Gunsmoke over Texas (5 page)

The question that puzzled the ranger was what was back of it? Bob Kent had intimated that Blaine Richardson nursed an almost insane hatred against cattlemen, but Slade felt it was ridiculous to think that Richardson would go in for such an elaborately planned killing just to glut his hate. It just didn’t seem to make sense. Revenge for the role he played in extinguishing the burning well? If that was the motive, it would seem to let Richardson out. An oilman himself, Richardson would hardly go around setting fire to wells unless he was a pyromaniac, which Slade doubted. Hatred or revenge seemed hardly the answer.

The logical assumption, Slade concluded, was that somebody for reasons unknown had decided that his elimination was necessary. Which predicated something going on that must be concealed at all hazards. Had he been recognized as a ranger? Not impossible. Or as El Halcon, an outlaw all set to horn in on somebody’s good thing? That also was possible. But what was it his presence in the section jeopardized? He’d just have to wait and follow the course of events. What he hoped more than anything else was that he had been able to put over his own act to an extent that neither Persinger nor whoever else was in on the plot realized that he had caught on to the fact that he was the intended victim. Slade believed he had put it over.

I
T WAS LATE
when old Curly Nevins finally decided to call it a day. “Coming back to the spread with me?” he asked Slade.

“Guess I might as well,” the ranger replied. “I want to see how Clate is making out.”

A few miles north of the creek, Nevins turned into a narrow track that joined the Chihuahua. “This is a short cut which will miss that big bend and knock off quite a few miles,” he explained. “It isn’t bad going and the moon will be up in a little bit.”

They had covered a couple more miles when Nevins uttered an exclamation. “Don’t I hear horses coming this way?” he asked.

Slade listened intently. “You hear more than horses,” he said. “You hear cows, a lot of them, and horses with them, coming fast.”

“What in blazes!” sputtered Nevins. “Nobody’s got any business running cows down here at this time of night.”

Slade glanced around. Not far to the left of the trail was a belt of thicket. To the east was open prairie. “Into that brush over there till we see what’s going on,” he told his companion.

“You think …” Nevins began as they turned from the trail.

“Don’t take time to think now,” Slade broke in. “Come along!”

Muttering under his breath Nevins followed the ranger into the growth. They halted where they could look across the trail but not be seen from it.

“Be ready to grab your horse’s nose if he should take a notion to neigh,” Slade warned.

The drumming of many hoofs grew louder and louder. Suddenly a little distance out on the prairie a dark mass came into view, veering south by east. It quickly resolved into a large herd of cattle travelling at top speed. Short, querulous bleats burst from the laboring throats of the sweating cows. Their breath whistled through their flaring nostrils.

Slade’s face set in grim lines. No legitimate riders would be running the fat off stock like that.

On came the herd. Now the attendant horsemen were clearly visible. Slade counted nine altogether. The cows were being shoved, close-bunched, across the prairie, held in line by expert point, swing and flank riders.

Slade sensed rather than saw Nevins reach for his gun. Instantly his fingers clamped the other’s wrist and held it powerless.

“Lemme go!” demanded the range boss in a fierce whisper. “Those are the old man’s cows.”

“Hold it!” Slade whispered back. “There are nine of the hellions and they’re scattered. We wouldn’t have a chance. Hold it, I tell you, this will take some thinking out. Let them get past and then we’ll figure something.”

Nevins swore under his breath but his tense muscles relaxed. Slade let go his wrist and together they watched the herd thunder past under a film of dust that glinted silver in the pale moonlight.

“It’s the beef herd from the middle pasture,” Nevins breathed. “All ready for the trail the first of the week. The old man can’t afford to lose those cows. Blazes! There were two night hawks riding herd on ‘em. I wonder what happened to those boys.”

Slade did not answer, but he had an unpleasant premonition that the Walking M was short a couple of hands. His eyes were cold in the moonlight, his face bleak as the granite of the rimrock trail.

