Horseman of the Shadows (10 page)

It was the catbird that was the fellow’s undoing and Slade’s disappointment, for he had hoped to take the devil alive. It whizzed past behind the drygulcher so close its wing tips almost brushed the back of his neck. He whirled with a muttered oath and slashed at it with his gun barrel — and saw
El Halcón
. He gave a yelp of alarm. The gun jutted forward.

Going sideways, Slade drew and shot with both hands as the other pulled trigger. The slug ripped the collar of his shirt and burned a red streak along his neck, almost knocking him off his feet with the shock.

But the would-be killer coughed chokingly and fell forward on his face. His body shivered from head to foot and was still.

Guns ready, Slade eased toward him, cautiously. However, there was nothing to fear. The fellow was dead, two bullets laced through his heart. After a single glance, Slade glided back into the thicker growth and stood listening. There might well be others of the bunch somewhere within hearing distance of the shots.

For long minutes he stood motionless. No sound broke the silence. Nowhere could he discern movement. Looked like the fellow had been playing a lone hand.
El Halcón
approached the body again, turned it over on its back.

There was nothing outstanding in the dead man’s appearance; looked like an average cowhand type. His pockets revealed nothing of interest save quite a bit of money, which was replaced. Slade straightened up and glanced around.

Abruptly he laughed mirthlessly. Growing from the stout branch on which the drygulcher rested his gun barrel had been a second branch, now broken off close to the parent limb, which lay on the ground nearby. Evidently it had obscured the view to the bend and the fellow had broken it off to give him a clear sight. And it was the sharp crack of that branch when it snapped that had warned
El Halcón —
one of the thoughtless acts typical of the owlhoot brand, which overlooked the little things
El Halcón
did
not
overlook.

After another glance around, Slade dragged the body further into the growth, where it would be out of sight from the trail, and covered it with brush. Then, leaning against a convenient trunk, he rolled a cigarette and considered the situation. Still there was no sound to be heard, no indications that somebody might be approaching from the depths of the gorge.

W
ELL, THE CHORE OF FINDING OUT WHAT THE DEVIL MIGHT
be up there was still unfinished. He glanced at the sky. Still a couple of hours or more of daylight. Pinching out the butt, he headed up the canyon, through the brush. Best to go on foot against the chance there might be others of the bunch who for some reason had not heard the shooting. Now the growth was less dense and he made good progress. He had covered something like a hundred yards when he halted abruptly. To his sensitive ears had come a sound, the unmistakable bleat of a steer, and from no great distance ahead. Anyhow, there was no doubt but that cows were up there. Slowing his pace, he continued to advance through the steadily thinning chaparral. Behind a final fringe he paused and peered cautiously out.

Directly ahead, and about two score yards distant was the end wall that boxed the canyon. Between where he stood and the wall was a cleared space. Over to one side was a very old and dilapidated cabin, to all appearances untenanted. No smoke rose from its stick-and-mud chimney. There was no sign of movement back of the single dirty window. The closed door sagged on loosened hinges.

But it was not the old shack that riveted Slade’s attention for the moment. With the end wall for one side was a roughly built but stout corral. And inside the corral, seventy or eighty head of cattle munched feed. Nearby was a leanto under which stood a single saddled and bridled horse, undoubtedly belonging to the dead drygulcher and pretty good evidence there was nobody in the cabin.

Just the same, Slade preferred not to chance advancing across the open space. He noted that the brush grew close to the back of the cabin, so he eased his way around through the growth until he was behind the building, in the hope there would be a back door.

There was no back door, but there was another window. For several minutes he stood listening. Then, hearing no sound, he whipped ahead to the cabin wall and, hugging it, edged along until he was able to risk a quick glance through the window. The single room was without occupancy.

Satisfied as to that, he walked around the building to the door and shoved it open.

The room was furnished with a table and a couple of chairs, all homemade and very old. There were also a couple of bunks, equally old, on one of which were some tumbled blankets. On a shelf was a scanty store of staple provisions. Beside the stone fireplace stood a bucket and an iron skillet, both showing signs of recent use. And stacked along one wall were sacks of feed.

