Horseman of the Shadows (11 page)

I
T WAS GROWING DARK WHEN
S
LADE RETURNED TO THE
sheriff’s office. The door was shut, Serby sitting with his feet on the desk, drowsing.

“Same old story,” he replied to Slade’s question apropos possible recognition of the dead outlaws. “Quite a few folks remember the hellions hanging around the riverfront for the past six months or so.”

“Some of Evers’ original bunch, all right,” Slade commented.

“A couple of barkeeps recalled one or two of them talking with a big feller with black whiskers,” the sheriff added. “False whiskers! Makes me think of those darn comic shows I been reading about.”

“Yes, in a way it does,” Slade admitted. “Beards are not so common as they were for a while after the War, but there are still quite a few of them around, especially worn by older men. And a good false set is hard to spot unless one is really on the lookout for such a thing. I think I would have been able to recognize the fact had I gotten a close look at Evers when he was wearing one, but I only saw him from a distance each time.”

“And not even your eyes could be expected to spot the darn thing in the dark, like last night,” said Serby.

“Incidentally,” Slade remarked, “it was one of the things that convinced me the head of the outfit was somebody well known in El Paso who without the beard would be recognized. For instance, like when he started that row between the two riverfront gangs. Which sort of narrowed my search. In a way, that beard worked to his disadvantage.”

“Wish it was real,” grunted the sheriff, “so we could hang the blankety-blank by it! Guess his neck will do just as well.”

“Catch your rabbit before you cook it,” Slade smiled. “And so far,
Senor
Evers has been a very elusive cottontail.”

“Wait till he finds himself in the houn’-dog’s mouth,” Serby twisted the metaphor to his own convenience. “Well, suppose we drop over to Roony’s place for a snort. Might hear something.”

Roony’s place was crowded. Heads turned as they entered. Evidently the frustration of the widelooping attempt and the slaying of the four outlaws was a prime topic of conversation.

While Slade was discussing a cup of coffee and the sheriff a snort, Nelson Evers sauntered in. He was impeccably dressed, as spick and span as usual. He smiled pleasantly and nodded before making his way to the bar.

Slade experienced a surge of anger. The nerve of the sidewinder bordered on impudence; nonchalant, self-assured despite his recent setback. Then his sense of humor came to the rescue and he grinned, mentally.

And after all, Evers could not have adopted a wiser course, nor one more calculated to divert suspicion from himself. And a politician of the Tim Billings school might be expected to be adroit at concealing his emotions.

Not to be outdone, Slade smiled and nodded back. The sheriff also nodded although Slade felt the effort came close to choking him. At least he exhaled his breath with a whoosh when Evers turned his attention to the bar. Without a doubt, Sheriff Serby at that moment knew what it was to feel murder in his heart. Had Evers been within hands’ reach, he very likely would have strangled him.

“Take it easy,”
El Halcón
chuckled. “Careful, or you’ll bust a cinch.”

“I’ll bust his cinch for him if I get a chance,” the sheriff growled. “Waiter!”

For a while he glowered at his glass, then suddenly —

“Say, didn’t it strike you that hellion looked almighty smug?”

“Yes, he did,” Slade conceded.

“Sure struck me that way,” said Serby. “Betcha he’s got something besides his arm up his sleeve.”

“If he has, we’ll very likely hear about it before long,” Slade predicted. The sheriff glowered and muttered.

“What
could
he have in mind?” he wondered.

“A question to which I sure wish I had the answer,” Slade replied. “Probably something unpleasant.”

“Would strain his insides to do anything pleasant,” Serby snorted.

A little later, Nelson Evers tossed off his second drink and strolled out, limping slightly, and Slade felt certain there was something malicious about the smile he still wore.

It was as if, the Ranger thought, despite what had happened the night before, Evers was quite pleased with what the immediate future promised.

And if whatever it was worked out as Evers appeared to expect, he, Slade, would undoubtedly be anything but pleased. To the devil with it! He’d try to be ready.

“I’m going back to Pablo’s place for a while,” he announced. “Doesn’t seem to be anything of interest here.”

“And I’m going to bed,” said the sheriff. “I’ve had all I can take.

“Watch your step,” he cautioned. “The hellion may have something cooked up for you when you leave here.”

Slade hardly thought so, but he did not ignore the warning. Evers was capable of anything, and that smirk he wore boded no good for somebody, of that Slade was convinced.

What
could
the canny devil have planned? Slade racked his brains for the answer, and did not come up with one.