The drumming of hoofs was dimming, the herd growing shadowy in the distance. “Listen,” Slade told his companion, “they’re heading for the hills over to the east, don’t you figure?”

“That’s right,” answered Nevins. “Those hills are all cut with canyons and draws where the ground’s all rocks. They could slide into any one of them and there’s no trailing them once they get there.”

“So I figured,” Slade said. “Now here’s what we’ll do. You ride to the ranchhouse fast as you can and rouse up the hands. I’m going to try and keep those cows in sight. They’ll never attempt to run them across the desert to the Rio Grande in the daytime, that’s sure for certain. They’ll hole up somewhere in the hills a bit south of here. If I can find where they’re holding the cows we should be able to hit them where it hurts. That’s the only chance I can see.”

“Yes, but you’ll be taking one heck of a risk, trailing those sidewinders,” Nevins protested. “They’ll be almost sure to spot you and if they do it will be curtains for you.”

“I’ll risk it,” Slade replied. “Get going. They won’t see or hear you now, and I’ve got to drift after them or they’re liable to give me the slip.”

Sputtering profanity, Nevins sent his horse northward at a gallop. Slade spoke to Shadow and the great black moved out onto the prairie at a smooth running walk.

Slade felt that at a distance, from which the dark mass of the herd could still be seen as a moving shadow in the dim light, a single horseman very likely would not be noted, even if the rustlers were keeping a watch behind them, which he thought improbable under the circumstances. At any rate he determined to take the chance of operating on that premise.

Mile after mile Slade trailed the fleeing herd across the rangeland, with the rugged battlements of the eastern hills drawing nearer and nearer, and nothing untoward happened. But now a fresh problem presented itself; the east was graying and soon the wan glow cast by the overcast moon would be replaced by the light of day, in which it would be impossible for him to avoid detection by the rustlers. Anxiously he watched the pale gray brighten. It was going to be a race between the strengthening light and the arrival of the herd at the hills.

Slade could now see that Curly Nevins hadn’t exaggerated in describing the inhospitable terrain. Unlike the massive range to the west, the eastern uprisings were honeycombed with canyons and draws and gorges yawning like the black mouths of caves. A perfect hole-in-the-wall country. He scanned the terrain ahead for some grove or thicket behind which he might find temporary concealment; but the grassland rolled smoothly to the edge of the broken ground. And the sky was steadily brightening.

But now the herd was close to the hills, the wideloopers pushing it hard, their attention concentrated on the business of reaching shelter before daylight. With a sigh of relief, Slade saw the cows streaming into the dark mouth of a canyon. Soon the last laboring back had vanished in the gloom. He slowed Shadow to a walk. It was imperative that his quarry should get some distance up the canyon before he entered it.

It was uneasy riding across the open ground in the strengthening light of dawn. At any moment the black gorge mouth might belch rifle fire he would see but very likely would not hear, a slug travelling somewhat faster than sound. He heaved a deep sigh of relief when he reached the canyon without incident. It was brush grown with a fairly open space along the south wall; the floor was hard packed and stony. A posse riding in pursuit of the wideloopers would hit the right trail only by sheer luck.

If the herd had continued into the canyon it must now be some distance ahead of him; but had it continued? It was with considerable qualms that he sent Shadow into the still gloomy opening.

Slade rode at a slow walk, listening and peering. Before him the path stretched silent and deserted in the growing light. No imprint of a passing hoof was left on the stony soil, but an occasional broken twig or a branch stripped of a few leaves told him he was on the right track.

Again he rode for miles, the gorge boring through the hills in a southeasterly direction, doubtless to open onto the arid lands to the south. Nothing broke the silence, nowhere was there a hint of sound or movement, but Slade knew he was on the tail of the herd. The canyon walls were sheer, to the right an unbroken line of beetling cliffs, on the left a stand of heavy growth.

