Horseman of the Shadows (7 page)

A
ROUND THE CURVE BULGED THE CATTLE
. S
LADE DIMLY
heard the yells of consternation from the driver and the guard. Another moment and the stage and the maddened cows collided head on.

The stage horses reared, whirled, trying to avoid the tons of bone and muscle bearing down upon them. They swung around, cramping the front wheels.

Over went the stage. Driver and guard were flung from the high seat like peas from a shooter to strike the ground at the edge of the brush and lie motionless.

The herd split, flowing around the wreck like a wave around the prow of a ship. Up to the coach swept the six riders. There was a crackle of shots. Slugs hammered the body of the overturned coach. The inside guard’s shotgun sounded a muffled boom, then remained silent.

Down the slope raced Shadow. The thousand yards was now less than six hundred. Directly ahead was a level spot where no brush grew. The outlaws had dismounted and were shooting at the lock of the door.

Suddenly one, evidently having heard Shadow’s drumming hoofs, turned and glanced up the slope. The dimming sunlight glinted on his black beard. He gave a yell of warning. His companions whirled about to face the approaching rider. Puffs of smoke rose from their ranks and the crackle of the guns reached Slade’s ears. Slugs whined past, some of them altogether too close for comfort. He reached the level spot, jerked Shadow to a halt, whipped his Winchester from the saddle boot and clamped it to his shoulder. His icy eyes glanced along the sights.

The muzzle spouted smoke. One of the outlaws crumpled up like a sack of old clothes. An answering slug ripped the crown of Slade’s hat. A second just grained his left arm. But he took his time, steadied the Winchester.

Again the spurtle of blue smoke. A second outlaw whirled sideways and fell, to lie without movement. Slade reeled slightly as a bullet burned along his cheek bone. He fired a third time, and a third man pitched forward on his face. The three remaining dashed frantically for where they had left their horses half concealed by a stand of growth. They had had enough, and more than enough, of that flaming rifle. Slade squeezed trigger a fourth time, and thought he saw one stagger slightly, the bearded man, but if so, his injury was evidently slight, for he managed to fling himself into the hull without difficulty. Another instant and the trio vanished around the curve. Slade sent a couple of slugs whining in their direction on general principles. He did not believe they would return.

Quickly shoving fresh cartridges into the magazine, he sheathed the Winchester and rode down the slope to the trail. As he reached it, the stage driver sat up, staring dazedly about. His gaze centered on
El Halcón
and he gave a yelp of alarm.

“Take it easy,” Slade called. “Everything’s under control. You hurt much?”

“Don’t think so,” the driver mumbled. “Head’s buzzin’, but I guess I was just knocked out by the fall.”

A single glance had sufficed to assure Slade there was nothing to be feared from the three outlaws. He paid them no more mind for the time being.

“How about your partner?” he asked.

“Reckon he’s knocked out, too, if his neck ain’t busted,” the driver replied, bending over the guard. “Nope, he’s beginning to grunt. Guess he’ll be coming out of it before long. But I’m scairt poor Pete inside the coach is done for. Don’t hear a sound from him.”

“We’ll see,” Slade said, approaching the coach, which lay on its side. He peered through the narrow door-window and could make out the huddled form of the inside guard lying on the down side of the coach.

The outlaws’ bullets had smashed the lock, but the door was jammed. Slade managed to get a grip on it, put forth his strength and tore it open. Lying on the slanting floor, his feet on the outside, he reached the guard, got his arms around his limp form and drew him out.

“My God!” gasped the driver who was on his feet. “He’s done for! His face is covered with blood!”

“Just creased, I believe,” Slade replied. “He’s breathing. I imagine a ricocheting bullet glanced off the side of his head. Cut an ugly gash but I doubt if it amounts to much.”

With his sensitive fingertips he explored the wound. “Don’t think there’s any fracture,” was his verdict. “I’ll pad and bandage the wound to stop the bleeding and I’ve a notion he’ll be all right after a bit.”

Securing the medicants from his saddle pouches, he went to work on the wound. Before he finished his ministrations, Pete opened his eyes, muttered and blinked.