At least, however, there was a little ointment in the jar of flies. Slade doubted if Evers guessed that he, Slade, had discovered the clearing where the widelooped cows were held in corral. Putting himself in the outlaw’s place and endeavoring to think as the outlaw would think, he believed that after his follower who had been sent to feed the cattle failed to show up after a prolonged absence, Evers would conclude the fellow had either defected for some reason or other, or had gotten drunk and let something slip. Which, to Evers’ mind, would explain the presence of the sheriff and his posse at the crossing to intercept the stolen herd.

Of course, Slade admitted, he could be altogether wrong in
his
conclusion, but he did not think he was. That hidden clearing might prove to be an ace in the hole.

Taking no chances, he walked watchful and alert on his way to the cantina. Nothing happened. When he arrived there, he found Carmen in a street dress.

“I’m quitting early tonight,” she said. “Not much business, and I got very little sleep last night. Lay awake wondering.”

“And worrying?”

“Of course, how could I help it. You must be worn out, after the night you went through.”

“So, so,” he replied. “Nothing a night’s rest won’t take care of.”

Carmen smiled.

• • •

Around noon the next day, Slade dropped in on Sheriff Serby.

“Everything quiet, so far as I have been able to ascertain,” said the sheriff. “No reports of any skulduggery. Too darn quiet, I’ve a notion. Nope, haven’t seen anything of
amigo
Evers, and I’ve been prowling around a bit.”

“Trevis,” Slade said, “I want you to have your deputies scour the town for Evers. If they locate him, tell them not to contact him but to report the fact to you without delay. I’ll keep in touch with you and if Evers is spotted, you can relay the word to me.”

The sheriff regarded him curiously. “Got another hunch working?” he asked.

“Sort of,” Slade replied. “May not mean anything, but then again it might. As to whether I play it depends on whether Evers is in town.”

“And if he isn’t, you play it?”

“That’s the general idea,” Slade answered. “Hunches have been working fairly well of late.”

“Your sort generally do,” grunted Serby. “You call ‘em hunches, but I’ve got another name for them. They’re just the result of carefully thinking out all the angles and conducting yourself accordingly, or something like that.”

Slade smiled, and did not argue the point.

“Okay, I’ll be seeing you later in the afternoon,” he said.

He did some prowling about on his own, and saw nothing of Nelson Evers. Part of the hunch he hoped to follow was that Evers was
not
in town and wouldn’t be soon.

Late in the afternoon he dropped into Roony’s place for some coffee and a sandwich. Standing at the bar was the moneylender, Gregory Cole.

Cole evidently noticed his entrance for he glanced in his direction. After Slade was seated, he glanced again, seemed to hesitate, then walked over to the table the Ranger occupied.

“Mind if I join you for a little while, Mr. Slade?” he asked.

“Certainly not, sit down, Mr. Cole,” Slade invited.

Cole did so, regarding his table companion in silence for a moment or two.

“Mr. Slade,” he said at length, “I’ve been trying to contact you alone, without much luck.”

“Why alone?” Slade asked. “Prefer not to be seen consorting with the notorious
El Halcón?
”

Gregory Cole grinned, and the change in his irascible countenance was startling.

“Nope, it wasn’t that,” he chuckled. “When a man is seen talking confidentailly with Gregory Cole, folks at once say he must be in monetary difficulties and has to go to the old usurer for funds. Which may adversely affect his financial rating. However, I don’t think that obtains where you are concerned.”

“I see,” Slade replied, smiling in turn. He had been favorable impressed by the change in Cole’s expression when he grinned.

“Yes, I have tried to meet up with you when alone,” Cole resumed. “Came pretty nearly doing so the day of that row between the riverfront men down by the wharfs. But the rukus spoiled it.

“What I want to do, Mr. Slade, is thank you for saving Charley Arbaugh’s cattle. Charley needed the money those cows brought to pay off his note I held. Which he did. Without them, he would have been unable to meet the note when it fell due.”

“And had he been unable to meet the note, you would have foreclosed on his ranch?” Slade asked curiously.

“Foreclose!” Cole fairly spat the word. “Mr. Slade, I have never foreclosed on anybody. If a man who owes me suffers misfortune and is unable to pay, why that is my misfortune, too. I pride myself on being a pretty good judge of people and I carefully screen my customers. Seldom indeed have I lost money on one of my customers. Because of a series of bad breaks, men have owed me for as much as five years. When the tide turned, they came around and paid up. I charge only the legal interest rate for the use of my money, never a penny more, and during a man’s bad years, through no fault of his own, I don’t charge any. That’s the way I do business and, Mr. Slade, between you and me, it pays off.”

Slade’s cold eyes were suddenly all kindness as he regarded the old man.