The sun was well above the horizon when he reached a spot where the side wall was slashed by a much narrower gorge or crevice also heavily brush grown. Through the stands of growth ran a ridge of stony ground some twenty feet in width where only a straggle of bushes found rootage. Slade pulled to a halt. On ahead there were still signs of the recent passage of horses or cattle, but he knew he could not be any great distance from the south end of the gorge. He was convinced that the rustlers would never attempt to run the cattle, which now must be on the verge of exhaustion, across the desert during the blazing daylight hours. They’d never make it to the Rio Grande, nearly twenty miles away. They must hole up somewhere till nightfall and this break in the canyon wall was the first indication of what would provide a hide-out. He studied the growth ahead and tried to put himself in the place of the wideloopers. Guarding against the chance of a pursuit hitting on the particular canyon they entered, would it not be logical that they would make a false trail to lead the pursuers astray? With signs of recent passage still before them, a hurried posse might well ride on to the mouth of the canyon and then hopelessly lose the trail on the sands. Anyhow, Slade had a decided hunch that the herd had turned off into the side gorge. Putting the theory to a test he veered Shadow into the opening and rode slowly, scanning the ground and the brush on either side. He uttered an exultant exclamation. Cattle had passed this way, and recently.

Now what should he do? Ride back to the canyon mouth and await the arrival of the Walking M bunch? Seemed the sensible thing to do. But if he was making a mistake and the cows were not holed up in this infernal crack, the wideloopers would very likely get in the clear. And if he continued through the crevice he would quite probably run into the whole gang. Also, they might very well hear him coming. No matter what he did, he risked being impaled on one or the other of the horns of the dilemma.

As he hesitated, appraising the situation with a concentration that amounted almost to mental agony, he heard a sound ahead, a faint clicking sound. Again it came, louder, undoubtedly a horse’s iron striking against a stone. Slade jerked Shadow sideways and sent him into the growth that flanked the stony ridge, regardless of thorns and raking branches. Not until he was sure he could not be seen from the open ground did he pull the big horse to a halt.

“Don’t go singing any songs!” he whispered as he dismounted. Careful to make no sound he stole back on foot till he could see through a final fringe of branches. The steady clicking grew louder. Another moment and seven men rode down the gorge toward the main canyon. It was shadowy in the crevice and Slade could catch only an indistinct view of their features. He watched them dwindle away until the growth hid them. Then he proceeded to take stock of the situation.

He had counted nine men pushing the herd across the prairie. So unless there had been more of the gang waiting in the hole-up, which he doubted, only two had been left to ride herd on the stolen cattle. The odds weren t so bad. Doubtless the others would not return until nightfall; but then again they might be gone only a short time. Slade resolved to take a chance on recovering the herd. He debated whether to ride farther and decided not to. It was likely the cleft was of no great depth and sounds would carry a long way between the echoing walls. Leaving Shadow where he was, he stole forward on foot, pausing often to peer and listen. He had covered less than a fifth of a mile when he heard, only a short distance ahead, the bleat of a steer. Redoubling his caution he crept on. Abruptly the gorge widened. Shafts of sunlight poured into its depths. Slade left the open space and wormed his way through the growth. Before a last straggle he paused, parted the branches carefully and peered out.

Directly ahead was an almost circular bowl walled on three sides by cliffs. There was very little brush and the ground was carpeted with grass. Near a trickle of water the weary cows were grazing. And a little to one side, two men moved about a small fire of dry wood. One was short and solid-looking, the other lean and scrawny. They were within easy shooting distance from where Slade crouched in the brush.

Slade pondered what his next move should be. The two men were proven thieves, quite likely murderers as well. They certainly deserved no quarter; he would be justified in blasting them from cover. But he was a peace officer and the stern code of the peace officer forbade such action; he would have to take his chance in the accepted fashion. Loosening his guns in their sheaths he stepped from the brush. His voice rang out, “In the name of the state of Texas! You are under arrest!”

The two outlaws whirled at the sound. For an instant they stood rigid, then they leaped apart and went for their guns.

Back and forth across the clearing spurted the wisps of blue smoke. The canyon walls rocked to the crash of the reports.

