“
Vaya usted con Dios
—Go you with God—” Estaban said devoutly.
“Gracias,”
Slade replied. “And that helps, too.”
The two hours passed quickly, with the moon climbing higher and higher in the sky. Slade got the rig on Shadow who, filled to the ears with oats, was all set to go. With a
“buenas noches”
to Estaban, El Halcon rode back down the Valley to where the ascent of the south slope was possible.
He rode slowly, for he was confident that nothing would occur until around midnight or even later. Once where the moonlight beat strongly on a stand of cliffs that for a short distance replaced the slopes, he pulled to a halt and sat studying the jagged wall.
“Shadow,” he said, “unless I’m greatly mistaken, and I don’t think I am, the petrologic outcroppings indicate that the lower slope of this area is not from north to south as generally supposed, but from south to north. From which I’m beginning to develop a theory, a theory I believe will be substantiated by future mineral discoveries in this section. You’ll remember I once arrived at a similar conclusion in another part of the country, and that was proven correct by future discoveries. I wonder if somebody else has arrived at a like conclusion here? Interesting.”
He rode on, deep in thought, and finally reached the point where an ascent by horses, and cattle, was possible. Turning south, he sent the black up the slope to the crest, where he reined in again and studied the possibilities of the terrain.
Along the lip of the Valley was one of the few
spots where there was some growth encroaching on the plains. Here there was more than average. About three score yards distance from the point of the ascent, a stand of thick and tall chaparral reached out onto the prairie for quite some distance, a hundred feet or more. Slade regarded it with approval.
“ ’Pears made to order for us,” he told Shadow. “Yep, there’s where we’ll make our stand.”
First of all he moved the horse well away from the lip, where it should be safe from flying lead. At the edge of the growth he flipped out the bit and loosened the cinches a little, so the cayuse would be comfortable.
“Stay there in the dark,” he ordered. Shadow blew through his nose and did not commit himself. However, Slade knew he would stay put. Walking back until he was close to the edge of the slope, he eased into the chaparral, leaned against a convenient trunk and rolled and lighted a cigarette without fear of the tiny flare of the match being detected. There was nobody around and he would hear the approaching cattle, did any approach, long before they reached the crest of the ascent.
The hours passed slowly. The great clock in the sky crossed the zenith and wheeled westward, and nothing happened. After another tedious wait, El Halcon began wondering if he was following a cold trail, if his hunch wasn’t a straight one, after all. Seemed that if the wideloopers were really active, they should have put in an appearance before now, it being imperative that they have the herd shoved well out onto the desert before daybreak were they to avoid detection.
Then abruptly he heard a sound, thin with distance but without doubt the querulous bleat of an
irritated steer. His pulses leaped exultantly; he had guessed right, a stolen bunch was being run across the Valley. He picked up his high-powered Winchester, a “special” procured for him by General Manager Jaggers Dunn, which he had leaned against the tree trunk, and made sure the mechanism was in perfect order. Then, tense and eager, he waited.
Some minutes passed, and again the bleat came, much closer. Another ten minutes and he knew the cows were mounting the slope.
The foremost bulged into view, blowing and snorting, and were followed by more and more. It was a good-sized herd, more than a hundred head, a heavy loss for some owner and a very lucrative haul for the rustlers. Slade moved a little farther to the front, peering through a final straggle of twigs and branches. He raised the rifle.
The sensible thing would have been to open fire as soon as the wideloopers came into view, but he was a Texas Ranger and must give the murderous devils the chance they didn’t deserve, even at the risk of his own life.
The last cow scrambled over the lip. Behind it streamed six horsemen. They bunched together for a moment to give the cattle a chance to catch their breath before lining them up in marching order. Slade’s voice rang out—
“Elevate! You’re covered!”
There was a chorus of startled exclamations, the whitish blur of faces turned toward the sound, then a clutching of weapons. Shots rang out, but Slade had instantly shifted position after speaking and none of the slugs came very close. His eyes, the cold gray of a stormy sky, glanced along the sights.