“Mr. Cole,” he said, “it would appear that you are something in the nature of a philanthropist.”

Cole chuckled. “Oh, I’m a philanthropist, I reckon, when circumstances force me to be one,” he said. “Personally, I prefer to make money on my deals. And, after all, Mr. Slade, part of the prayer we should say every day is, ‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.’ If we don’t practice that as well as preach it, we have no right to look for the forgiveness we all shall some day sorely need.” Slade bowed his head.

“I have heard it said, Mr. Cole,” he remarked, “that you exert considerable political influence in the section; I think I’m beginning to understand that, now.”

“Well, I suppose I do, to an extent,” Cole admitted. “It’s just that folks who have dealt with me are wont to say that if Cole thinks well of a candidate and supports him, that’s the man to vote for.”

“So I gather,” Slade agreed. “It’s been a pleasure to talk with you, Mr. Cole, and I appreciate you taking me into your confidence as you have.”

Cole again flashed his disarming grin.

“It’s just that I didn’t want you to think too bad of the old usurer,” he said. “You are the sort of person one desires to think well of one. You must have a drink with me and then I’ll be toddling back to the business of grinding debtors under my heel. Waiter!”

L
ATER
, S
LADE REHEARSED THE CONVERSATION FOR THE BENE
fit of Sheriff Serby. The old peace officer nodded gravely.

“There are always folks who say spiteful things about a moneylender, saying he’s this and that and the other, that he ain’t got no use for anybody and nobody’s got any use for him. That is, when they don’t happen to need his help themselves. When they do, they change their tune mighty fast.

“Well, the boys say they haven’t seen hide nor hair of Evers; they’re pretty sure he ain’t in town. They went out for another look but don’t expect to find him.”

Shortly afterward the deputies filed in, one by one. Each shook his head.

“I’m willing to bet a peso he ain’t in town,” remarked one, casting a curious glance at Slade, who did not comment.

“Looks sorta like your hunch, as you call it, might be working out,” observed Serby, after the deputies had departed in search of food, or something else.

“Yes, it does,” Slade answered. “No, I’m not quite ready to talk about it. See you later.”

Leaving the sheriff’s office, his first stop was at the stable where Shadow was domiciled.

“John,” he said to the keeper, “will you do me a favor?”

“Glad to, Mr. Slade,” the keeper instantly responded. “What is it?”

“About eight o’clock, when it’ll be dark, get the rig on my horse and take him to the corner of Missouri and North Campbell streets and wait for me there; I’ll be along shortly.”

“Certain, Mr. Slade,” the keeper replied, asking no questions.

Repairing to Pablo’s cantina for his dinner, Slade found Carmen in an excited and jubilant mood.

“They’re getting married today!” she exclaimed, without preamble.

“Who?” Slade asked, mildly interested.

“You should know!” she retorted. “I declare! Men are the stupidest things! With it happening right before your eyes!”

“I still don’t know who you’re talking about,” he protested resignedly. “Who’s getting married?”

“Juana and Matt Guffy,” she replied. “Who else did you think?”

“Lots of people get married,” he said. “I’m glad to hear it; sort of figured they were meant for one another. The best of luck to them. Will they be in later?”

“Yes, any minute now,” she said. “Uncle Pablo and Enrico, the cook, are making ready for a real celebration. So are we all, for that matter. I’m sure she’ll be happy, she’s getting a good man,” she added, a trifle wistfully.

“And good men aren’t so easy to find,” he said.

Carmen sighed. “It seems that way,” she admitted.

Very soon, the bride and groom arrived, Juana blushing and radiant, Guffy in the dazed condition typical of bridegrooms. And the celebration that followed was all that had been hoped for it.

Finally, Slade glanced at the clock. “I’ll have to be leaving,” he told Carmen, in low tones.

“You expect to be gone all night?”

“I’m afraid so,” he admitted. “Don’t worry about me.”

“How the devil can I help it!” she retorted. “Please take care of yourself, dear.”

“I will,” he promised. “Congratulations, Matt, and all the happiness in the world, Juana.”

Carmen’s gaze followed him through the swinging doors, and the light in her beautiful eyes had been replaced by clouded shadows.

Watchful and alert, Slade took a roundabout way through dimly lighted streets to the corner of Missouri and North Campbell, arriving there a few minutes past eight o’clock.

“Late as usual!” Shadow’s snort said. “Let’s go!”

“Thank you, John,” Slade said to the stable keeper, pressing a bill in his hand. “Be seeing you.”