“How you feel?” Slade asked as he gave a final pat to the bandage.

“Guess I’m darned lucky to be able to feel at all,” Pete replied. “What happened?”

Herky, the old driver, and the other guard told him, and the part Slade played was certainly not glossed over. When they paused for breath, Pete stuck out his hand.

“Much obliged, feller,” he said, a bit shakily. “Guess we all owe our lives to you. Those devils wouldn’t have left one of us alive. They knew we got a look at them and might know them if we saw them again. I’m pretty sure I would, especially the tall one with the black whiskers.

“Yes, if it wasn’t for you, we’d all three be dead right now.”

Slade did not disagree; he thought Pete was probably right, that the outlaws would not have left any witnesses.

“And the chance you took!” said Herky. “Standing up there in the open, swappin’ lead with the six of them!”

“Conditions favored me, in a way,” Slade replied. “I was sort of in the shadow, while they were standing in the light.”

“Hmmm!” said Herky, dryly, glancing up at the cleared space above, “funny, ain’t it, how the sun’s shining bright up there, even though it is lower than it was a bit ago, and it ain’t hitting down here.

“And I suppose you got that cut on your cheek from a mesquite thorn, eh?” he added, even more dryly.

Slade smiled, dabbed at the cut, which was slight, with a bit of bandage, and refrained from arguing either point, deftly changing the subject.

“Let’s look those bodies over,” he suggested. “See if you recognize them.”

After peering at the distorted faces, all three shook their heads.

“See you got every one of the sidewinders dead center,” Herky commented. “Feller, that was some shooting, at around six hundred yards!”

Slade again changed the subject. “Now for their pockets,” he said. “Might turn out something interesting.”

They didn’t, except a surprisingly large sum of money, until he drew forth a folded paper. It divulged a very neat drawing which he recognized as a plat of the Chamizal Zone. At one spot a tiny cross had been inscribed, and a single word in tiny letters — “Rear.”

It marked, he felt sure, the site of the packing house. So the fellow had been the miscreant, or one of them, who triggered the explosion and the fire. Which confirmed his opinion that the bunch who had been widelooping, robbing, and killing were responsible for that outrage.

“What about all this
dinero?
” asked Herky.

“Divide it up among you,” Slade replied. “I think you have it coming.”

“And
I
think you have all of it coming,” Herky declared. The others nodded affirmatively.

Slade smiled and shook his head, and after a glance at his face, Herky did not argue, and proceeded to divide the spoils into three equal sums.

“What about the carcasses?” he asked.

“I think we’ll leave them where they are for the sheriff to look over,” Slade decided. “We’re in Donaana County, I believe. I know the sheriff, Champ Arnold, isn’t it? He drops in on Sheriff Serby ever now and then; I met him in Serby’s office.”

Herky uttered an exclamation: “Say! I’ve got you placed at last. Been wondering who you reminded me of. Never saw you close-hand before, but you were pointed out to me. Whe-e-ew! no wonder those horned toads got what was coming to them — going up against
El Halcón!
”

The others stared wide-eyed. Slade quickly diverted their interest elsewhere.

“I think,” he said, “that the four of us should be able to get that coach back on its wheels; doesn’t appear damaged much, except for the body. Come on, let’s see what we can do.”

It was something of a chore for even four strong men, but with the aid of an uprooted stout sapling Slade found at the edge of the brush, they accomplished it. The stage horses, trailing broken harness, had bolted but a short way down the trail and were nibbling at the grass growing alongside it. The stampeded cows had kept right on going and were very likely in Texas by now. The dead outlaws’ horses had pounded after the others.

“A smart trick, all right,” Slade observed. “Collected a few cows from the range ahead and sent them larruping into the stage. I saw something similar once, only that time the hellions employed sheep, with the same results.”

“And if you saw it done, I reckon the results for the gents who did it were about the same as here,” chuckled Herky. “Expect those cows were from Joe Elman’s spread, just a little way around the bend, where the hills peter out. A creek there and there’s usually a bunch grazing around it.”

The harness was patched up, after a fashion, and the stage resumed its interrupted and much delayed trip, Slade riding alongside the vehicle.