The shack was not used as a hole-up for the bunch, that Slade quickly concluded. Doubtless its only function was to store the cow provender and occasionally shelter whoever came to feed the stock.

Now Slade found himself in something of a quandary. Had the drygulcher spotted him when about to ride out of the canyon and slipped back in to await his appearance? The horse wearing a rig hinted at just that.

On the other hand, had Evers or one of his men seen him riding out of town under cover of darkness, and figuring what he had in mind, and familiar with
El Halcón
’s skill in nosing things out, set a very clever trap, confident that in the course of his exploration he would enter the canyon?

Seemed a bit preposterous to think so, but Nelson Evers was not the average type of outlaw.

However, Slade leaned to the first version as much more the likely explanation.

Made no particular difference at the moment which was correct, but might well make considerable difference where his next move was concerned.

Acting on the assumption that his first diagnosis was the right one, he got busy. Wouldn’t do to leave the drygulcher’s horse where it was. If the rest of the bunch came to move the cattle, as Slade was confident they would soon — there already being a quite sizable herd in the corral — and discovered the horse with its rider missing, they would immediately become suspicious. Whereas if both horse and rider was missing, they would very likely conclude the hellion had ridden to Clint or someplace to get drunk — he had the look of a drinker. Or so Slade hoped they would conclude.

Mounting the animal, which bore a Mexican skillet-of-snakes brand that meant nothing, he rode swiftly down the trail to where he left Shadow. There he changed steeds and rode on to the mouth of the gorge, leading the other cayuse.

At the mouth, he studied his surroundings. There was nobody within the range of his vision and it was already very nearly dark. Leaving the gorge, he headed for El Paso at a fast pace. Shadow had taken it easy during the slow search of the canyons and was in very good shape.

“Got quite a drag ahead of you, feller, but I figure you can make it,” Slade told him. “We’ll take the rig off this other critter after a while and leave him to look after himself, which he can do till somebody picks him up. Not much danger of the bunch spotting him down by the river.”

Which, a couple of hours later, he did and rode on to town.

It was long past midnight when he stabled his tired mount and made his way to Pablo’s cantina. Carmen, with a fine case of the jitters, would be awaiting him. Also, he expected, Sheriff Serby.

Both surmises proved to be correct; they were at a table together. Carmen gave the ripped shirt collar and the bullet burn along his neck a resigned look.

“First some salve, later a needle and thread,” she remarked rising to her feet. “Did you run into something?”

“Guess the county treasury’ll have to pungle up for another shirt,” the sheriff said cheerfully. “You’re an expensive item. Well, what did happen?”

When Carmen returned with the salve, he told them, in detail. Carmen shuddered. The sheriff swore, under his breath in deference to the presence of a lady.

“And you located the cows, eh?”

“Very nearly,” he admitted. “It was sorta close.”

“Yes,” Slade replied, “and I’m very much of the opinion that they’ll run them to the river tonight. Nearly a hundred head in that corral, about as many as they can handle easily. Which may give us the opportunity to set a little trap for them.

“Of course everything depends on whether or not they catch on to what happened today. Frankly, I don’t think they will. So the set-up should be made to order for us.”

“Sure looks that way,” Serby conceded.

“Your dinner’s coming up,” Carmen broke in. “You must be famished.”

“I am a mite lank,” Slade admitted. “Been quite a while since breakfast.”

“I don’t know how you stand it,” she declared. “I’d be starved to death. Good for the figure, though.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to cut down anyways soon,” he said, with an appreciative glance, and was rewarded with a smile and a dimple.

“How do you plan to work it?” the sheriff asked.

“Tomorrow night — I mean tonight, it’s already long past midnight — after dark, have your deputies slide out of town one at a time,” Slade explained. “Tell them to hole up in that big thicket about a mile to the south and wait for us. I’d say the five of us will be enough, with the element of surprise on our side. Less chance of a small bunch being detected.”

