Horseman of the Shadows (6 page)

“Well, I’d say you did a darned good day’s work,” Serby said as he ordered a snort for himself and coffee for Slade.

“Not too bad,” the Ranger admitted. “I don’t seem to be making any headway at running down whoever is responsible for the heck raising, but I do feel that I’ve curbed their activities a mite and frustrated a few attempts at trouble-making.”

“To say nothing of saving a man’s life at the risk of your own, and recovering a herd of stolen cows, and that at the risk of eating lead,” the sheriff added.

“Well, it all worked out,” Slade said. “But I’m afraid I’ll need a new pair of overalls. These are beginning to char off at the bottoms.”

“A wonder your legs didn’t get plumb scorched,” grunted Serby.

“My boots withstood the heat pretty well, and I was in the worst of it for only a moment,” Slade replied. “Mike is quite a bit shorter and I’ve a notion the flames hardly reached his feet.”

“We’ll charge new overalls to the county treasury,” Serby declared. “Guess you’ve earned ‘em, quite a few times over. Also a new shirt; the sleeve of that one is sorta airy. Slit all the way down to the wrist. Well, here comes your gal in a street dress, so I reckon you’ll be leaving.”

“Yes, I think I’ll call it a day,” Slade agreed.

“And watch your step,” cautioned Serby. “I’ve a notion the sidewinders ain’t feeling a bit friendly toward you about now.”

Slade glanced toward the end of the bar nearest the door and smiled. Lounging there were Gordo Allendes and several more of Pablo’s young men. He rather hoped the outlaws would make a try for him on the way to Kansas Street. If so, they would most certainly end up short a few.

“Oh, by the way,” he remarked, “you said you met Nelson Evers when you were coming down to the fire. Didn’t he say last night when we were talking with him that he planned to ride to his recently purchased spread today?”

“Why, yes, he did,” replied Serby. “Guess he changed his mind.”

“Yes, I guess he did,” Slade said slowly.

The sheriff ambled out. Carmen joined Slade.

“I’m finished for tonight,” she announced. “That is, here.”

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
, S
LADE AND THE SHERIFF AGAIN
walked over to the strip, to find Guffy and his men already rebuilding the packing house. Slade noted that several alert looking individuals were doing no work, just walking around, peering in all directions. Their gaze centered on Trevis and himself until they were recognized. Evidently Friedman and Hatch were taking no chances with possible further sabotage, for the gentlemen in question all packed guns and looked ready to use them.

“Well, what do you think of the rukus between the Federal government and the Mexican government?” Serby asked.

“I think,” Slade said thoughtfully, “that ultimately — heaven alone knows when — the dispute will be settled in favor of Mexico. However, there are evidently those who think otherwise and are endeavoring to cash in on their beliefs.”

“And meanwhile that blasted river is liable to kick up some other shenanigan, maybe taking a notion to run right through El Paso,” the sheriff snorted. “‘Ol’ Debil River’ is right!”

“Well, time that levels the mountain range and raises the prairie to the skies will tell us all,” Slade observed.

“That gives plenty of leeway,” chuckled Trevis. “Hope it won’t take that long. But that river! Liable to act up most anytime.”

“The trouble can easily be remedied,” Slade said. “It will cost something, but all that’s necessary is to cut a new concrete or tile-lined channel through here. Then there will be no danger of the river wandering and no more similar disputes. Eventually, I predict, it will be done.”

Trevis listened respectfully, for he shared with “Jaggers” Dunn, the General Manager of the C. & P. Railroad System, Jim Hogg, the former Texas Governor, and “Bet-a-Million” Gates, the Wall Street tycoon, that there was no better engineer in all Texas.

He was right.

Shortly before the death of his father, which followed business reverses that occasioned the loss of the elder Slade’s ranch, young Walt had graduated from a noted college of engineering. He had anticipated a post-graduate course to better fit him for the profession he planned to make his life work.

This, however, became out of the question for the moment, so when Captain Jim McNelty, with whom he had worked some during summer vacations, suggested that he come into the Rangers for a while and pursue his studies in private, Slade was receptive.

Long since, he had gotten more from private study than he could have hoped for from the postgrad; but he realized Ranger work had gotten a strong hold on him, providing as it did so many opportunities to right wrongs, help deserving folks, and make the great land he loved an even better land for the right kind of people. And he found himself reluctant to sever connections with the illustrious body of law-enforcement officers, at least for the present. He was young. Plenty of time to be an engineer. He’d stick with the Rangers for a while.

