Gunsmoke over Texas (4 page)

The bowstring twanged with a rich, deep hum. The arrow, trailing a spurtle of sparks, soared through the air and vanished in the smoke cloud over the well. Almost instantly there was a booming explosion. Smoke and flame flew in every direction, with clods of earth spurting through the fog.

“By gosh!” whooped Caldwell, “you’re doing it! Look, the fire is just about half as big as it was. You’ve darn near got her plugged.”

“Figure one more should do it,” Slade replied. “Another stick of powder, somebody.”

Soon he had the second charge ready. Caldwell applied the match and Slade drew back the arrow. With a click the wire slipped from the upper notch and slid down the rod. Caldwell gave a yell of consternation as the arrow twitched from Slade’s fingers and the dynamite cartridge with its sputtering fuse thudded to the ground a little ways off.

Slade dived for the hissing death, seized the cartridge and hurled it toward the well with all his strength. The charge exploded in mid-air, tumbling the smoke cloud in every direction and knocking Slade and Caldwell off their feet.

“The devil with the danged thing!” gasped Caldwell as he picked himself up. “Don’t take another chance, feller.”

“Reckon it won’t happen again,” Slade replied cheerfully. “Get me another stick.”

Caldwell wiped the drops from his brow with his sleeve and called for more powder. The watching group which had been augmented by new arrivals streaming out of town, stood silent and rigid as Slade prepared still another charge.

The match was applied to the fuse. Caldwell held his breath as Slade slowly and carefully drew the arrow to the head. The bow twanged, the sputtering dynamite whizzed through the air and entered the smoke cloud.

Straight and true it sped, curving downward at just the right instant.

“Got the range now,” Slade observed.

The explosion followed his words. Again the smoke cloud swirled and eddied. Then it slowly drifted away, revealing a tumbled mass of earth and stone where the well mouth had been. The well was effectually capped, the fire extinguished.

A thunderous cheer arose from the watchers. Bob Kent rushed over and grabbed Slade’s hand and shook it vigorously.

“Never saw anything like that before, did you, Arch?” he whooped.

“No,” Arch Caldwell replied, “and I never want to see it again.”

Slade passed the bow to the well owner. “Save it so you’ll have it in case you need it again,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” Caldwell replied grimly, “but where’ll I get somebody with the muscle and guts to use it?”

Others hurried forward to congratulate Slade on the success of his expedient. Among them was Wade Ballard, the owner of the Black Gold saloon.

“Where in blazes did you learn that trick, feller?” he asked wonderingly.

“Didn’t learn it,” Slade replied. “Just figured it out once. You know the Indians used to fire buildings with arrows in much the same way.”

Ballard’s keen eyes grew thoughtful. He raised a hand to smooth his tawny hair.

“I see,” he said, “and the corollary is that the fire could be extinguished with an arrow.”

Slade looked a little blank. “Sort of that way, if I get what you mean,” he agreed.

Ballard nodded, smiled slightly and walked away. Slade heard another voice at his elbow, a growling rumbling sort of voice.

“Feller, that was smart, dang smart!” Blaine Richardson declared. “Yes, sir, a regular whizzer.” He turned and shook his fist toward the north and very nearly repeated old Tom Mawson’s words when he accused the oil men of shooting young Clate.

“There ain’t nothin’ those cattlemen won’t do when they’ve got it in for you!”

“Do you figure the cattlemen fired the well?” Slade asked.

“Who the devil else?” growled Richardson and stalked off to join Wade Ballard. Slade followed him with a thoughtful glance.

S
LADE AND
N
EVINS
got their horses and prepared to ride back to town. Old Arch Caldwell drew a bulky wallet from his pocket, met Slade’s dancing eyes and thrust it back again.

“Much obliged,” he said, extending his hand, “and if you should happen to be in the notion of taking a good job sort of helping me look after things around the wells, it’s waiting for you.”

“Thanks for the offer, sir,” Slade replied. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Offer stands,” Caldwell said tersely.

“That old feller is considerable of a jigger, I’d say,” Curly Nevins remarked as they rode back to town.

“Yes,” Slade agreed soberly. “Representative of a class that is making Texas great and will make it greater. The same breed as Tom Mawson and his kind who came into a wilderness and turned it into a garden.”