Once again, on a rise to the southeast, he paused and for a long time studied the back trail and his surroundings. He did not expect to be followed, reasoning there was nobody of Evers’ bunch in town to follow, but taking no chances. Satisfied, he headed south by east on the river trail, riding at a fast pace.

His objective was the casa of the Circle S, the old Swan ranch purchased by Nelson Evers. He knew the approximate location of the ranchhouse and expected no difficulty in spotting it.

It was a night of brilliant stars in a blue-black sky, without a breath of air stirring, and Slade thoroughly enjoyed the lonely ride. Once he had passed the cultivated area, he was shrouded in the solemn hush of the wastelands, with the range rolling to the moutains outlined starkly in the ashen glow. To his right the river moaned and whispered, chafing against its banks, for the Rio Grande was rising and rather swiftly. Another day, unless all signs failed, and it would have reached a stage to make the fording of cattle across it unfeasible.

Upon which forecast Slade based his most recent hunch.

The air was crisply cool, enough so as to set Shadow’s breath smoking. Now the only light was from the stars, but there would be a late moon. Which might be to
El Halcón
’s advantage or just the opposite. Depended on how things worked out.

“I’m of the notion the hellion is in need of money, after his recent setbacks,” Slade remarked to the horse. “And I believe he has the nerve to attempt what I think he has in mind. He’ll reason, and rightly, it is the last thing most anybody would expect him to do. Well, we’ll see. Anyhow, it’s a nice night for a ride and if I’m mistaken, we won’t have lost much. So june along, horse, and never mind complaining.”

Shadow snorted general disagreement and forged ahead.

Hour after hour the miles flowed back under the black horse’s speeding irons, until Slade knew he was on the Circle S range, with the ranchhouse no great distance farther on. He slowed his mount a little and carefully scanned the terrain.

The moon rose, flooding the wide reaches with its silver radiance. The mountain crests glowed wanly, their chests and shoulders purplish-black. Slade slowed Shadow still more.

Another ten minutes of slow going and he sighted the ranchhouse. It was advantageously set, weatherwise. On three sides were rises which sheltered it from the storms sweeping down from the northwest and the bitter northeast winds in winter. The base of the thickly brush grown one to the west was not much more than a score of yards from the casa. Slade studied its possibilities.

Light glowed behind a window in the side of the building facing him. Slade’s pulses quickened; looked like his hunch might well be a straight one. Somebody in there, all right, which was what he had hoped would be the case. And he greatly wished to see what was back of that glowing window.

Again he studied the terrain. There was nobody in sight, no sign of movement, and he could hear nothing. Should he risk it?

Crossing the moonlit clearing to the building would be a hazardous undertaking. If somebody happened to step out the door while he was crossing, the game would be up. But he had to know what was going on inside the ranchhouse. He braced himself, arrived at a decision. He sent Shadow ahead until he reached the south edge of the rise, which fell away a short distance from the trail. The brush that grew on the slope was not overly thick, but thick enough and high enough to conceal the horse. He turned the big black’s head and sent him into the growth a few paces, until he was almost opposite the lighted window. Dismounting, he dropped the reins to the ground.

“Stay put and be quiet,” he breathed. Shadow was silent and did not move a muscle; he’d been through this before and knew exactly what to do and what not to do. Slade glided to the edge of the growth, gazed at the window a moment, swept his surroundings with his glance.

Then with quick, lithe steps he raced across the open space, almost holding his breath. Any minute and there might be the flash of a gun, a slug tearing through his body. His vivid imagination could visualize the leveled barrel, the murderous eyes glinting along the sights. He breathed deep when, after what seemed an eternity of time, he reached the building wall and flattened against it.

After pausing a moment to relax his taut nerves, he eased along the wall until he reached a point from which he could look through the window. The light inside was strong and he didn’t believe he would be seen by anybody inside. He risked a quick glance.

Seated around a table, drinking and smoking, were three men. Two were lean, hard-visaged individuals he had never knowingly seen before. The third was Nelson Evers. On the table in front of him lay the much talked about black false beard, an excellent piece of work, Slade judged.

The occupants of the room were talking together, but only the indistinguishable mutter of their voices came through the closed window. He saw Evers glance impatiently at a clock on the wall. Appeared he was expecting somebody who apparently was late.

The air of expectation worn by the outlaw leader, or some subconscious reaction, caused
El Halcón
to glance back toward the slope. His pulses bounded as he caught a glimpse of a horseman just riding from the crest into the brush.

Slade’s mind worked at lightning speed. Very likely the fellow, from his elevated position, had spotted him crouching beside the window and was riding down the slope to get a shot at him. He whirled and raced back to the base of the slope and dived into the chaparral to stand tense and listening, and heard nothing.

