Horseman of the Shadows (5 page)

T
HE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON
, S
LADE STOOD FOR SOME TIME
gazing across the disputed Chamizal Zone. It was a rather drab strip at the present time. On it were quite a few homes and small business structures, a stockyard, and a packing house under construction. But as the already growing tourist trade increased, there would very likely be a change for the better.

He wondered if anybody other than himself had realized that if America won the dispute, the Zone would automatically become Texas State Land and for sale to individual purchasers. An interesting point of law might be involved.

And if the depredations in the section continued, which many believed were instigated by Mexicans, the United States might well insist on taking over the strip, bringing politcal pressure to bear. Mexico wouldn’t like it, but there wouldn’t be much Mexico could do about it. And in Mexico City, political pressure might also be brought to bear. Already the tourist and business trade were growing factors in the prosperity of Juarez and other Border towns and cities, the Mexican govenment possibly, even probably, considering that it would be good business to relinquish claims on the strip.

And probably somebody other than himself understood the situation that might develop and hoped to profit from it. Which might explain the things that had been happening in the section of late. Some ruthless individual, greedy for gain and with political connections, could be maneuvering to bring that end.

Which meant that, dimly at least, he was beginning to glimpse the possible motive. And once he was sure of the motive, he would be making progress toward solving the problem that confronted him, the problem which dealt with putting a stop to the outrages committed and bringing the perpetrators to justice.

All conjecture, of course, with little concrete on which to base it, but something.

Directly in his range of vision was the not-far-from-completed packing house. It was a two-story structure with gaping window holes opening onto the upper floor. Workmen were busy on both the inside and the outside of the building.

Looked like a going concern, all right. Well, no matter which way the cat jumped, it would very likely do a brisk business.

As he gazed, suddenly there was a muffled boom followed by a splintering and crashing. Smoke gushed from the window openings, downstairs and up. A volley of yells, curses and cries of pain arose. Men spewed from the building like pips from a squeezed orange.

“What in blazes!” the astonished Ranger exclaimed.

Smoke, lighter in color, now, more of a bluish tinge, continued to pour from the windows. Now from a lower window, directly below one to the upper story, came flickers of flame. And through the smoke cloud upstairs sounded cries of pain.

Slade raced forward, covering the less than a hundred yards in record time. The workers were clotting together, gesticulating, exclaiming, pointing to the upper window.

“Mike Thompson’s up there!” somebody yelled. “The stuff must have caught him! He’s trapped!”

“He’ll burn to death!” howled another voice. “Come on, boys!

The workers sped to the door, but were almost instantly driven back by a gush of fire.

A man came rushing around the corner. “The whole back of the blankety-blank shack’s blazing!” he shouted.

Arriving on the scene, Slade took in the situation at a glance. He peered through the upper window, from which came the cries of the trapped man. Through the curtain of smoke he dimly glimpsed a newel post at the head of the stairs. It was almost in line with the window, but not quite. His glance swept his surroundings.

Standing at the hitch rack before one of the saloons were a couple of horses. A sisal rope was looped to the saddle horn of one. At top speed he covered the short distance, seized the coiled rope and fairly flew back to the front of the building. He halted, measured the distance to the newel post with his eye. The shouting had ceased and men stared, wondering what he had in mind. Only the cries from the man helpless in the burning building broke the silence. The flicker of fire from the lower window was stronger, the flames licking up the wooden wall of the building. Slade twirled his loop.

It was a difficult cast, devilishly difficult, the post almost invisible in the smoke, the angle bad. Again he measured the distance, gave the riata another whirl, made his throw.

Straight through the window whizzed the tight loop. Straight and true, it settled over the newel post and was instantly jerked taut. Slade whirled to the workers.

“Get hold of this end!” he thundered at them. “All of you who can. Stretch the rope straight and hold it; don’t let it slack.”