Serby nodded. “Judson is in town and figures to be in tomorrow,” he remarked. “If he gets a notion something is in the wind, he’ll want to go along. He hangs around the office most of the time and it’ll be hard to give him the slip.”

“No reason why he can’t go along, if he doesn’t mind taking a chance,” Slade decided. “After all, they’re his cows and he is, not unnaturally, a bit interested.”

“He won’t mind taking a chance, he’s a salty old hombre and has been in his share of rukuses,” the sheriff said. “A darn good shot, too, and cool as a cucumber when the going is rough.”

“He struck me as that sort,” Slade admitted. “Okay, another gun may come in handy. I figure there’ll be six or seven, maybe a couple more, of the hellions shoving the herd.”

Pablo, a bottle under his arm as usual, strolled over from the end of the bar and sat with them until Slade finished his dinner. He glanced toward the bar.

“Only a few
ladrones
whom I suppose have no homes,” he remarked. “Them I will eject with dispatch; it is late.”

“Almost daylight,” said Carmen. “I’m going to change.”

T
HAT EVENING, JUST BEFORE DARK
, S
LADE DROPPED IN AT THE
sheriff’s office. Sime Judson was there.

“All set to go,” said Serby. “Sime will follow the deputies out of town.”

“A good idea,” Slade agreed. “I doubt if there will be anybody in town keeping a watch, but best not to take chances.”

Old Sime insisted on shaking hands. “Looks like you’re getting me deep in your debt,” he said. “Getting those cows back won’t make me a bit mad.”

“Haven’t got them back yet,” Slade reminded him.

“I ain’t worried, not with you handlin’ things,” Judson declared. “They’re good as back on my pastures.”

Slade hoped he was right, but was not so thoroughly optimistic. He knew he was up against a shrewd and resourceful character who might have a card up his sleeve.

Shortly after dark, Judson departed. Slade and the sheriff waited twenty minutes, then got the rigs on their mounts and followed. On a rise some distance from the town, Slade drew rein and studied the back trail.

“All right so far,” he announced. “We’re not wearing a tail. Let’s go!”

When they reached the thicket a mile or so from El Paso, Judson and the deputies rode out to join them and they continued on their way at a fast pace.

“We’ll follow the course of the river,” Slade explained. “There will be a moon in the sky before we reach the crossing and the sky is fairly clear, which should help. I figure the hellions won’t attempt the crossing until well after midnight, the logical thing for them to do. So if all goes well, we should have plenty of time to get there ahead of them, hole up and be all set.”

After a while the moon soared up above the eastern hills and bathed the prairie in ghostly light that threw back glints. Slade constantly studied the range to the north and west, and saw nothing. Began to look like things would work out.

The horses were fresh and held to their steady gait. Finally the eastern wall of the hills came into view. They rode on until they reached the point of crossing and drew rein. Slade surveyed the terrain and was not altogether satisfied with what he saw.

“The low brush will afford concealment for us, but not for the horses,” he told his companions. “We’ll have to leave them over toward the base of the hill spur. I’d prefer to have them within easy reach, but that isn’t possible. Grass up there, and a little water. They’ll be well hidden and I don’t think they’ll stray. Have to chance it.”

“They’re all well trained and will stay put with the reins dropped,” said Serby. “And that black devil of yours will know just what to do no matter what happens.”

The horses were concealed and the posse returned to the river bank.

“Now all we can do is take it easy and wait,” Slade said. “I’m pretty well convinced the hellions don’t suspect anything, and I’m also fairly sure they’ll move the cows tonight. Yes, you can smoke, I’ll hear them coming long before they are close enough to see the flicker of a match. But keep the brush between you and the river. Could be someone over there who might spot the flare, figure out what it meant and perhaps manage to give the alarm when the bunch and the cows appear.”

Followed a long and tedious wait. No sound save the gurgling of the river and the infrequent calls of night birds broke the silence. Nothing moved on the long reach of the rangeland. Suspense mounted with inaction and an uncomfortable tenseness.

Slade stood where he could scan the prairie to the west and north, and the encroaching hills. From time to time he would glance toward the river, to rest his eyes, then return them to their vigilant scrutiny of the northwest.

