Gunsmoke over Texas (10 page)

Ballard smiled thinly as he cheerfully dropped another bombshell.

“Don’t let that angle bother you,” he said. “El Halcon is a Texas Ranger!”

Consternation really took over. Richardson gasped and swore. “Wade, you don’t mean that?” he gulped. “Why, everybody knows he’s an owlhoot — ”

“You mean a lot of people think he is,” Ballard corrected. “I happen to know he’s Jim McNelty’s lieutenant and ace-man who works under cover whenever he can. Oh, yes, he’s a ranger. See what we’re up against?”

“I’m beginning to think this whole danged oil business is a mistake,” said another. “We were doing all right as it was, and the saloon pays off pretty well, too.”

“Chicken feed!” scoffed Ballard. “If we work things right we’ll all be sitting pretty for life and nothing to worry about.”

“Do you think he’s caught on to what we’re after?” asked Richardson.

“I rather doubt it, although it’s not beyond the realm of possibility,” Ballard replied. “He’s plenty smart, all right.”

“And I’m beginning to darn near believe Cort may have the right of it, and he is a devil,” growled Richardson, his face working.

“Well, man or devil, he’s got to be eliminated,” Ballard stared with decision. “Oh, stop having a fit and sit down here and listen; I’ve got an idea. The first thing to remember is that he rides alone a lot.”

Richardson seated himself beside Ballard and the voices lowered to an almost inaudible mutter.

T
HE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON
Slade got the rig on Shadow; he wanted another look at the hills to the east. Figuring that he might be late getting back to the ranchhouse he stowed some food alongside the little flat bucket and the small skillet that always reposed in his saddle pouch. He had just finished these preparations when Mary Mawson appeared leading a chunky bay.

“I want to go with you,” she announced.

“Okay,” he agreed, “but get your slicker,” he told her, glancing at the lowering sky; “looks like we may have rain before the day’s over.”

“I’ve got it strapped back of my saddle,” she replied.

They set off at a fast pace that soon left the ranchhouse behind. They rode east by south until the canyon-slashed hills were close. Slade studied the hills intently. In terms of geological age they were undoubtedly very old, but he was convinced that the gradual lowering to the north was not due to weathering away. The slope of the rimrock was as it had been in the far-off day of the inland sea, always from south to north.

He glanced westward and his gaze fixed on a clump of grove perhaps a thousand yards distant.

“What are you looking at, Walt?” Mary asked.

“Something moving around the edge of those trees over there.”

Mary strained her eyes. “I don’t see anything,” she said.

“You will in a minute,” Slade predicted. “See?”

From the shadow of the grove bulged seven horsemen riding at a swift pace.

“Must be some of the boys,” Mary guessed.

“They’re all up at the north pastures today,” Slade answered, his brows drawing together as he watched the hard riding troop lessen the distance. He didn’t like the looks of that steady, purposeful approach and experienced an uneasy feeling that he and his companion were on an unpleasant spot. Had he been alone, and forking Shadow, he would have given the matter little consideration, confident as he was in the black’s great speed and endurance; but Mary’s bay, while a good horse, was certainly not built for speed.

“Mary,” he said abruptly, “turn your horse and ride straight for the hills, and stay in front of me. Don’t ask questions, ride!”

She shot him a puzzled look, but obeyed without protest. Slade crowded close behind her so as to provide as much of a shield as possible with his own body. He glanced back over his shoulder.

“Thought so!” he muttered.

From the ranks of the speeding horsemen puffed whitish smoke. A bullet sang overhead.

“Good heavens!” cried the girl. “Are they shooting at us?”

“They aren’t doing anything else,” Slade answered. “Head for that canyon mouth straight ahead. Fast as you can. Ride!”

Mary put spurs to the bay and he darted forward, Shadow crowding his heels. More slugs whined past, but the distance was still too great for anything like accurate shooting.

“Maybe they wouldn’t shoot a woman but at a distance they can’t tell that you are one,” Slade shouted. “Ride!”

The canyon mouth was close. It was narrow and bristling with dead-looking growth that tossed and swayed in the draught sucking down the gorge. Slade didn’t like that steady draught; it hinted that the canyon was a box, heated air rising from its narrow confines and being replaced by cool air that rushed down to escape through the mouth. But it was the only refuge that offered.

Into the growth they crashed, heedless of twigs and thorns and raking branches.

“Get your head down!” he told Mary. “Snug behind your horse’s neck and keep going!”

The canyon floor sloped upward gently and if it was a box, doubtless at its head the growth would be thin, which wouldn’t help matters.

They covered something over half a mile of hard going when the growth did begin to thin. A moment later Slade swore bitterly; the canyon was a box, walled by perpendicular cliffs. He glanced anxiously to left and right.