Men rushed forward. Willing hands seized the twine. In an instant it was rigid as a bar of steel. They didn’t know what he had in mind, but that voice brought obedience. A concerted yelp arose as he seized the rope and went up it hand over hand, and a chorus of protest —

“You can’t do it, cowboy!” “You’ll get burned up, too! Look at the fire coming out that lower window!” “It’ll burn the rope in two, and it’s a thirty-foot drop to the ground! You’ll bust your neck!”

“Keep that rope tight!” Slade roared at them. “I’ve done it before.”

The cries of the trapped man were growing feebler, interspersed with spasmodic coughing.

After what seemed to him an eternity of effort, Slade reached the wall of the building. He gasped as the heat poured up from below, his head swam. But he seized the window ledge and hurled himself through the opening.

Regaining his feet, he peered through the smoke and saw the trapped man. All about was a mass of wreckage. A heavy beam rested across his leg, with part of the wreckage piled on top of the beam.

Slade bounded forward, gasping in the heat that gushed up the burning stairs, the smoke almost blinding him.

“Can you crawl?” he asked, his voice little more than a choking croak.

“I — I think so,” the other panted, “if that infernal timber was off my leg.”

“It’ll be off in a second,” Slade told him. “Get ready to move, and move as fast as you can.”

He seized the end of the beam, put forth the whole of his great strength. The beam creaked, but stubbornly refused to rise. Slade bent his knees, tensed for a supreme effort. Great muscles stood out on arm and shoulder. The right sleeve of his shirt split from elbow to wrist. The beam creaked, seemed to shudder. Slow inch by slow inch it rose. One more mighty surge and it was up a foot.

“Crawl!” the Ranger gasped.

The fellow did so, floundering forward, dragging his released but helpless leg. Slade’s arms and back were a flame of agony; he couldn’t take any more. He shot a glance at the frantically crawling man. Now his foot came from under the beam. Another instant and Slade let the timber fall with a crash. He straightened up, shaking from head to foot, gulping great draughts of the smoky air. The crippled man had fallen forward on his face. He groaned, rolled his head from side to side, raised it.

“We can’t get out!” he croaked. “Maybe you can by yourself, feller. Go ahead, don’t mind me!”

“Shut up and do as I tell you,” Slade replied. He knelt down in front of the other.

“Get your arms around my neck,” he directed. “Don’t let go, or you
are
a goner. Hang on, no matter what happens; we’re going out the window.”

Rising, with the fellow clinging to his neck like a leech, he staggered to the window. Now flames were pouring from the one below, reaching hungrily toward the taut rope. A cheer arose from the workers.

Awkwardly, Slade foundered through the window, seizing the rope with both hands, dragging the rescued man after him. Blistering heat struck them. Their overalls were smoldering.

Panting, gasping, the clamped arms around his neck choking him,
El Halcón
started the downward trip. When he let go with one hand to shove it forward, the strain on the other gripping the rope was almost more than he could bear. He was deaf, blinded, his senses reeling.

Slow hand over slow hand! He must get down the rope a ways or the fall would very likely kill or injure one or both, and his progress seemed that of a rheumatic snail. Voices were shouting something, urgently, but he couldn’t make out what was said. Didn’t matter anyhow. Now his movements were those of an automaton, the purely instinctive urge of self-preservation.

Suddenly he felt the rope slack. No use! They were done for. He and his helpless burden plunged downward.

S
LADE MUST HAVE FALLEN ALL OF THREE FEET, LANDING ON
his feet and staying erect. The arms about his neck loosened and the rescued man, his injured leg refusing to support him, tumbled to the ground, panting and exultant. Slade was instantly surrounded by a whooping crowd that slapped his back, pumped both hands and howled their admiration.

“We were trying to tell you to let go and drop!” a voice boomed above the general uproar. “But you just kept on coming till the rope burned in two. We were scared to slack the rope for fear you might stumble and fall, and we didn’t know how bad Mike was hurt. Feller, you’re a wonder! Ain’t another like you in Texas! Give him three cheers, boys!”

The cheers were given with a will, the rescued man putting in as much of a croak as he could summon from his smoke-seared throat.