The sun was setting in many-colored glory when they cleared the hills and the belt of rolling rangeland lay before them. Now the battered stage made fairly good time despite the handicap of a slightly bent front axle.

Neverthless, it was long past dark when they reached their destination. In front of the station was a troop of mounted men preparing to set out in search of the wayward equipage, among them the president of the bank.

Followed a gabble of questions and explanation. The bank president solemnly shook hands with Slade.

“More than twenty-thousand dollars in that box, needed for payrolls and other obligations,” he confided. “We knew something had happened. There’ll be a reward for you, sir.”

But Slade shook his head. “The opportunity to be of service was reward enough,” he replied definitely.

The local doctor was summoned and after an examination, proclaimed the injuries suffered by the driver and the guards were of no consequence.

“A real professional job of padding and bandaging you did,” he told the Ranger. “Surgeon’s hands. A pity you didn’t turn to medicine instead of following a cow’s tail.”

Slade smiled, and did not comment.

The president led the way to a nearby restaurant where liquid refreshment was also served.

“Everything taken care of,” he told his guests. “And, Mr. Slade, you’ll stay at my house overnight, of course.”

A rider was dispatched to the county seat to notify the sheriff.

“He’ll be here early tomorrow morning,” the president predicted.

“And in the morning you’d better send somebody to Joe Ulman’s place to tell him where his cows went,” Slade added. “If they kept on going at the rate they were, he should find them someplace in east Texas.”

The president chuckled, and promised to do so.

P
RETTY WELL TIRED OUT BY THE HECTIC DAY
, S
LADE SLEPT
soundly and arose much refreshed. After breakfast with the hospitable banker, they repaired to the stage station, where they found Sheriff Arnold awaiting them. The peace officer was plump and jovial, but with keen eyes.

“So, still going strong, eh?” he chuckled as he shook hands with Slade. “I think I’ll try and talk Serby into lending you to me for a while. We could use you over here. Good work! Good work!”

“I acted impulsively, for I fear I have no authority over here,” Slade said gravely, but with the devils of laughter edging to the front.

“Guess you were packing all the authority you needed,” replied the sheriff. “Good work!

“I sent a couple of deputies ahead with pack mules to pick up the carcasses,” he added. “No, I don’t see there’s any need for you to be at the inquest. Herky and the guards can tell what happened and answer any questions that may be asked. Then we’ll dump the hellions in a hole and forget ‘em. Imagine you have business in El Paso.”

“I have,” Slade agreed.

“I’m ready to ride whenever you are,” said Arnold. “Chances are we’ll catch the boys before they get there; mules will hold ‘em up.”

Saying goodbye to the banker, who again voiced his thanks to Slade, they headed south and did catch up with the deputies.

At the site of the incident, Slade and the sheriff dismounted and studied the hard-lined faces of the dead robbers.

“Guns-for-hire type, I’d say,” was the sheriff’s verdict.

“Quite likely,” Slade agreed. “Plenty of that sort along the Border.”

“Guess you’ll be heading south,” remarked Arnold. “I’ll be dropping in on Serby soon. Hope to see you.”

As he headed for El Paso, Slade remarked to Shadow —

“Blast it! why couldn’t one of the horned toads be the jigger with the black beard! I’m just about sure for certain he is the head of the outfit, whoever he is. Of that I’m still not sure. Suspicion points to one gent, but just a mite too obviously, and I’m always a bit dubious where the obvious is concerned.”

Arriving in El Paso without mishap, he gave Sheriff Serby an account of the incident. Serby repeated what he had said before —

“You’re the limit! how did you manage to figure it out in advance as you did?”

“There are several angles to consider,” Slade replied. “First, they failed in the attempt to run off Charley Arbaugh’s big shipping herd, which was a serious setback — that herd would have meant a lot of money. And things have been quiet ever since then. And remember what I’ve often mentioned, an outlaw leader must keep his men well supplied with money if he hopes to hold them in line. So it was logical to believe he had something in mind. And the way that money shipment was handled led me to believe that quite likely the fact it was going to be shipped by yesterday’s stage was known in various quarters. Putting myself in the outlaw’s place, if I was in need of money I’d hardly pass up what looked to be a prime opportunity to replenish the exchequer. So, working on that premise, I moseyed along, just in case, playing a hunch, as it were. Hunch paid off.”