The Winchester bucked against his shoulder,
spouted flame. A man whirled from the saddle to lie motionless. Answering bullets stormed past, close, for he didn’t have time to complete his shift. One ripped his shirt sleeve and just grazed the skin of his arm. Another shredded his hatbrim. He shot again, and another saddle was emptied. A slug that barely touched his temple hurled him sideways with the shock, which may have been the best thing that could have happened, for the rustlers fired at the flash.
A third time the heavy rifle boomed. A third man reeled and lurched sideways, clutching the saddle horn for support.
A voice yelled an order. The rustlers, shouting curses, whirled their mounts and went charging down the slope to the valley floor, Slade speeding them on their way with lead until the magazine was empty. Swiftly he refilled it with fresh cartridges, listening intently the while against the chance that one might halt and come creeping back up the slope, hoping to catch him unawares. But his keen ears told him the four sets of hoofs kept pounding on after they thudded onto the gorge floor. Evidently the hellions had all of him they wanted.
With caution he approached the two forms on the ground but quickly saw there was nothing to fear from them. By the aid of a match he examined the dead faces. One he had never seen before, but the other, big and bulky, with a still somewhat swollen jaw, was the leader of the trio that tried to gun him down in the lake-front saloon. Well, retribution had been swift for him.
Turning out the wideloopers’ pockets revealed nothing of significance save a surprising large sum of money, which he replaced. He regretted that their
horses had followed the others down the slope; the brands might possibly have told him something. It was unlikely, however.
Next he turned his attention to the tired cows that had scattered and were grazing. What the devil to do with them? He did not care to sit up till daybreak with them and he did not consider it advisable to leave them where they were. Just a chance that the rustlers, after they had recovered somewhat from their fright, might sneak back for them. Not apt to happen, but such gentry sometimes did the unexpected. Abruptly he arrived at a solution.
It was but a few miles farther west to Keith Norman’s ranchhouse. Why not drive the herd there, where they would be safe? The brands showed they were John Fletcher’s Diamond F stock. Norman would send a man to notify Fletcher and the Diamond F owner could retrieve them. Give him a chance, also, to pay Norman the visit he had promised, a bit ahead of time. With a chuckle he flipped the bit back into Shadow’s mouth and tightened the cinches. Then he rolled and lighted a cigarette, giving the purloined cattle a chance to rest a bit longer and fill their bellies.
Getting the beefs moving in the right direction was no chore for a cowhand of El Halcon’s ability. Soon the disgusted critters were trudging west, voicing their protest against such outlandish treatment from time to time.
Dawn was pulsing scarlet and gold in the east when he sighted the ranchhouse. Everybody was still asleep, but hammering on the front door soon brought old Keith thumping barefoot down the stairs to open it with a profane inquiry as to who was disturbing his rest.
His irritation quickly changed to a welcome greeting when he recognized his untimely guest. Slade indicated his four-footed charges, who were continuing their interrupted meal, and explained how he came to have them in tow. Old Keith proceeded to do some really fancy swearing.
“And you did for two of the sidewinders, you say?” he concluded. “Good! Good! Shut the door and sit down; I’ll rustle some coffee and a snack. Pedro will be up any minute now and he’ll lend a hand. I’ll care for your horse. Sit down, here comes Jerry; guess she heard me call your name and had to take time to make herself beautiful before showing up.”
Glancing at her tripping down the stairs in a clinging silken robe, Slade felt if that was the reason for her delay, she had succeeded admirably, even though her curly hair was touseled enough to refute her uncle’s deduction.
“Why should I take time to comb it?” she replied to Slade’s jocular comment. “Haven’t you seen—say! What have you been into now? There’s a hole in your shirt sleeve, your hat is all beat up, and there’s dried blood on your forehead!”
The story was repeated, briefly, for her benefit. She shuddered, and said, “Always something nobody else would think of! I heard you knock and knew it could be nobody else showing up at this outlandish hour. Well, I’m glad you made it here so soon. I’ll give Uncle Keith a hand in the kitchen.”
“I’ll send somebody to tell Fletcher to come and get his stock,” Norman called. “Reckon he’ll be sorta surprised.”
“And have somebody notify the sheriff,” Slade replied. “He’ll want to pick up the bodies.”
“Sure for certain,” old Keith promised.
Without too much difficulty, Slade put away the coffee and the sumptuous snack, after which old Keith said, “And now to bed with you, pronto; you must be tuckered.”
