Gunsmoke over Texas (2 page)

“Tom,” he said, “if you begin right now and keep on the rest of your life, you wouldn’t be able to make up to this big feller what he did for you. Clate would have been dead long before I got here if it wasn’t for him. As it is, I figure he’ll be up and getting into more trouble by this time next month. Now clear out of here, all of you, and let me finish this chore. There isn’t much but routine work to do but I don’t want you in my way. You stay here, young feller,” he added to Slade. “I’ll need somebody to handle the chloroform and pass me things. I want to straighten out the end of the broken rib, anchor it and make sure there’s proper drainage. Outside, everybody else!”

Mawson and the cowboys left the room. Doc Cooper closed both doors, turned to Slade and held out his hand.

“What in blazes are you doing over here, Walt?” he asked in low tones.

“What are you doing here, Doc?” Slade asked as they shook hands.

“Got tired of the Panhandle a couple of years bach and moved down here,” Cooper replied. “Figure to move to Weirton soon; most of my practice is down there of late and getting better. How’s McNelty?”

“He’s fine,” Slade replied. “Doc, I want to ask you a few questions while I’ve got the chance. What’s Tom Mawson’s standing in this section?”

“Reckon he’s just about run it for a good many years,” Cooper replied as he began laying out his instruments. “He owns the best spread in the section and his neighbors look up to him. Has a hefty finger in the political pie. Honest enough, so far as I’ve been able to learn, and a pretty good feller, but he knows how to hate. Somebody will catch it over what was done to Clate, you can bet on that.”

“Has he any bad enemies?” Slade asked.

Doc shook his head. “None that I’ve ever heard of, unless you want to call the oil people enemies,” he replied. “He’s on the prod against them for fair and it’s only natural that they resent his attitude. He claims they’re ruining what was a nice cow country. No doubt but the oil has played havoc with his south holding, and the same goes to an extent for another spread over to the east, the Bradded R. Grass killed, or close to it, for a couple of miles north from the creek that is their south line. And the creek surface is all covered with a thick oil scum so the cows won’t touch the water.”

“Mawson says cows that drank from his waterholes farther north were poisoned,” Slade remarked.

Cooper shrugged his shoulders and passed Slade the chloroform bottle. “So I’ve heard,” he replied noncommittally.

“And what do you think of that?” Slade asked.

“About the same as you do, I reckon,” Cooper answered. “Might be possible, but doesn’t seem to make sense.”

Slade nodded, his eyes thoughtful. “Otherwise has there been much trouble?”

“Stray shootings like the one tonight, quite a few robberies of one sort or another and plenty of cattle stolen,” Cooper replied. “No doubt but the oil strike brought in a rough crowd — that town grew up almost overnight and you know what that means. Naturally all the owlhoots within travelling distance sort of congregate there. Just like it was up at Beaumont and at the Gladwell strike. The cattlemen don’t like it, which isn’t surprising, and blame the oil operators for everything.”

“What is the operators’ side?” Slade asked.

Doc shrugged again. “As I said, there have been some shootings and some payroll robberies, and a well set afire that came dang near to burning up the town. The operators got mad and hired guards to protect their property, and you know the sort of hellions whose guns are for hire. The cowmen say those guards are responsible for most of the shooting and robbing and cow stealing, them or friends they brought in and tip off to what’s easy pickings. No proof been advanced by either side, but that doesn’t change folks’ temper much.”

“Plenty of trouble in the making, as I guess is to be expected,” Slade agreed. “Well, we’ll see.”

“Oh, you’ll enjoy it,” Doc snorted. “You’re loco as any sheepherder that ever scratched a tick, but I suppose that’s why you stay on with the Rangers instead of being an engineer like your dad planned for you.”

“Oh, I will be some day,” Slade replied cheerfully. “You know how it was, Doc, because of the loss of our ranch due to blizzards and droughts and Dad’s untimely death I was unable to take the post-graduate course I’d planned for after college. So, having worked with Captain Jim during summer vacations, I decided to sign up with the Rangers for a while. I’ve kept up my studies and have already gotten about as much as I’d have gotten from the post-grad. I’m about all set, but I aim to stick with Captain Jim for a while yet.”

“Uh-huh, and end up like him,” Doc grunted, “a spavined old coot with the temper of a teased snake. Well, is there anything else you want to know? I’ve finished with this young hellion.”

“One more question,” Slade said. “You say Mawson’s holdings run down to that creek to the south of here?”

“That’s right,” nodded Doc. “His and the other holding; the creek is their south line.”

“And how about the land south of the creek?”

“They used that as open range,” Doc answered. “It was state land, but now the oil drillers and the Weirton folks have it. Young Bob Kent, who started all this, got title to a strip first and put down the first well. He owns the land most of the town is on. I understand Mawson and the neighbors talked of getting title down there but never got around to it. Put it off till it was too late. Anything else? No? Okay, call ‘em in.”