O
NE SLEEVE HANGING IN RIBBONS
, two bullet holes through the crown of his hat, a red trickle running from his left hand, Walt Slade lowered his guns and peered through the drifting fog at the two bodies sprawled beside the fire. He walked forward, gun ready, but the outlaws were dead.

Sure that there was nothing more to fear from them, he gave the bodies a swift but thorough once-over. They were hardcase individuals, typical of the Border outlaw clan, their faces blotched by heavy drinking, their features coarse and scarred. Salty and brainless was his verdict. Filled with reckless courage and unhampered by morals of any sort, but capable only of carrying out orders and leaving somebody else to do the thinking for them.

Their pockets divulged nothing of significance save a rather large sum of money, but the pockets themselves of the scrawny man interested Slade. The seams were packed with a greasy grit. Undoubtedly the man had spent considerable time around the oil wells. Which was interesting. So much so that he ripped one of the pocket linings out and stowed it away.

Slade wasted no time retrieving Shadow. Then he rounded up the cattle and headed them back down the gorge. Managing five hundred head, more or less, of stock was a hefty chore for one man, and had not the cows been too worn out to offer more than token objections, even El Halcon could not have done it. As it was, he finally got them to the main canyon and plodding in weary disgust for its mouth. Once out on the prairie the going was easier for the cattle slogged on toward their accustomed feeding grounds.

He had the herd less than two miles outside the canyon when he perceived a body of horsemen riding swiftly from the northwest.

“Now if they’re just the Walking M bunch headed this way, everything is fine and dandy,” he told Shadow. “But if they happen to be those widelooping gents coming back for something they forgot the only thing we can do is leave the cows and run for it.”

Very quickly, however, he recognized the blocky form of old Tom Mawson riding at the head of his men. Ten minutes more and the group circled the herd and pulled up alongside the ranger, swearing in amazement and volleying questions.

“Slade,” demanded Curly Nevins, when the babble had somewhat abated, “how the devil did you do it?”

“Oh, I just pointed out to those jiggers that it was wrong to steal and the only thing for them to do to make things right was send the cows back to their rightful owner,” Slade replied without the trace of a smile, and added grimly, “I understand there’s a deputy sheriff stationed at Weirton? Well, I’ll give him the lowdown how to get to a crack back in that canyon straight ahead to the east. He’ll find a couple of bodies he may want to look over.”

His hearers stared at him in silence, then old Tom Mawson said heavily, “Son, it seems I keep getting deeper in your debt all the time.”

“How about those two night hawks Curly mentioned?” Slade asked.

Mawson’s face hardened and his tired old eyes were filled with pain. “I dunno, but I’m scairt they’re both done in,” he replied. “They hadn’t showed up when we left. I sent a couple of boys galloping over to the pasture to find out. Curly figured the rest of us had better hightail straight down here to lend you a hand. Guess it wasn’t necessary.”

The cowboys took over the chore of shoving the herd along, with old Tom supervising. Curly Nevins dropped back alongside Slade.

“You did the old man another hefty favor today,” he remarked. “He couldn’t afford to lose those cows right now. It would have hit him hard.”

“Had a notion he was pretty well fixed — he owns a mighty nice piece of property,” Slade replied.

“That’s right,” admitted Nevins, “but you’ll understand what I mean when I say he’s land and cattle poor right at this time. You know the longhorn market has been falling off bad during recent years. There just isn’t any demand for the kind of meat they provide. So a couple of years back the old man decided to bring in blooded stuff and improve his stock, which was a good notion all right. He bought a big herd of Herefords and Anguses to breed with his longhorns. It’ll pay off, but it cost plenty. He borrowed money from the Proctor bank, with the spread as security to do it. This herd was ready to run to the railroad next week, to bring in the money to pay off a note that falls due the first of the month.”

“Afraid he’ll have to wait a week till they get back the fat those hellions run off them,” Slade interpolated.