“Yes, it sure did,” Serby agreed. “And, as I said before, you’re thinning ‘em out.”

“Yes,” Slade conceded, “but the head of the bunch is still running loose, and as
I’ve
said before, that sort of a head grows a new body mighty fast. An outlaw leader of ability has little trouble obtaining recruits to balance his losses.

“Although in this particular case I’m not quite so sure,” he continued thoughtfully. “The devil is playing for big stakes and I’m of the opinion that he started out with a carefully picked bunch that could understand what he had in mind and go along with him. Sheriff Arnold classified those three dead hellions as just guns-for-hire type, and I didn’t argue with him. But to me they gave the appearance of men well above the average in intelligence. Which is what I expected. The way that attempt was planned and executed denoted ingenuity and imagination.”

“But you were just a jump ahead of them,” remarked Serby. In fact, he reflected, the episode confirmed what Captain Jim McNelty often said, that the real secret of Walt Slade’s outstanding success as a Ranger was not his fast gunhand and unusual physical attributes, but lay in the proven fact that he not only outfought the outlaws, he out-thought them. Or, as the sheriff remarked, he was always a jump ahead of them.

Which contention Slade at the moment regarded in a somewhat dubious frame of mind. He had won a few battles, but considered that he was still a heck of a long ways from winning the war. Until his suspicions were substantiated and definitely focused on one individual, he felt he was still trailing behind.

Which was another good reason why he was McNelty’s ace-man. With confidence in his own ability, he nevertheless seldom underestimated his opponent — something important where such little matters as staying alive were concerned.

“Now what?” asked Serby. “It’s getting dark and I’m hungry.”

“I think I’ll amble down to Pablo’s cantina to show them I’m still in one piece,” Slade replied.

“A good notion,” said Serby. “I was there last night and the little gal had a case of the jitters. She was sure you were getting mixed up in something devilish; she was right. Okay, I’ll go along with you. I like the cooking there, and a glass of Pablo’s special wine sharpens a feller’s appetite. Let’s go!”

When they entered the cantina, Serby chuckled and jerked his thumb toward the dance floor.

“Look over there,” he said. “I’ve a notion that gent is plumb smitten, and the gal don’t look like she minds a bit.”

Glancing where he indicated, Slade saw Matt Guffy, the big construction foreman, dancing with Juana, the little
senorita
who had been his partner the night of his first visit to the cantina.

Slade’s cold eyes were all kindness as he regarded the couple so plainly engrossed in each other.

“I venture to predict that there’ll be no more trouble where Guffy and Mexicans are concerned,” he replied. “A man can’t very well fight with the wife’s relations and hope to enjoy peace at home. That’s the way it worked out with the Normans and the Saxons in England, after that Conquest. They fought like cats and dogs are supposed to, for quite a few years, until after numerous intermarriages, they realized they were doing battle with the wife’s kin folks, which didn’t make for domestic felicity. So they beat their swords into plow shares and pruning hooks and got busy tending the farm, to become the modern English people.”

“I understand about half what you’re saying, but it seems to make sense,” said Serby. “Let us drink!”

Pablo waved a greeting and stuck his head in the back room. A moment later Carmen appeared.

“Another one who looks plumb happy ‘cause her man is back safe,” observed the sheriff. “Oh, to be young again!”

Carmen joined them at a table. She sat down and traced the slight bullet cut on Slade’s cheek with a fingertip.

“Tell us about it,” she urged. “I see she scratched you.”

“Regular bear claws,” Slade agreed. “Put it where it shows, too.” Carmen made a face at him.

“What did happen?” she asked.

He gave her a brief sketch of his brush with the wideloopers. Carmen sighed and shook her curly head.

“He won’t tell you anything,” she complained. “Makes it sound like he just took an afternoon’s stroll. Oh, well, I know Herky, the stage driver — he comes in here. I’ll get the real story from him.”

“Let us drink,” said the sheriff, suiting the action to the word.