A
FTER SEEING TO IT
that Clate Mawson was properly put to bed, Doc Cooper drank a cup of coffee and departed.

“No sense in me hanging around,” he told old Tom. “Just keep him quiet. You can give him some broth when he wakes up. I’ll drop in tomorrow evening for a look at him.”

Tom Mawson saw the doctor to the door and then returned to the living room. He eyed Slade a moment.

“Just passing through, son, or do you aim to stick around a while?” he asked.

“Depends,” Slade returned. “I may try to tie onto a job of riding for a spell, after a while; seems to be a nice section.”

“Well, if a job is what you’re looking for, you can stop right now,” Mawson said emphatically. “Nothing would please me better than to have you sign up with me. Not just because anything I’ve got you’re welcome to. I really need somebody dependable to give me a hand right now. Clate getting knocked out puts me on considerable of a spot. He’s just about run the spread for the past few years. Curly Nevins is my range boss, but Curly’s even older than me and rather stove up. He’s all right but he can’t get around like he used to any more than I can and with all the trouble bustin’ loose hereabouts of late it’s a bit too much of a chore for a couple of old jiggers to try to handle.”

“I’ve a notion I could do a lot worse than to sign with you and I’m likely to take you up on it,” Slade replied. “First I want to ride down and look over the oil strike town and maybe just loaf around for a few days. Sort of feel the need of a rest, then we’ll see.”

“Okay, we’ll let it go at that,” Mawson agreed, “but the job is plumb wide open whenever you want it and I’d sure like to have you. So you want to look over that danged town, eh? You won’t get the smell of it out of your nose for a week, and the reptiles you’ll find crawling around down there smell worse than the infernal oil.

“And now I figure a mite of shut-eye is in order,” he added. “I sure feel all in. You sleep here in the
casa
, son. Curly Nevins does and a couple more of the older hands. We’ve got lots of room and I’ve got no women folks here now. My wife died ten years ago and my gal is off to school. She’ll be back in another week or so, incidentally. She’s a fine gal, just turned twenty. Clate is a couple of years older. Okay, you take the room to the left at the head of the stairs. If you want anything just call me; I sleep at the end of the hall.”

Slade got his saddle pouches and Mawson led the way up the stairs, opened the door and lighted a lamp.

“Nobody in the room next to you,” he remarked. “That’s the one Mary, my gal, uses when she’s home. Good night, son, see you in the morning.”

Slade did not go to bed at once, however. He moved an easy chair to the open window and sat down. Drawing the greasy leather cap from his saddle pouch he examined it carefully, running a finger along the ragged tear made by the bullet that knocked it off the horseman’s head on the rimrock trail. There was no doubt in his mind but the torn headgear had been worn around the oil wells; it reeked of the stuff. Which, he was forced to admit, lent some credence to Tom Mawson’s contention that the oil workers or their associates had had a hand in the shooting of young Clate. But the mysterious riders of the rimrock trail had been wearing rangeland garb and they rode like cowhands. Funny sort of a rainshed for a cowboy to be wearing, though. That required some explaining. Of course there was no reason why a former cowhand shouldn’t be working around the wells. The pay was better than following a cow’s tail and not all punchers were so wedded to range work that they wouldn’t leave it even for more money. Well, maybe he would learn more tomorrow. Anyhow, it appeared things were just as lively as Captain McNelty predicted he’d find them.

Slade chuckled as he recalled the interview that preceded his ride to Weirton Valley. Captain Jim had been in a bad temper anyhow, but when he ripped open a letter and read its contents he exploded for fair.

“A troop they want just because the danged oil strike over there is spoiling the grass!” he snorted. “And me with a section about half the size of the rest of the United States to police with not a fourth of the men needed to do the job, and trouble bustin’ loose along the Border! Sheriff can’t handle the trouble! Got to have Rangers to keep it down! What’s Texas coming to, anyhow!”

Slade had managed to keep a grin from his lips, but he couldn’t keep it out of his eyes. Captain Jim glanced up from the letter and glared at his lieutenant and ace-man.

“Funny, is it?” he barked. “Well, I don’t see a darn thing funny about it.”

Slade tried hard to look serious and concerned, and failed. Captain Jim continued to glare and mutter. Slade decided to risk a comment. “Grass spoiled by oil the only trouble?” he asked.

“Oh, there have been a few shootings and some robberies and a lot of cows widelooped, according to this danged thing,” replied Captain Jim, slapping the letter on the table. “And it’s claimed somebody set fire to a well and pretty near burned up that infernal town of Weirton — pity they didn’t. The cattlemen blame the oil workers for everything that’s happened and the oil workers say the cattlemen fired their well. There’s a taking of sides and trouble a-poppin’ generally.”

“You say a well was fired?” Slade remarked, looking serious.

“That’s what’s claimed,” said Captain Jim.