“You’re right about that,” agreed Nevins, “but thanks to you he’s got ‘em to ship. He’d had to do some tall scratching if he’d lost ‘em. They’re the very best beefs we could comb out. We’ve lost plenty of stuff during the past few months, a little bunch here, a little bunch there, but they mount up dang fast. Reckon we sort of got caught with our guard down because the hellions had always operated that way or we’d have kept a better watch on the herd. This is the first time they really went for something big. You sure handled it smart, feller, but it’s a pity we didn’t get there in time to wipe out the whole nest of snakes. Maybe it’s better the way it worked out, though; if we’d met ‘em head on we’d been liable to lose some men, which is worse than losing cows. I’m scairt we’re short a couple as it is.”

However when they reached the ranchhouse they learned it wasn’t quite that bad, though bad enough. One of the men sent to see about the night hawks rode out to meet them.

“Jess Rader was killed,” he said, “but Sam Price was just shot through the shoulder and creased purty bad. We’ve got him in the
casa
and Doc Cooper is working on him. Sam said they never had a chance. The devils cut loose on them from a thicket close to the pasture and mowed ‘em down. Snake-blooded hellions! And you did for two of them, feller? That’s fine. Hope you get a chance at the rest, and I hope I’m along to see it.”

Doc Cooper reported that the wounded cowboy should pull through all right, barring complications. “I put him in the room with Clate so they can keep each other company,” he announced. “Go in and tell him you sort of evened up the score, Slade. It will make him feel better.”

Price did feel better when he heard the news. His wound was painful and he had lost considerable blood but he looked tough as rawhide and Slade felt he’d recover without any trouble.

“We’re getting a pretty good sizing up as a hospital here,” young Clate Mawson chuckled weakly. “Space for about one more bunk. Anybody want to make reservations?”

“Hope we managed to keep it empty,” Slade replied with a smile.

“Uh-huh,” young Mawson agreed soberly. “There’s room for another ‘bed’ alongside the one poor Jess Rader will sleep in up on the hill. Hope we can keep that empty, too.

“Glad Mary will be home before long,” he added in more cheerful tones. “Mary’s my sister, you know, and a plumb fine gal. She’ll look after Sam and me all right. Takes a woman to make a man feel comfortable and satisfied when he’s hogtied in bed like we are.”

Old Tom stuck his head in the door. “Chuck’s on the table,” he announced.

As soon as he had finished eating, Slade rose to his feet. “I’m riding to town to see the deputy.”

“No need to,” Mawson said. “Soon as we got here I sent one of the boys to tell him. He should be there about now, been gone an hour and a half.”

Slade stared at him. The rancher’s well-intentioned blunder had nicely scrambled all his carefully thought out plans.

“What’s the matter, son?” Mawson asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Don’t you see it, sir?” Slade patiently explained. “The rest of those hellions will be coming back to the canyon tonight to run the cows across the desert to Mexico. I had planned on having the deputy get a posse together and ride there in the hope of dropping a loop on the lot of them. Now I’ve got to hightail back to that canyon to intercept the deputy and your hand before they find themselves in a hornet’s nest. They may have started out at once and it’s a lot shorter ride from Weirton to that canyon than it is from up here. If they barge into that bunch unexpectedly we’ll be short a couple more.”

“By gosh! I never thought of that,” exclaimed Mawson. “But I got a better idea; we’ll all ride down there. I’m itching for a crack at those devils.”

“Guess that will be best,” Slade agreed. “Let’s go!”

Ten minutes later the posse, more than a dozen strong, thundered off across the prairie.

It wanted two hours of sundown when they reached the canyon mouth, but Slade advised caution. “I don’t think they’ll get here this early, but we can’t afford to take chances,” he said. “Everybody keep their eyes skinned and their ears open.”

However, they met nobody in the canyon. They rode up the cleft a ways and left the horses in a thicket with a man to guard them. Careful to make no sound, they covered the rest of the distance on foot, hearing nothing and seeing nothing. Pushing through the last belt of growth they peered into the clearing. It lay silent and deserted. The two bodies were nowhere in sight.

With a muttered oath, Slade strode from concealment and to the spot where he left the dead men. Only a few blood stains on the grass showed where they had lain.