Guffy and Juana came over from the dance floor and room was made for them.

“Walking along,” the foreman replied to a question from Slade relative to the construction progress. “The boys are sure pitching in and at the rate we’re going, we won’t be too far behind schedule despite the setback. Friedman and Hatch set a date and promised a nice bonus if the work is finished by then. It will be. They had the luck to tie onto some good Mexican construction men over in Juarez who weren’t busy right now, and that’s a help.”

“I suppose you located them?” Slade smiled.

“Well, in a way,” Guffy admitted. “Juana gave me a tip and I moseyed over there yesterday and talked ‘em into signing up with us. They’re all right.” Slade smiled at the little
senorita
.

“Juana, you’re a help,” he said.

“It is the great honor to be able to do what will please
El Halcón
,” was the soft-voiced reply.

After they had finished their dinner, which was excellent, Juana returned to the dance floor. Carmen had some work to do in the back room.

“And I want to find you here when I come back,” she told Slade. “If you aren’t, I’ll come looking for you, in my dance floor costume.”

“I could think of worse things happening,” he replied, with a smile. “Okay, I’ll be here.”

A few minutes later, Mike Thompson, the assistant-foreman Slade rescued from the burning building, hobbled in on his crutches. Guffy joined him at the bar.

“Looks like things are working out,” Serby commented.

“Yes, every little bit helps,” Slade agreed. “There is still much to be accomplished, but I believe we are doing something to counteract the vicious propaganda that has been spewed forth. The word gets around and more and more people change their minds, easing the tension, and if enough do so, it disappears altogether. Then just remains the chore of running down the hellions responsible for the trouble.”

“Uh-huh, that’s all,” Serby agreed dryly. “Well, good hunting!”

After a bit, the sheriff ambled out to look things over. Slade decided he had earned a period of relaxation and, keeping his promise to Carmen, remained right where he was.

The cantina was filling up, and growing quite hilarious. Slade was pleased to see quite a number of cowhands present and a group of the construction workers who had joined Guffy and Mike Thompson. They were conversing animatedly with a bunch of
vaqueros
and other folks from south of the Rio Grande and everybody appeared to be having a good time.

In fact, the whole atmosphere of the place had changed during the past few days and the former amicable relations appeared to be well on the way to being reestablished.

Carmen joined him and they had wine together, and a couple of dances. Guffy had returned to the floor and he and Juana were doing a number together and to all appearances were totally oblivious of their surroundings, with eyes only for each other.

“Bet they name the first baby after you,” Carmen giggled. “Walter Guffy! That wouldn’t be too bad.”

“But what if it happens to be a girl?” Slade pointed out.

“Then we’ll settle for Carmencita,” was the laughing reply. “After all, I had something to do with getting them together, too. I picked her out of the bunch.

“And here comes the orchestra leader, with a guitar!” she exclaimed. “Looks like you’re in for it. I’m glad. You haven’t sung for me once, this time.”

The leader thrust the guitar at Slade, insinuatingly.

“
Capitan
will sing, as he did before?” he requested.

“If you wish,” Slade replied, rising to his feet and accepting the guitar.

With Slade following, the leader strutted proudly to the little raised platform that accommodated the orchestra.

“Senoritas
and
senors,”
he cried. “
El Capitan
will sing!”

Those who had heard him sing turned expectantly, nudging neighbors to keep them quiet. Slade ran his slender fingers over the strings of the instrument with crisp power, smiled at his audience and sang.

It was just a simple little song of the rangeland, almost a doggerel, but alchemized to a gem of beauty by the magic of a great voice. And as the golden, metallic baritone-bass pealed and thundered through the room, all other acitivites ceased.

When the number was finished, the candle flames jumped to the applause and the shouts for another.

He sang them another, and still another, concluding with a dreamy love song of his own composition that caused more than one dance-floor girl to dab at her eyes with a wisp of handkerchief —

Restoring the guitar to its owner, he returned to Carmen, followed by admiring glances.

“‘The singingest man in the whole Southwest!’” she sighed. “If they took in a lot more territory, it would still be so.”

She glanced at the clock.