Old Curly shot Slade a quizzical glance. “Got a feeling Tom Mawson wouldn’t be exactly flattered if he heard you say that,” he chuckled, then, his eyes suddenly thoughtful, “but again, maybe he would be.”

Slade smiled and did not comment.

A moment later Bob Kent rode up behind them. “Figured to drop in at the Black Gold for a bite to eat.” he remarked. “Won’t you gents join me?”

“Reckon we could do worse,” Slade agreed. “Feeling sort of empty myself.”

As they sat down at a table in the saloon, Slade noticed Blaine Richardson at the end of the bar talking to Wade Ballard. His bad-tempered face wore a scowl and he was gesticulating animatedly. Slade could just catch the rumble of his harsh voice.

“Reckon Blaine is sounding off about the cattlemen again,” chuckled Kent. “He’s sure sore at them. Fact is, I think he’s always sore at everybody. He has no use for anybody’s judgment but his own. When I mentioned that I rather doubted if he would strike oil out on the desert if he drilled there, he said he was drilling wells before I had any teeth and that I’d do well to keep my mouth shut and listen to people who know more about it than I do. Bill Ayers, my head driller, and Nate Persinger, Richardson’s crew foreman, very nearly came to blows over it. Yes, Blaine is sure crusty. Wade Ballard sort of puts up with his yammering, but he is a free spender — stinginess isn’t one of his faults — and I reckon Wade figures it’s good for business to let him run on. One thing is sure for certain, nobody will ever be able to convince him the cattlemen didn’t fire that well.”

Slade let his gaze rest on the oil man’s face. “Kent, do you think the cowmen fired it?” he asked.

Kent’s face hardened a little. Before replying, he glanced at Curly Nevins, who had moved to a nearby table to speak to an acquaintance.

“Slade,” he said, “I don’t know what to think. Tom Mawson is sure on the prod against us. He says we ruined his grass and poisoned his cows; he’s got a point there, all right; I guess we did. Fact is, I offered to pay for the cows he lost and he told me to go to the devil. As Richardson said, if the cattlemen didn’t fire it, who did? But if a cowhand did the chore he knew more about the oil business than any puncher I ever heard tell of.”

“You can’t fire a well by setting a match to it,” Slade observed inconsequentially.

“You’re darn right you can’t,” Kent agreed. “That well was fired by some sort of a flash device triggered to go off at a certain time. Men who were working nearby said there was a sharp explosion and she cut loose with a roar. But of course, Mawson or somebody could have hired an oil worker to do the job.”

Again Slade looked hard at the oil man. “Kent,” he said slowly, “does it seem reasonable that a man of Mawson’s standing and who is undoubtedly a shrewd article would place his liberty, or even his life if somebody had been killed, at the mercy of a man he could hire to do such a chore? To say the least, he’d be putting himself in a beautiful position to be paying blackmail to somebody the rest of his life.”

“It doesn’t seem reasonable,” Kent admitted, “but when men get really mad about something, they sometimes do foolish things.”

“I agree with you there,” Slade replied, “but firing the well would be nothing but a bit of petty spite work on Mawson’s part. If he fired a dozen wells he still couldn’t run you people out of the valley and he knows it. I talked with Mawson and he didn’t impress me as the kind that would go in for petty stuff. That wouldn’t be his way or I’m a lot mistaken in the man. I’ll tell you something, somebody shot his son last night and came close to killing him.”

“What!” exclaimed Kent. “Somebody shot young Clate?”

“That’s right,” Slade said, “and in my opinion if Tom Mawson felt for sure you, for instance, were responsible, his method would be to ride down here and do his best to blow you from under your hat.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you there,” Kent said soberly. “How did Clate come to get shot? I met him once, he’s a nice young feller, more progressive than his dad. How did it happen?”

Slade related what he knew about the shooting, Kent listening with intent interest.

“And now,” said Curly Nevins, who had overheard the latter part of the conversation, “and now I’ll tell you why Clate doesn’t happen to be all set for a burying right at this minute.”

Slade had noted before that Nevins had a gift for narration; the tale lost nothing in the telling. When he had finished, Bob Kent chuckled and shook his head admiringly.

“Well,” he said, “it seems you have a genius for getting in solid with everybody. First you put Tom Mawson eternally in your debt, then you go right ahead and get the oil men under obligation to you. As Arch Caldwell said, all that was needed was for the wind to freshen a bit and that whole section of the field would have very likely gone up in smoke. And you’ll notice,” he added significantly, “the wind is blowing pretty darn hard right now. Must be nice to have everybody thinking well of you.”