“Maybe Pete and Deputy Hawkins got here first and packed ‘em off,” old Tom hazarded.

“Impossible,” Slade replied. “We would have met them on the way out.”

“Then what the devil does it mean?” sputtered Mawson.

“It means,” Slade said grimly, “that either Pete or the deputy talked where the wrong pair of ears was listening. Somebody hightailed out of town ahead of them and packed the bodies away. Would appear somebody in Weirton was mighty anxious to make sure they wouldn’t be taken to town where they might be recognized.”

“I always said all the thieves in this end of Texas congregated in that town!” fumed Mawson.

“It’s beginning to look like they work out of there, all right,” Slade conceded. “Well, there’s nothing we can do here; we might as well head for home.”

They had covered something less than a mile down the main canyon and were nearing a bend in the brush-flanked trail when Slade abruptly held up his hand.

“Hold it!” he said. “Horses coming. Get set, we’re taking no chances.”

The posse jostled to a halt and sat with guns ready for instant action. The beat of hoofs loudened, approaching at a steady, purposeful pace. Another moment and two horsemen bulged around the bend, each leading a mule. They pulled up looking considerably startled at the array of hardware facing them.

“Oh, tarnation!” snorted Mawson. “It’s just Sid Hawkins and Pete. Turn around and go back where you come from, you terrapins, you’re too slow to catch cold!”

Questions and explanations followed. The deputy swore in weary disgust. “Those danged sidewinders always outsmart everybody,” he declared. “I don’t know what this section’s coming to!”

“Anyhow you can both thank whatever looks after you that there’s somebody in the section with brains,” Mawson told them. “If it wasn’t for Slade you’d be using those mules to pack your own carcasses back to town.”

Pete and the deputy were thankful and said so. Slade queried the cowhand.

“Where were you when you relayed the information to Hawkins?” he asked.

“In the Black Gold — that’s where I found him,” Pete replied. “Nobody told me to keep it quiet and I reckon everybody around heard what I said.”

“And what did you do after you spoke to Hawkins?”

“We had a couple of drinks and Sid had something to eat,” Pete replied. “Then we rustled up the mules and started out. Figured we could make it before dark. I’m sorry, feller, but I didn’t know you wanted it kept quiet.”

“Just one of those things,” Slade told him. “And the way it worked out nothing bad happened, which was more than I’d expected for a while. Lucky you decided to eat first and take your time, otherwise things might have turned out differently.”

“You’re dang right,” growled Tom Mawson. “Now everybody might as well go home.”

It was late when they finally got back to the ranchhouse and Slade went to bed without delay, too tired to even think.

He did plenty of thinking the following morning, however, as he placed the greasy cap and the ripped-out pocket side by side and gazed at them through the haze of his cigarette smoke. Undoubtedly the wearer of the cap and the dead owner of the pocket had spent considerable time around the oil wells. And the spiriting away of the two bodies was plenty significant. Somebody was extremely anxious that they should not be put on exhibition in Weirton and that their association with somebody would not come to light. Did it tie up with the attempt on his life in the Black Gold? Slade felt that indirectly it did.

But there was a perplexing loose thread banging about that refused to take its proper place in the pattern. Look for the motive, say the rangers. Men seldom do anything without a motive. Learn the motive and the trail to the quarry is wide open. Slade could not conceive of what the motive back of the attempt was.

Assuming for the sake of the argument that somebody had recognized him as a ranger, was it logical to believe that an outlaw band would seek to kill him just because he might be a potential threat to their rustling activities? Slade did not think so. Killing a ranger was a serious matter and usually fraught with dire consequences. The hunt for the killers would go on relentlessly and never cease until they were brought to justice. Would the proceeds from the theft of a few cattle, or even a great many cattle, warrant such a risk? Definitely not. No! Somebody with brains, cold courage and a callous disregard for human life was playing for high stakes.

The stakes? Walt Slade had not the slightest notion what they could be. But he did have a hunch that in some way they were connected with the Walking M spread.