The slope on the left, he decided, could be climbed by a horse, slowly, but the growth on it was sparse and up there they would be perfect targets from the canyon floor. Very quickly the pursuit would realize the fugitives were trapped and would steal forward through the growth to surround them. He grimly loosened his heavy Winchester in the saddle boot. He’d try and make some kind of a stand in the brush. First, however, he headed straight for the end wall, over a practically denuded stretch where only a few scattered bushes strove for rootage in the stony soil. There might be some crevice in which they could find dubious shelter.

But he quickly saw the cliff was unbroken. With the bay jostling beside him, he pulled Shadow to a halt, turned him and glanced about, and as his eyes rested on the tinder dry growth rustling in the draught he evolved a desperate expedient. The draught down the canyon appeared to be steady and he doubted if anything would cause it to alter its direction. They might both pay with their lives if he was mistaken, but he decided to take the chance. He knew very well his own life was forfeit if the pursuers caught up with them and they would hardly leave the girl alive, even did they realize she was a girl, as a witness to the killing. He swung to the ground.

“Hold the horses,” he told Mary. “I don’t think they’ll run, but things are going to be lively hereabouts in a minute.”

Running back to the edge of the growth, he plucked out his bottle of matches, struck one and held the tiny flicker to the dry grass and weeds that grew beside the bushes. A flame leaped up and crackled fiercely in the wind. Within seconds it was licking the dead lower branches.

Slade ran a little distance and kindled another fire, raced back the other way and added still a third to the growing conflagration. His keen ears detected the pound and crash of approaching horses.

“You’ll be headed the other way pronto,” he muttered as he straightened up and pocketed his matches. Above the crackle of the flames he heard startled yells and a prodigious crashing. By the time he reached his horse and mounted, a wall of fire stretched clear across the narrow gorge.

“As soon as the smoke gets thick we’ll tackle that slope on the left,” he told Mary. “Stay close to the cliff, it’s going to be hotter’n the devil up here in a little bit.” He rode forward a few paces the better to study the slope.

There was a clatter of hoofs, a scream from Mary. Through the wall of fire burst a horseman, face burned and blackened, eyes glaring. His clothes smoked and smoldered. The big dun he rode, mad with pain and terror, plunged frantically forward in a blind endeavor to escape the searing flame. Shoulder to shoulder he struck Shadow.

Down went both horses, kicking and squealing. Their riders were hurled free and struck the ground side by side. The dun’s rider whipped out a gun. Slade lunged for it, caught the other’s wrist as the gun blazed; the bullet fanned his face, burning powder stung his cheek. The outlaw streaked for his second gun but Slade pinned his hand against his holster and held on.

Mary leaped from her saddle, ran to where Shadow, who had scrambled to his feet, stood snorting and blowing, and jerked Slade’s Winchester from the boot but could not use it because the two bodies were so closely intertwined. Clubbing the rifle by the barrel she glided forward and waited her chance.

Over and over rolled the fighters, butting, kicking, kneeing. Slade did not dare loose the owlhoot’s wrists and he was badly shaken by the fall. All he could do for the moment was prevent the other from lining sights with him.

The fellow was a big man, heavier by many pounds than the tall ranger, and he seemed to be made of steel and rawhide. Slowly, slowly he brought his wrist down, twisting the gun sideways till the muzzle was almost against Slade’s head. He pulled trigger a second time and Slade felt the burn of that one along his temple. Lights blazed before his eyes, followed by a swirling blackness. With every atom of his strength, he twisted the other’s wrist sideways and down. He gave a mighty jerk and at that instant the outlaw’s finger tightened again on the trigger.

The big Colt boomed, there was a gasping, choking cry; blood spurted over Slade’s arm. The other’s body jerked and twitched, the gun dropped from his hand.

For a moment the convulsive movements persisted, then the man went limp; he had shot himself through the throat.

His brain whirling, flashes of red and black streaming before his eyes, Slade struggled to his feet, dimly aware that Mary was clinging to him, supporting him. His mind cleared quickly as he gulped great draughts of the hot, smoky air.

“Are you all right, Walt? Are you all right?” she was crying.

“Sure,” he mumbled. “I’m fine.”

“There’s blood on your face!”

“Just a scratch,” he reassured her. “I’ll be okay in another minute.”

His head was indeed clearing swiftly. He glanced toward the wall of fire now some distance down the canyon. The heat was blistering but it would quickly ease off. He glanced again at the fire. It was travelling too darn fast for comfort. Soon the light growth would be burned out and the outlaws would be able to return up the canyon.

“Come on,” he told the girl, “we’ve got to tackle that slope on the left and get up it before the smoke clears and those hellions come back looking for us.”