Slade smiled at his admirers and turned to the man on the ground, who had propped himself on an elbow and was puffing hard at a cigarette somebody had rolled for him.

“Let’s have a look at your leg,” he suggested. With his sensitive fingers he probed the area of the injury.

“Pretty badly bruised and I’m afraid the small bone is broken, although it may only be cracked,” he said. “Fortunately, it is not a compound fracture and should give you no real trouble. Be okay in a week or so, I’d say. Somebody get a couple of strips for splints, and some string, and we’ll make it easier for him.”

The needed materials were quickly forthcoming and Slade soon had the patient resting easier.

“Much obliged for everything, feller,” he said. “I won’t forget it.”

“Here comes the fire department,” somebody shouted.

“Hell of a lot of good they’ll do,” said another. “That shack’s a goner.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you’ll have all your work to do over,” the Ranger remarked, glancing at the burning building, from which smoke and flame were now spouting in every direction.

The big foreman of the workers muttered an oath and shook his fist at the Mexican shore.

Slade touched him on the shoulder. “Do you know that Mexicans had anything to do with setting off that explosion, whatever the devil it was, and starting the fire?” he asked quietly.

The foreman shook his head. “But who the devil else?” he retorted.

“I don’t know, although I hope to find out,” Slade replied. “But please don’t go jumping at conclusions for which you have no proof.”

“Feller, after what you did for Mike, I won’t jump at anything you tell me not to,” the foreman said. “If you say the sun’s green, I’ll string along with you, and bust anybody who says it ain’t.”

“Thank you,” Slade smiled, “and spread the word among the boys, if you don’t mind.”

“I will,” The foreman promised. “My name’s Guffy, Matt Guffy. Mind telling me yours?”

Slade supplied it and they shook hands. Guffy regarded him with increased interest.

“Done heard that name,” he said. “You’re Sheriff Serby’s new deputy, ain’t you? Understand you’ve done some raunchin’ good chores since you landed here, to say nothing of the one you did today. I’m plumb honored to know you, Mr. Slade. And if ever you want a favor done, even to kickin’ the sheriff in the pants and setting fire to the courthouse, just ask me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Guffy,” Slade laughed. “But I think we’ve had enough fires for a while. And the sheriff would feel plumb hurt if you did such a thing to him.”

“And the chances are I’d
get
hurt,” chuckled the foreman. “Old Trevis is a salty hombre. Say, maybe you and me could have a drink together some place tonight, after I get this mess here straightened out?”

Slade had an inspiration. “Be fine,” he replied. “I’ll meet you at Pablo Montez’s cantina. You must know where it is, over close to the bridge.”

Guffy looked a bit startled. “Mexican feller, ain’t he?”

“He is,” Slade smiled.

“Oh, all right,” said Guffy. “Anything you say goes with me. I’ll be there, say around eight o’clock?”

“That’ll be okay,” Slade agreed.

Guffy glanced toward the burning building. “See the fire boys are having trouble getting enough hose stretched to do any good,” he observed. “Don’t matter, the shack’s a goner, and there isn’t anything else close enough to catch. We’ll have to start over from scratch, but we’ll make it.”

A makeshift stretcher had been contrived in the tool house and two brawny companions placed the injured Mike Thompson on it, preparatory to packing him to the doctor’s office for further examination.

“Might be a good idea to stop at a saloon and get him a snort or two,” Slade suggested.

“Mr. Slade,” chuckled Mike, who had heard the conversation between
El Halcón
and the foreman, “everything you think of is just plumb perfect. Sift sand, fellers, I’m dyin’ of thirst.”

“Hey! here comes the sheriff now,” exclaimed Guffy. “Didn’t take him long to hear about it.”

Serby quickly spotted
El Halcón’s
tall form and hurried to him.

“Well, now what have you been into?” he demanded accusingly.

Guffy told him, in detail. “Never saw anything like it in my life,” he concluded. “He went up that rope like a squirrel up a hickory tree, and came back down it with Mike Thompson hangin’ onto his neck, and Mike ain’t no featherweight. I wouldn’t have believed there was a man livin’ who could do it.”