Often he had found his knowledge of engineering and geology of service in the course of his Ranger activities. Right here might well be another example.

“How about taking a look at the docks and see how the boys there are making out?” suggested the sheriff.

“Not a bad idea,” Slade agreed. “I’m sort of curious myself.”

When they reached the dock, they found a scene of hectic activity. Working shoulder to shoulder with the Texans were a number of Mexicans.

The foreman came forward, grinning, to greet them. “Got a big hurry-up job of loading,” he said. “The boys over to the other side of the river heard about it and, not being very busy right at the time, came over to lend a hand. We didn’t ask ‘em to; they came on their own. They’re making an easy chore outa a hard one.”

“When good folks get together, anything is easy,” Slade replied.

“Guess that’s so,” agreed the foreman and hurried back to his many duties.

“The
El Halcón
touch,” sighed the sheriff as they headed uptown. “Nobody else could have done it.”

“There was really not much to it,” Slade deprecated the feat. “Just showed them the error of their ways and pronto they got busy rectifying them.”

“Oh, sure, just as easy as falling off a slick log,” Serby replied sarcastically. “But let somebody else try it! And I’ve a notion the hellions who have been making the trouble hereabouts are getting an idea what it means to have
El Halcón
lined against them.

“But which may mean trouble for
El Halcón
,” he added. “They’ll sure be after you.”

“Just so they don’t catch up,” Slade said lightly.

As they walked, Slade turned back to gaze across the Chamizal.

“Right now,” he remarked, “the Mexicans are saying the Chamizal is a clear-cut case of
Yanqui
imperialism. But I’ll wager that before all is said and done, their newspapers will be calling the final settlement a great example of how the most powerful nation in the world recognizes an error. Which won’t do us any harm, and may come at a time when it’ll do a lot of good.” A truly prophetic utterance.

“And if you say that’s how it’s going to work out, I reckon it’ll be just the way,” conceded the sheriff.

Having nothing particular in mind at the moment, they paused at Roony’s place, Slade craving coffee, the sheriff a surrounding of redeye. Roony himself served them.

“Gregory Cole was in a little while ago,” he remarked. “He sure was in a bad temper. He’s always cantankerous, but today more so. Sorta hinted something he’d depended on went plumb haywire; didn’t say what.”

“Maybe one of his debtors defaulted and he can’t collect,” snorted Serby. “Imagine that would set him off for fair.”

“Could be,” Roony admitted.

Slade said nothing, but his black brows drew together slightly.

“Well, I’m going back to the office and see if anything has come in,” said the sheriff. “What do you aim to do?”

“I think, after a bit, I’m going out and stroll around,” Slade replied.

“Okay,” said Serby. “Be seeing you.”

Over another cup of coffee, Slade pondered his next move. He hadn’t the slightest idea what it should be. Aside from the turmoil around the river front and the Chamizal, things had been quiet for the past few days. There had been no reports of cow stealing, robbery, or other outrage.

Too darn quiet, Slade felt. He was convinced the hellions would cut loose somewhere, and soon. Sipping his coffee, he racked his brains in an endeavor to anticipate what they might have in mind, and got exactly nowhere. It was a shrewd and resourceful bunch that did not telegraph their intentions in advance.

Finally he left the saloon and wandered about the town, pausing in front of the stage station, the coaches of which still serviced the smaller towns not tapped by the railroads.

In front of the station stood one of the clumsy vehicles drawn by four mettlesome horses.

“Stage to La Union,” a hanger-on remarked, noticing the direction of his gaze. “Be dark before they make it.”

Three men were approaching the coach, shooting watchful glances in all directions. Two were armed. The third, dressed in “store clothes” giving the impression of a clerk, bore a locked iron box that looked heavy, which he deposited in the body. Immediately a shotgun guard, sawed-off in hand, clambered in beside the box. Slade heard the click of a key as he locked the door from the inside. A second guard, armed with shotgun and rifle, mounted the high seat and took up his post beside the driver.

With a glance around, the driver whooped to his horses, they sprang forward and the stage careened out of town in a cloud of dust.

“Old Herky always has to make a show of it,” snorted the loafer. “He’ll slow down when he hits the Pass.”

Nodding agreement, Slade walked away, deep in thought. Abruptly he turned a corner and headed for Shadow’s stable.