Instantly he divined the reason for the unexpected silence. The fellow, fearful that the noise his horse would make pushing its way through the brush would be heard by his quarry, had dismounted and was stealing down the slope on foot. Slade glided up the slope a few paces, straining his ears to catch the slightest sound.

Began a grim game of hide-and-seek, with death very likely the forfeit for the loser. Holding his breath, Slade moved ahead a few more paces, calculating how long it should take the unseen outlaw to ease down the slope. He believed he was directly in line with the course the other would take.

Abruptly he hard a sound, a sound only the ears of
El Halcón
would have caught. Just the slither of a boot on the dry leaves which carpeted the ground; it was directly ahead of him. He took a long stride forward, and came face to face with his stalker.

The fellow gave a gasp. In the dim light, Slade saw his hand flash down, and struck — with all his two hundred pounds of muscular weight behind the fist that crashed against the other’s jaw.

The fellow gulped and went limp. Slade caught him before he fell, fist poised to strike again. But a second blow wasn’t needed; the owlhoot was completely out.

Easing the flaccid body to the ground, Slade stuffed a handkerchief into the gaping mouth, secured it in place with a tightly knotted neckerchief. Plucking the fellow’s gun from its holster, he cast it aside. Then he shouldered the unconscious man and carried him to where Shadow waited. Cutting his tie rope in two, he securely bound the fellow’s ankles, and his hands behind him. Then he carried him a few yards farther into the growth, and eased him to the ground.

“Guess that’ll hold you,” he muttered. “Hope you don’t choke to death on that handkerchief, for I’d like to have you alive to do a little talking when I come back for you. That is, if things work out right and I come back. If they don’t and I don’t come back, all you have to worry about is starving to death before somebody stumbles on you. Perhaps they’ll spot your horse and comb the brush for you.”

With which he made his way back to the edge of the growth, took up his post in the shadow and awaited developments.

They were not long in coming. Suddenly the light inside the ranchhouse was extinguished. A moment later a door banged and three men came out; the moonlight glinted on the black beard of one. They rounded the house and disappeared into the nearby barn to reappear a little later leading saddled and bridled horses. They mounted, rode to the trail and headed west by north at a fast pace. Slade waited a few moments, then mounted Shadow and poked his nose out of the brush.

Some distance ahead he could just make out the forms of the three horsemen. Confident they would not be able to spot him, he drifted along in their wake, holding the distance.

After a bit, the quarry turned more to the north. They passed from the Circle S range onto the Tumbling J and Slade knew his carefully thought out surmise was correct; Evers’ objective was the herd recovered at the crossing the night before. The cattle had been shoved onto Judson’s southeast pasture, where there was water and plenty of good grass. The thoroughly worn-out cows would not have strayed to amount to anything but would be pretty well bunched where they were left. The daring devil had figured it all out and had acted accordingly. And had it not been for him, Slade, divining what he had in mind, he would have gotten away with it.

As he rode, Slade drew something from a cunningly concealed secret pocket in his broad leather belt and pinned it to his shirt front.

It was the famous silver star set on a silver circle, the feared and honored badge of the Texas Rangers. His face set in granite lines, his eyes the color of a glacier lake under a stormy sky, he rode on, barely able to see his quarry, knowing they could not see him.

Finally the dark smudges that were the cows, lying down to rest after grazing, came into view. Slade studied the surroundings. Close to where the very little scattered cattle lay was a belt of thicket. He turned Shadow due north and rode swiftly until he was behind the belt, which was narrow. Dismounting, he stole through the growth on foot.

When he reached the far edge of the belt, the wideloopers were already rounding up the cows. Slade waited patiently until they were in close herd, the rustlers bunched behind them, then he stepped into view, a gun in each hand. His voice rang out —

“Elevate! You’re covered! In the name of the State of Texas — ”

With exclamations of alarm, the outlaws whirled in the direction of the command. For an instant they seemed stunned by the suddenness of the onslaught. Then Nelson Evers howled a curse and went for his gun. His companions instantly followed suit. Slade shot with both hands.

The odds were against him, but the advantage was with the man on the ground; the back of a frightened and moving horse is not a good shooting stance. One of the outlaws fell. A moment later a second pitched from his horse to lie motionless. Nelson Evers, raving, cursing, spurred his horse right into the blaze of the Ranger’s guns, shooting as he came. He had almost reached
El Halcón
when he straightened in the saddle, the gun dropped from his nerveless hand and he slumped slowly sideways to the ground, to lie writhing and moaning.