“Not everybody, I’m afraid,” Slade smiled. “Right now I’ve a notion whoever fired that well isn’t feeling overly friendly toward me.”

“You’re right there,” Kent conceded. “And it would be a good idea to keep it in mind. Whoever fired that well is a potential killer. In fact, two workers did die when the first one was fired last month.”

“You may have something,” Slade agreed lightly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Kent looked at him and shook his head. “I don’t believe you’ve got a nerve in your body,” he grumbled. Slade laughed and changed the subject.

“Oh, by the way,” Kent exclaimed, “the excitement of the fire and everything made me forget it, but the Yardley stage over to the west of the hills was held up last night. The robbers got away with several thousand dollars. I heard Sheriff Nolan and Deputy Hawkins, who’s stationed here, are over there trying to pick up the trail. I’m afraid they won’t have much luck.”

“Did anybody see which way the robbers went?” Slade asked.

“It happened to the west of Yardley, and the passengers said they just slid into the brush alongside the trail,” Kent replied. “They said there was close to a dozen of them, all masked.”

Curly Nevins glanced at Slade. “What do you want to bet that wasn’t the bunch who shot Clate?” he said. “Uh-huh, I bet they were headed right back here, though of course they could have kept following the rimrock and come out of the hills up around Proctor.”

“You could be right about it being the same bunch,” Slade conceded. “Wouldn’t be surprised if you are.”

It was getting along toward evening and the big saloon was filling up with a boisterous crowd. Slade noted something that gave him food for thought. The cowhands, whose number was increasing, kept strictly to themselves, and the oil workers, who were still heavily in the majority, kept away from them. The friendly merging of various groups customary to such a place was laoking; and the looks with which the two factions favored one another were anything but cordial. Slade felt that the place was very much of a powder keg with little needed to set off an explosion.

But when the row started, it was not between oilmen and cowboys but between two groups of oil workers. Slade had noticed the two groups enter the saloon, one shortly after the other, to take vacant tables that happened to be close together. The first group had waved to Bob Kent who waved back. The second passed by with a glance in his direction and a drawing together of heads. They were hardcase looking individuals dressed in working clothes, and the first group did not appear exactly tame. They interested the ranger who every now and then glanced in their directon. He noted that words were being tossed back and forth between the two tables and the voices of the speakers didn’t sound exactly amicable.

Suddenly a big driller of the first group leaped to his feet with an oath. A squat, heavily built man at the other table also jumped from his chair. The two met head-on, slugging toe to toe. The heavy-set man went down with a crash, and as if his fall was a signal the other occupants of the tables were at it in a hitting, wrestling, swearing tangle.

The place was in an uproar. Men were shouting, dance-floor girls screaming, bartenders uttering soothing yells that were not heeded. The lookout was brandishing his shotgun and threatening all and sundry. Wade Ballard came boring through the mob, flinging men to right and left with surprising strength. Behind him bellowed Blaine Richardson, his face flushed a fiery red. The heavy-set man, who was wearing a gun, scrambled to his feet and charged the tall driller. And again he measured his length on the floor.

In the swift whirl of hectic action, Walt Slade’s keen eyes noted what nobody else appeared aware of. The heavy-set man was riding with his opponent’s awkward punches; the knockdowns were phony as a seven-dollar bill. Slade had no notion what it meant but he was instantly very much on the alert.

The heavy-set man came to his feet again, a bit more slowly, shouting curses. With a swift, smooth draw he pulled the gun at his belt and fired, seemingly point-blank at the tall driller.

Walt Slade felt the wind of the passing bullet fan his face as with a marvelous coordination of mind and muscle he went sideways from his chair. Just in time he had seen the glint of eyes in his direction, the eyes of the heavy-set man focused not on the driller but on him. And in the same flicker of perfectly timed motion, his right hand flashed down and up. The crash of a second shot caused the hanging lamps to jump. The heavy-set man howled with pain and doubled up, gripping his blood spurting hand between his knees. His gun, one butt plate knocked off, thudded to the floor a dozen feet away.