Abruptly he sensed movement, a pulsing shadow, vague, inchoate, flowing along the base of the hill spur. Slowly it developed form and substance, became a solid mass. Another moment, as it moved out from the base of the hill spur, and it materialized into a swiftly moving herd of cattle. Still another moment and he could make out seven or eight horsemen shoving the cows along.

“They’re coming!” he said in low tones. “Be here in another fifteen minutes; they’re slanting in this direction. You do the talking, Trevis, you’re the peace officer in charge.”

“Don’t think I’m still in El Paso county with authority, but if I ain’t, Hart of Hudspeth won’t mind,” chuckled the sheriff. “I’ll take a chance.

“Anyhow,” he added, lowering his voice to a whisper, “you pack all that’s needed anywhere in Texas, or elsewhere, for that matter.” He peered into the north.

“Now I can see ‘em, too,” he said. “And listen to ‘em beller!”

The tired cows were indeed voicing their irritation and disgust in no uncertain terms, but the riders urged them on with swinging quirts and ropes.

“Wait till they reach the river,” Slade said. “Then the riders are pretty apt to bunch. I don’t think they will put them to the water right away. Much more likely to wait for a signal from the other side telling them it’s all right to come ahead. Doubtful they would make the crossing without an okay over there. Otherwise they might barge head-on into a detachment of
rurales
awaiting them. And they’ll let the critters drink and rest a bit, I’d say. Easier to handle them. All right, they’ll land here soon. Get set. We have to give them a chance to surrender, even though they don’t deserve it; we’re law-enforcement officers. I don’t think they’ll give up without a fight, and if they don’t, shoot fast and shoot straight; it’s a tough bunch. Here they come!”

To the river’s edge bawled and jolted the herd, fanning out, pausing, the cows thrusting their muzzles into the water. The riders did bunch somewhat, although not as closely as Slade had hoped. He had a fleeting glimpse of the moonlight glinting from the heavy black beard of one. Then its wearer was behind another horseman and out of his sight.

“All right, Trevis,” the Ranger breathed.

The sheriff’s voice rang out — “Elevate! In the name of the law, you are under arrest!”

There were yells of alarm, the whitish blur of faces whisking in the direction of the command, a flicker of hands to holsters, and the gleam of shifted metal.

“Let ‘em have it!” Slade roared, shooting with both hands. The posse joined in, firing as fast as they could pull trigger.

Back and forth gushed the flashes of orange flame. It was a wild battle of ghosts in the dim moonlight filtering down from the overcast sky. Yells, curses, screams of pain, the booming of the guns and the bawling of the terrified cattle rose in a pandemonium of horrific sound. Slade heard a grunted curse behind him, knew somebody was hit. Two of the outlaws were down. A third was reeling and retching in his saddle. Slade tried to line sights with the bearded man, but he was an elusive target his horse weaving, dancing, “cloud-hunting.” The other horses seemed to be going mad. Twice one dashed in front of the bearded man and spoiled
El Halcón
’s aim.

Another gulp behind him; somebody else had stopped one. Fleetingly, he saw the bearded man’s mouth open. His voice rolled forth like thunder —

“Hightail! It’s a trap!” He whirled his mount and went skalleyhooting across the prairie, heading north by west. Slade steadied his Colt; his finger squeezed the trigger. And at that instant another horseman flashed between him and the bearded man and took the slug. Out of the saddle he whirled to strike the ground and lie motionless.

But now the bearded man was almost out of sixgun range. Nevertheless, Slade lined sights again and squeezed the trigger. The hammer clicked on an empty shell!

With a bitter oath he flipped out the spent shells and shoved in fresh cartridges. He did not fire again; the bearded man was far distant and going like the wind. Might as well try to shoot the moon! Again the hellion had escaped!

The outlaws were in full flight, the posse speeding them on their way with lead that did not find a mark.

“Hold it!” Slade shouted. “You’re just burning powder for nothing. Is anybody badly hurt?”