“Sort of like what happened at Batson, when a gas well ran wild and killed a lot of cattle and horses and hogs and three men. The cowmen set fire to that well, I believe.”

Captain Jim nodded. “You’re right, but there was no organized trouble at Batson. Captain Brooks handled that situation all right, without any help from anybody else.”

“Reckon one man should be able to take care of this trouble, without any help,” was Slade’s laconic comment.

“Okay, you asked for it!” growled Captain Jim, “but if you come running back here with your tail on fire, don’t blame me.”

“I won’t,” Slade promised, his eyes dancing. “Well, guess I’d better get going, it’s a long ride.”

As Slade’s tall form passed out the door, Captain McNelty had the look of a man whose burden has been considerably lightened.

“No, he won’t come running back,” he muttered to himself, “but before everything is finished, the seat of somebody else’s pants will ring like a bell, and you can bet on that.”

Still chuckling over his recollection of Captain Jim’s tantrums, Slade rolled a cigarette and sat gazing at the dim glow in the sky that marked the site of the oil town ten miles to the south.

Without any preliminary warning the glow changed. An angry flare ran up the long slant of the sky. Flickering and pulsing, it blazed red against the smoke pall, paling the stars and even the silvery sheen of the moonlight. Slade leaned forward, staring at the ominous glare. His pulse quickened and his forgotten cigarette burned toward his fingers. There could be but one explanation of that leaping glow; another well was on fire.

He thought of saddling up and riding to the scene of the disturbance, but decided not to. He could hardly leave the house and get his horse out of the stable without arousing somebody and he figured the Walking M had had enough excitement for one night. He’d learn about what happened the next day.

For some time he watched the red flare throb against the sky, then he went to bed and was almost instantly asleep.

• • •

Young Clate Mawson was conscious the following morning. He was weak and in some pain but was evidently already on the mend. Slade thought it safe to question him as to how he came by his hurt.

“I hardly know what happened,” he told Slade and his father. “I was coming back from Yardley on the other side of the hills after attending to that chore, Dad, when I heard a bunch riding fast behind me. As they came up I pulled aside to let them pass. Didn’t think anything of it, figured it was just some of the boys from one of the spreads. When they got opposite me I whooped to them. Somebody swore, then about a dozen guns seemed to let go at once. Something that felt like a sledge hammer slammed me and I knew I was hit. I managed to get my gun out and pulled trigger once. Then I didn’t know anything more till I found this feller bending over me and asking me what happened.”

“You didn’t get a good look at any of them?” Slade asked.

Clate shook his head. “No, I didn’t have time. The feller riding in front appeared to be a big gent but I didn’t notice his face. Brush on both sides of the trail there and it was rather dark. Thanks, feller, for everything; Dad told me about it.”

Slade smiled and patted his hand. “Just take it easy now and you’ll be okay,” he said. “I’ll talk to you again later.”

After a late breakfast, Slade got the rig on Shadow. As he was shaking hands with Tom Mawson, a wizened old cowboy appeared mounted on a sturdy bay. It was Curly Nevins, the range boss.

“I’m heading for town, too,” he told Slade. “We’ll ride together. The boss wants some stuff from down there.”

“They got better shops in the stinkin’ hole than up at Proctor and you can get things you can’t get there,” old Tom explained defensively.

Slade nodded, the dancing lights of laughter in the back of his eyes, but did not otherwise comment. He and Nevins headed south on the Chihuahua.

For several miles they passed over rolling rangeland dotted with fine fat beefs. Slade commented on the excellence of the range.

“Uh-huh, it’s this way clear to the hills, twenty miles to the east and forty miles to the north,” Nevins replied. “After that to the north it’s a regular badland. That’s what makes the drive to McCarney and the railroad such a tough chore.”

Slade was studying the contours of the hills walling in the wide valley on the east and west. He turned in his saddle and gazed north toward the misty blue of more hills.

“This valley was once a great lake or inland sea,” he remarked to his companion.

Curly Nevins shot him a quick glance. “Funny for you to say that,” he commented. “That’s just what young Bob Kent who drilled the first well said. He said the rimrock up there was once the shoreline and covered with all sorts of big growth, and that conditions were perfect for the makin’ of oil pools.”

“He was right,” Slade replied.

“The way things turned out, sort of looks like he was,” Nevins admitted. “Most folks and even some of his drillers, after they’d dug down better’n a thousand feet and hadn’t hit anything, said he was loco, but he sure fooled ‘em. I’ll never forget the day that well came in and what happened afterward. I was right there when she began spoutin’ and hung around the section quite a bit afterward. Was plumb interesting. Like to hear about it?”

“I would,” Slade replied.

Curly Nevins was an unlettered cowhand, but he had a gift of narration and a remarkable memory for details. Walt Slade’s quick imagination reconstructed the story as it fell from the old cowboy’s lips until he felt he was a spectator of the stirring events.