“Oh, he’s always doing things like that, I ain’t a mite surprised,” said Serby. “Comes nacherel to him. Well I guess there’s nothing I can do here; I’m going back uptown. Coming along, Walt?”

“Yes,” the Ranger replied. “See you at eight, Mr. Guffy.”

“Well, what was it?” the sheriff asked as they walked away.

“Deliberate sabotage,” Slade said. “Somebody set some sort of a time bomb, I’d say. I’ve a notion they used black powder, which would set fire to everything. Anyhow, they did an excellent chore of destruction.”

“And I suppose Guffy and his bunch are blaming the Mexicans,” the sheriff observed.

“He was inclined to, but I’ve a notion I changed his mind for him a bit, and the chances are he’ll change the minds of the others,” Slade answered. “Trevis, we’re up against something out of the ordinary. A dozen men might well have been killed. The only thing that saved them was the lucky chance that nobody was working in the back of the buildings at the moment. Thompson was the only one who was definitely struck by the flying debris. A few others got scratches, nothing serious.”

“Hyderphobia skunks!” growled the sheriff. “Well, if you can win over Matt Guffy from his dislike for Mexicans, you will have accomplished something. He is from the Brownsville section. Was real young when they had the trouble with the Mexicans down there and I guess he saw some things that didn’t set well. Anyhow, he’s had no use for them ever since.”

“Youthful impressions linger, and sometimes become more vivid as the years pass,” Slade said. “I doubt if Guffy has had much contact with Mexicans since then and still judges all by what was done by a few. However, he strikes me as a fair-minded man and not beyond changing his opinions. Well, we’ll see.”

“You’ve got a hold on him,” the sheriff commented. “Mike Thompson is from the same part of the country as Guffy and they’re pretty close friends. Thompson is a sort of assistant to him, a good construction man. Guffy won’t forget and will be anxious to please you.”

“I hope so,” Slade replied. “Anything that will tend to ease the tension hereabouts will be a help.”

Serby chuckled. “If you can swing Guffy and his bunch into line, they’ll talk to other folks, and settin’ that fire may have sorta backfired, as you might say, on the hellions who did it.”

“Could be,” Slade agreed.

“Met Nelson Evers as I was hustling down to the fire,” Serby remarked. “He said he’d just come from there and that there was nothing to do about the packing house but there was no danger of it spreading. Said he heard you saved a feller from getting burned up. Sent you regards.”

“That was nice of him,” Slade said, his eyes thoughtful. “Didn’t see anything of Gregory Cole?”

“Nope,” the sheriff replied. “Guess he’s out at his farm or he would have been down there; most everybody else was, or is by now.”

Slade nodded, and let the subject drop.

Promptly at eight o’clock, Matt Guffy put in an appearance at Pablo’s cantina. At a nod from Slade, a smiling and deferential waiter escorted him to the Ranger’s table. Pablo himself, bowing and smiling, hurried forward with a bottle of his special vintage. Guffy’s expression was one of bewilderment. He glanced at Slade, at Pablo, and shook his head.

“Only the best for the
amigo
of
El Halcón
,” said Pablo, filling crystal goblets to the brim.

“Heard you were called
El Halcón
,” Guffy remarked, apparently in search of something to say.

“Been called that,” Slade admitted. “
El Halcón
, the notorious outlaw.”

“Just let me hear somebody call you an outlaw!” Guffy rumbled, a scowl darkening his ruggedly good-looking face. “Just let me hear ‘em!”

Carmen, charming in her dance-floor costume, came from the back room. Guffy was introduced, and within three minutes she had him hogtied, greatly to Slade’s amusement and satisfaction. He felt pretty sure he could count on Matt Guffy, did the need arise.

They had a very jolly dinner together. Guffy, once he had gotten over his initial bewilderment, proved to be a good conversationalist and full of humorous anecdotes that kept Carmen in stitches.

After they had finished eating and were discussing a glass of wine, Guffy kept glancing at the dance floor.