Walt Slade’s voice rang through the turmoil. “Hold it!” he thundered. “Everybody where they are!” He had a gun in each hand now and the black muzzles, one wisping smoke, yawned at the battlers, who instantly stopped fighting.

Slade walked forward, his face stern, till he reached the man whose gun he had shot from his hand and who had straightened up and was cursing and wringing his dripping fingers.

“Fellow,” Slade told him, “if you’d gotten away with it, that would have been very much like murder. The other man isn’t armed, so far as I can see.”

Before the other could reply, Wade Ballard’s smooth voice echoed Slade’s. “He’s right, Persinger,” he told the oil worker. “If it wasn’t for him, right now you’d be in serious trouble. I think you’d better thank him, even if you did lose a little meat off your hand.”

Persinger didn’t look grateful as he glared at Slade, but apparently thought it best not to argue the point. He mumbled something unintelligible. Then Blaine Richardson’s big hand fell on his shoulder.

“You’re always going off half-cocked, you blasted churn-head,” Richardson rumbled. “What’s the matter with you fellers, anyhow?”

“And what’s the matter with you, Ayers?” Bob Kent broke in. “I’d thought you’d have better sense.”

Ayers scowled at his erstwhile opponent. “That danged grease monkey was talking out of turn, that’s all,” he growled.

“About what?” demanded Kent.

“About you eating with a couple of cowmen,” Ayers replied. “I figured it wasn’t any of his business and told him so. He called me a name I don’t take from nobody.”

Kent turned to Slade who had holstered his guns. The Hawk’s eyes were dancing with laughter. Despite the grim role he himself had very nearly played, he saw a humorous angle in the final outcome of the devilish scheme. He pictured the utter bewilderment enveloping Nate Persinger’s mind as he tried to figure out how the carefully planned attempt had missed fire. It was good as a play!

“Everybody’s loco,” Bob Kent disgustedly declared.

Wade Ballard took charge of the situation. “All right, you fellers, straighten up the tables and chairs and try and behave yourselves for a change,” he told the battered warriors. “Come on to the back room, Persinger, and I’ll bandage your hand.”

The fighters, looking a bit sheepish, cleaned up the mess they’d made and sat down. Persinger, with a scowl at Slade, picked up his smashed gun, jammed it savagely in its holster and followed Ballard. Slade and Kent went back to their interrupted meal. Curly Nevins stared at Slade and shook his head.

“That was shooting!” he remarked. “I never saw you pull that iron. One second it was leathered and the next it wasn’t, and you pilled trigger right as it cleared. Slade, is there anything you ain’t tops at?”

Slade chuckled and ordered more coffee.

Bill Ayers, the driller, came over to the table. “Much obliged, feller,” he said to Slade. “I reckon you saved me from getting an airhole in my hide.”

“You’re darn right he did,” said Kent. “There’s room at the next table now. Suppose you boys come over here for the rest of the evening; I don’t want any more trouble.”

Ayers agreed and he and his companions occupied a table some distance from the Richardson group. Nate Persinger reappeared, his hand bandaged, Blaine Richardson accompanying him. Richardson sat down with his men, apparently to keep an eye on them. The Black Gold, which had been rather subdued for a few minutes, quickly regained its former fair imitation of bedlam.

Kent and Nevins animatedly discussed the recent events, but Slade sat silent, occupied with his own thoughts. What was back of it all, he wondered. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind but that the slug had been intended for him. The whole thing had been elaborately planned with attention to the smallest details. Start a row with Kent’s drillers — it was common knowledge that there was bad blood between the two outfits — and under cover of the rukus pull off a nice cold-blooded murder which on the surface would have every appearance of being a deplorable accident. The affair had been handled neatly, and to all appearances nobody but himself and the instigators of the attempt had the slightest notion of what had been intended. Persinger had played his part adeptly. Bill Ayers, Kent’s head driller, possessed the usual fighting skill, or lack of it, of his class. Roundhouse punches thrown at random, easy for a man with even a smattering of the art of self-defense at his command to avoid. Persinger on the other hand undoubtedly knew how to use his fists and how to exploit the other man’s lack of knowledge to the best advantage. He had faked the knockdowns in a very convincing manner. Apparently getting the worst of the fight it was not unnatural that he would lose his head and go for his gun; such things often happen and in such a community an accident, while regrettable, would be regarded lightly. Yes, the whole affair had been carefully thought out and expertly staged.