“Playing a hunch, horse,” he told the big black. “Maybe just a loco one, but somehow I’ve a notion it isn’t. Those jiggers who loaded the box into the coach were a bank messenger and a couple of bank guards or I’m a lot mistaken. Which means there is something of value in that box, very likely enough to make a nice haul for gents with share-the-wealth notions. And the way the matter was handled, it was nicely advertised, and very likely before that. Well, we’ll see. You need to stretch your legs, anyhow, and so do I; we’ve been sorta cooped up of late.”

Shadow snorted profound agreement and stepped out at a brisk pace once he was clear of the stable.

However, as they headed for the Pass, Slade pulled him in a bit; he did not wish to overtake the coach or be sighted by its occupants. He was familiar with the trail to La Union and realized its possibilities.

La Union was not a very large settlement, but it serviced a wide stretch of cattle country and boasted, among other things, a bank. And Slade was very much of the opinion that the strongbox inside the locked coach contained a money shipment to that bank, quite likely a large sum.

The way the matter had been handled, any outlaw with half a brain would have immediately sized up the situation — and not beyond the realm of possibility that somebody had advance knowledge of the shipment. He was pretty sure that the real headquarters of the bunch was El Paso, and the man at the head of the organization in a position to learn things not put out for general consumption.

It seemed a trifle absurd to think the outlaws would make a try for the heavily guarded stage — three armed and alert men being something to reckon with, especially with one locked inside the practically bullet-proof coach. But the ingenious hellions might have figured an angle that would render the attempt feasible.

Some distance out of town, Slade drew rein at the edge of a thicket and for some minutes gazed back the way he had come. The trail lay deserted; appeared he wasn’t wearing a tail.

Fording the river without difficulty — for La Union lay to the west of the stream, the flow of which at that point was almost due south — he continued on his way. He felt sure that his unusually keen vision would sight the stage before its occupants were able to discern him.

Mile after mile flowed back under Shadow’s irons, with the sun steadily westering. Finally Slade spotted the stage, a crawling bug in the distance. The driver was making fairly good time despite the heavy grade, doubtless hoping to near La Union before the dark closed down. Slade kept his distance for a while, then gradually closed it a bit. He felt pretty sure the occupants of the coach would not be able to see him, even did they chance to glance back.

Now on the left was a range of low hills, their crests forming a ridge that, Slade knew, extended for a good ten miles. And if an attempt were made, he felt it would be somewhere in the shadow of the ridge. For at its foot the trail was winding, and considerably brush-grown on the right. The elevation of the ridge crest was perhaps a thousand yards higher than that of the trail.

Studying the slopes on his left, Slade rode on until he reached a point where it would not be too difficult to ride up the slope to the crest. He turned Shadow’s nose toward the straggle of growth which clothed the slope.

“Up you go, feller,” he said. “You’ve climbed worse than this in your time.”

Shadow’s only reply was a disgusted snort as he wormed his way through the thorny brush. Without mishap he reached the crest and Slade sent him forward at a good pace, for now the quicker he overtook the lumbering coach the better.

As he rode he scanned the brush below, on both sides of the track, and saw nothing significant. Birds were going about their business in an unconcerned manner, a pretty sure sign that there was nothing of which they were afraid holed up near their nests or roosting spots. Began to look like the hunch wasn’t a straight one and he had had a long ride for nothing.

Then abruptly he saw something that instantly held his interest. To the north, a mile or so distant, dust was rising. Even as he gazed the swarthy cloud thickened.

“Now what in blazes?” he wondered to Shadow. “Looks like a herd of cows headed this way, and coming fast. A stolen herd? Nope, they wouldn’t be run in this direction, and what rancher with a grain of sense would be running the fat off the critters that way?”

Now he was directly opposite where the stage toiled up the grade. The ridge was changing direction a bit, veering more to the west, the trail following its base in a sweeping curve, around which the driver of the coach could not see for any great distance.

Slade sighted the herd, a fifth of a mile or so to the north of the slowly progressing coach. At top speed it raced forward. It wasn’t a very big herd, less than three-score head. Another moment and he saw, bringing up the drag, a half-dozen riders swinging their quirts and ropes, urging the frantic animals on. The fifth of a mile between the herd and the coach had dwindled to half of that.

And now
El Halcón
understood. With a muttered oath he whirled Shadow and sent him racing down the slope.