He was relieved to find nobody was. One deputy had taken a slug through the fleshy part of his upper arm. Another had a bullet-gashed thigh. Neither wound, Slade decided, was serious and the bleeding was not profuse.

“I’ll take care of you fellows in a minute,” he said. “I want to make sure of those hellions on the ground. A half-dead one is dangerous as a broken-back rattler.”

Turning, he whistled a loud, clear note. Another moment and a black shape came scudding down from the north, snorting its opinion of the whole affair, which wasn’t nice.

Approaching the bodies on the ground cautiously, Slade and the sheriff quickly discovered that their activities in this world were at an end.

“We didn’t do so bad,” said Serby. “Bagged half of the horned toads. I counted eight altogether and we got four, and I figure one of those that got away was hit.”

“Yes, but Evers escaped again,” Slade said morosely. “He seems to have the devil’s own luck. So we can look for more trouble.”

Shadow came surging up to Slade, with a final disgusted snort. From the saddle pouches, Slade secured his medicants and turned to the injured men. Soon he had the wounds padded and bandaged.

“That should hold you till Doc McChesney gives you a once-over,” he said. “Now everybody might as well take it easy while the cows graze and rest a while; they’re in no shape to travel at present.”

He and the sheriff utilized the time to examine the dead men. Nobody could recall seeing them before.

“Ornery looking hellions,” Serby grunted.

“About average, I’d say,” Slade replied. “Have a look of being rather more than average in intelligence. Some of the bunch Evers brought here with him, in my opinion. Let’s see what they have on them.”

Nothing of interest came from the dead men’s pockets except quite a bit of money.

“Divide it among the boys, they’ve earned it,” Slade advised. Serby nodded agreement and proceeded to do so.

“I see the horses those devils rode didn’t follow the others this time,” Slade observed. “Let’s flip the bits out so they can graze in comfort, and we’ll use them to pack the bodies to town.”

“Yes, might as well put ‘em on exhibition, just in case,” Serby agreed. “Well, Sime, you got your cows back, some of ‘em, anyhow.”

“And I sure feel good about it,” Judson replied. “You fellers did a hefty chore.”

“Give Slade the credit, it was his notion,” said Serby.

“I sure do,” Judson declared heartily.

Leaning against a tree trunk and smoking a cigarette, Slade studied the far bank of the stream and could discern no sign of life. Which was not surprising; anybody waiting over there had very likely sifted sand when the shooting started, wanting no part of the corpse and cartridge session.

It was long past daylight when the worn out cows were finally restored to their home pasture. After pausing at the Tumbling J casa for coffee and a snack, the posse rode on with their grim cargo, arriving in El Paso in the late afternoon.

An excited crowd followed the procession to the sheriff’s office to view the bodies and hear the details of what happened. The wounded men visisted Doc McChesney who changed the bandages, said Slade’s work couldn’t be improved on, and advised them to get some rest or get drunk, whichever they were of a mind to do. Both decided a saloon was a good place to rest in.

“Now I’m going down to Pablo’s place for something to eat,” Slade told the sheriff.

“A good notion,” Serby agreed. “Little gal must be getting worried. You coming back after a while?”

“Yes, I’ll see you later,” the Ranger replied.

Carmen was worried, or had been, and much relieved to have him back safe. He touched the neatly darned bullet slash in his shirt collar.

“See, it stayed together,” he said. “And no more sewing for you this time.”

“Oh, I like to sew,” she replied. “But please don’t bring any more like that to me; gives me the creeps every time I think of how close that thing came to you. All right, I’ll order you something to eat and then you can tell me what happened.”

Slade did so, in detail, for he felt she should know, there being no secrets between them.

“I don’t recall the Evers man, although quite likely I have seen him in here,” she said. “And you don’t think he knows you are a Ranger?”

“I’m fairly confident he doesn’t, although of course I could be mistaken,” Slade replied. “Seems to me he feels just a mite too sure of himself.”

“He won’t feel so sure by the time you’re finished with him,” Carmen predicted with as much grimness as a musical feminine voice could achieve. “Here comes coffee to hold you till your dinner is ready.”