Mary picked up the fallen rifle and handed it to him. “I never got a chance to use it,” she said. She shuddered a little as she glanced at the distorted face of the dead outlaw, but her blue eyes flashed.

“One less murderer in the world, anyhow,” she said.

“Mary,” Slade chuckled, “you’re a girl to ride the river with!”

It was hard going up the slope. They coughed and choked in the thick smoke that rolled upward in clouds. The horses blew and snorted, their irons slipping on the stones, but forged ahead steadily until Slade knew they could be no great distance from the crest. It was just about sunset and before the smoke cloud cleared darkness would cover their retreat.

And then the weather gods, which are a perverse and unpredictable bunch, decided to take a hand. Already there had been grumbles of thunder overhead. A breath of wind stirred the billows of smoke. Another, came, stronger than the first. Overhead sounded a deep rumble. Then came a rustling that swelled and swelled to a mighty roar as the stirring giant of the storm sprang into raging life. Twigs and leaves pelted Slade and the girl. Branches snapped under the force of the blast. The wind tore at their clothes, threatening to strip them from their backs. Clouds of dust billowed down from the bare slope above to join the rolling smoke. The black heavens were split asunder by a jagged flame that fell to the earth in a torrent of fire. The crash of the thunder followed and with its bellow came a veritable cataract of water driven in level lances by the wind. Almost instantly the eerie twilight faded into darkness through which the lightning blazed, the thunder rolled and the torrent of rain blotted out all things.

Blinded, deafened by the lashing rain and the infernal uproar, Slade gripped the bay’s bridle iron, fearful lest they be separated in the black turmoil.

“Hang on!” he shouted to Mary and urged Shadow forward.

“I think we’d be better off down below,” she screamed through the turmoil.

“Can’t risk it,” Slade shouted. “Those hellions will come sneaking back up the canyon now the rain’s put the fire out; the storm won’t stop them. We’ve got to reach the rimrock and get in the clear before they figure out where we went. They won’t give up as long as they think they have a chance to run us down. And they’d be sure to come looking for the one they’re short, or what’s left of him.”

“I wonder how that one got through the fire?” she asked.

“Chances are his horse ran away with him,” Slade replied. “Fire drives horses loco some times; they’ll run right into it. Save your breath, you’re going to need it.”

Now they were climbing the bare upper slope and exposed to the full fury of the storm. Beaten and buffeted, the terrified horses struggled up the last sag, and after what seemed an eternity reached the rimrock and staggered across its level surface.

“We can’t stand much of this, got to find shelter!” Slade yelled to his companion. “Hang on! We must keep going!”

Her voice came back thin as the piping of an insect in the uproar, “Don’t worry! I’m right with you!”

Another blaze of lightning showed a huge boulder directly ahead. Slade made for it and in its lee they managed to unstrap and struggle into their slickers. They were drenched to the skin but the stout garments protected them somewhat from the awful beat of wind and rain. Then they forged ahead once more, blindly seeking for a cliff or overhang that would provide something of shelter.

Suddenly Shadow halted, snorting and blowing. Slade’s grip on the bit iron curbed the bay. The lightning blazed and revealed, at their very feet, the sheer drop of a canyon wall. Down the far canyon wall roared a mighty torrent of water. The canyon itself was half filled with a tossing, foam-flecked flood, its heaving surface dotted by logs and uprooted trees. The cliffs stood out like bursts of frozen flame. Thrashing trees writhed and contorted in black agony.

Down came the darkness. Slade did not dare move till he got his bearings. The horses moaned and shivered.

Another lightning bolt flashed flame across the wild heavens. Slade backed Shadow away from the sheer drop to the raging torrent below and started him at an angle that widened away from the canyon. Utterly confused they fought their way through the flame streaked darkness. They heard the crash of falling trees, were hammered by spouts of water gushing over the uprearing rocks. They were utterly lost and seemed to be wandering through some unlimited eternity of sound and fury and numbing pain.

Then unexpectedly the beat of wind and rain lessened greatly. Shadow veered a little, then shambled on. A lightning flash revealed a wall of cliffs, along the base of which they were riding. Directly ahead was a deep overhang. A few more minutes and they were under the shelf of rock. The lightning flashed again and Slade saw a black opening in the cliff face.

“A cave!” he shouted to Mary. “This is a break! Wait a minute.”

He dismounted and groped his way into the opening. He wrung the water from his hand and felt of the rock wall. It was perfectly dry. From an inner pocket he fumbled his bottle of matches which he was confident had escaped the general wetting. Shaking one forth, he scratched it on the wall. The flame revealed a flat rock floor sloping slightly outward. It also revealed heaps of leaves and twigs driven in from time to time by the wind. He scraped a pile together. They were tinder dry and when he applied the flame of a second match they burned up brightly. He scooped up more twigs and fed the blaze.