“Do feel a mite weary,” Slade admitted. “Was quite a night.”
In the comfortable bed he had occupied before, he slept soundly until shortly after noon. When he descended to the living room, he found Jerry awaiting him.
“Your breakfast will be ready soon,” she said. “Don’t talk till you’ve had your coffee. All men are grouchy till they’ve had their morning coffee.”
“Yes?”
“Well, so I’ve been told,” she giggled, and whisked out to the kitchen.
It was late afternoon when John Fletcher arrived with a couple of hands to claim his stock. He thanked Slade profusely and expressed gratification at the downing of the two rustlers.
“All you have to do is stick around for a spell and everything will be taken care of,” he declared. “Sure we’ll spend the night, Keith; don’t feel up to night drive with those critters.”
Still later, Sheriff Carter showed up, accompanied by a deputy and a couple of mules bearing the bodies of the two wideloopers, which were placed in the barn for safe keeping till the next day.
“House going to be plumb filled up tonight,” Norman chuckled. “Fine! I like company, and we got plenty of room, and I expect I can rustle a bottle or two. I figure a little celebrating is in order.”
“If things are too crowded, I’ll sleep under a tree,” Slade told Jerry, who made a face at him.
“You and your hunches!” the sheriff snorted after
receiving the details of what happened. “Well, they always seem to pay off.”
“He calls them hunches, but they’re really just the result of a passel of careful thinking out,” commented Fletcher.
“I figure you’ve got something there, John,” Carter conceded.
When he got an opportunity to talk with him alone, Slade informed the sheriff of his discovery that one of the wideloopers was a member of the trio that attempted to take his life in the lake-front saloon.
“So that sidewinder got what was coming to him fast,” Carter exclaimed with satisfaction.
“Yes, and I consider it confirms my belief that the bunch, well or ganized, shrewd and capable, is working out of Amarillo, with somebody of good repute heading it,” Slade said.
“I’ve a notion you’re right,” the sheriff agreed.
But he was as puzzled as El Halcon over the riddle of how cattle were run across the “waterless” desert.
“It just don’t make sense,” he declared. “How
do
the hellions do it?”
“I don’t know,” Slade admitted frankly, “but I intend to find out. I’ve got a couple of theories I am going to put to work. Once down in the southwest part of the state I found water on a desert where there was not supposed to be any. It was on top of what everybody considered to be a big sand dune, which in reality was a rocky hillock sheathed by wind-drifted sand over the course of ages. On top of the hillock was a wide indenture or cup that was fed by springs deep down in the earth. But I’m ready to swear there is no such formation on this desert.
“However, there evidently is water somewhere between here and the New Mexico hills. Lots of
things in this great sparsely inhabited land that are supposed not to exist. I doubted it before, but now I’ll be willing to put credence in the claim of oldtimers that the Indians knew where to find water out there. And if they could find it, why can’t I?”
“If it’s there, you’ll find it,” Carter predicted confidently. “Let’s go in, Pedro’s yelpin’ to come and get it.”
Dinner in the big dining room was a gala affair. After pipes and cigarettes were smoked, old Keith announced—
“Gents, now we’re going to have some music. In front, everybody!”
Quickly the living room was crowded. Old Keith motioned to Jerry’s grand piano.
“Ladies and—lady, rather—and gents, the singingest man in the whole dadburned Southwest will favor us with a tune or two. Go to it, Slade!”
With a smile and a nod, Slade sat down on the stool. His slender fingers drew booming chords from the really fine instrument. Then he sang, sang in a voice deep and powerful as the flooded Canadian thundering in its sunken gorge, sweetly melodious as the winds whispering through the cedars on a dreamy summer night. Songs of the horse and the lonely rangeland, and the men who loved both. Songs of the turbulent towns with their flow and rush of life, filled with their laughter, their anger, blood and death.
And as the great metallic baritone-bass pealed its magic under the low ceiling, something of it all passed through the minds of the entranced listeners, and many a thought of lonely men turned elsewhere as he concluded with a hauntingly beautiful love song of his own composition; and Jerry Norman’s beautiful eyes were not the only ones that were misty.