“Wonder if one of those gals would dance with me?” he asked. “I like to dance.”

“They’ll be glad to,” Carmen replied. “I’ll get you one.”

She beckoned a demure little
senorita
with very red lips and laughing eyes.

“This is Juana,” she introduced. “Juana, the
Senor
Guffy would like a dance with you.”

“Of a certainty,” the girl replied, in a softly musical voice.

Somewhat later, as they watched Guffy and his pretty partner doing a third number, Carmen remarked pensively, “I’ve a notion Juana has made a conquest. Well, it would be a good thing. She’s a homebody and would be happier looking after a house full of kids than dancing in a cantina.”

“And I’ve a notion she could do a lot worse,” Slade said. “He’s steady going and would be a good provider.”

“And no doubt wouldn’t go gallivanting off somewhere to show up again goodness only knows when,” commented Carmen. “I envy her.”

“Not really,” he smiled.

“Well, not too much,” Carmen admitted. “Come along, I want to dance, too. One number and I’ll have to leave you for a while; I haven’t finished my work. And don’t go running off somewhere. After what you went through today, you need a rest.”

“I doubt if I’ll get it,” he retorted pointedly as they reached the floor.

Carmen giggled and tossed her curls.

After they had finished a number, Carmen lingered at the table for a moment. Guffy joined them.

“Say, she’s all right,” he said apropos of Juana. “I like her, and I got a notion she sorta likes me.”

“She is honored to dance with the friend of
El Halcón
,” Carmen replied.

“And I am honored by you calling me a friend of
El Halcón
’s,” Guffy said soberly.

Carmen trotted off to the back room to finish her paper work. After another dance with Juana and an extended conversation at the edge of the floor, Guffy announced —

“I’m going over to the strip. Some of the boys are working all night to try and clean up the mess and get things ready to start rebuilding right away. The owners should be there by now. They were down at Sierra Blanca today but were expected back on the ten o’clock train. Say! these folks here are all right; I like ‘em. Will be back tomorrow. See you here, I hope.”

Juana let her eyes follow him to the door, where he turned and waved to her. Watching him depart, Slade experienced a feeling of accomplishment; there would be no more trouble between Guffy and his men and the Mexicans. As Sheriff Serby said when he strolled in a little later and was regaled with an account of the evening’s happenings —

“Looks like settin’ the fire sure did sort of backfire; did the hellions more harm than good. Put the owners to a bit of expense, but they’re well heeled with
dinero
and can take it. Yep, it sure backfired. Now what?”

“Now, after you’ve finished your snort, how about moseying over to the packing house, or what’s left of it, and see how the boys are making out.”

“Suits me,” said the sheriff, emptying his glass. “Let’s go.”

“Tell Carmen I’ll be back in a little while,” Slade said to Pablo.

At the site of the burned building they found the night crew working like beavers — clearing away the thoroughly wetted down ruins, inspecting the foundation stones to make sure they were intact. Slade was not particularly surprised to see Mike Thompson there, hobbling on crutches but bellowing orders interspersed with vivid profanity.

“Doc said there was nothing to it, go get drunk,” he told Slade. “Small bone cracked, but that is all. Figured I’d be better here to make sure the boys are getting along okay. Be seeing you, and thanks a million once again.”

There also were the two owners, Hatch and Friedman, pleasant gentlemen who took their loss philosophically. The shook hands warmly with
El Halcón
.

“We won’t forget what you did, Mr. Slade,” said Friedman. “We can erect new buildings, but we could not have put together a burned up man. No, we won’t forget it. We would have hated to lose Mike.”

“If I may make a suggestion, Mr. Friedman,” Slade said, “have your property guarded, day and night, from now on.”

“We’ll do that,” put in Hatch. “Looks like somebody is deliberately trying to make trouble.”

“That’s exactly the case,” Slade replied. “So it’s best not to take chances, although I rather doubt they’ll bother you again. What they had in mind didn’t succeed, but I repeat, best not to take chances.”

Satisfied that everything was under control, Slade and the sheriff returned to the cantina.