Joyce?”
“She left me like a streak of goose grease in a hurry,” panted that worthy as he ranged himself alongside Slade, gun in hand. “What in blazes happened?”
“Some gents just got a mite careless,” Slade replied, puffing on his cigarette. Echols mouthed and stared. Slade rose, courteously pulled out a chair for Jerry and eased her, trembling, into it.
Thankful Yates finally won free and joined them, apparently oblivious to the uproar that was shaking the rafters and causing the hanging lamps to jump.
“Mr. Slade, how in blazes did you catch on so fast?” he demanded.
“Well,” the Ranger replied dryly, “I did not recall ever before seeing railroad-track workers wearing spurred riding boots. Their disguise was pretty good except for that one little detail they overlooked. I’m
afraid it brought one of them bad luck,” he added, jerking his head to the figure sprawled on the floor.
“Well, I’ll be—d-d-hanged!” sputtered Thankful and belatedly bellowed for order. The barkeepers and floor men were already uttering soothing yells, with little effect.
“Guess you’d better try and get word to the sheriff,” Slade suggested. “He’ll want to look things over.”
Thankful bawled an order to a swamper. “And drag that carcass out of the way before somebody falls over it and gets hurt,” he added. Jerry, who had recovered from her fright, giggled.
“I think Mr. Yates is wonderful,” she said. “He has such a delicious sense of humor.”
Slade thought that “macabre” was a more appropriate descriptive adjective but refrained from saying so.