Range Ghost (13 page)

The body was shoved against the wall to await the arrival of the sheriff. Gradually, order was restored. For a while the shooting was excitedly discussed and admiring glances cast at Slade. Soon, however, it was forgotten, for the drinks were good and strong, the eyes of the girls bright, and to these hardy men, death sudden and sharp was something too often met with to make other than a fleeting impression.

“And as usual, Shaw stayed in the background, nothing to tie him up with what was done,” Slade remarked to Jerry, when they were alone. “I think I nicked one of the pair that got away. I’d hoped to overtake him and perhaps persuade him to do a little talking.”

“I’m glad you didn’t get a chance to,” Jerry declared energetically.

“Might have been for the best,” he admitted. “Would have been just like Shaw to be waiting across the street to take a shot at me if his killers failed up and I came out.” Jerry shuddered.

At that moment the sheriff and old Keith came hurrying in, the latter looking decidedly worried. He breathed relief when he saw both Jerry and Slade were okay. Carter muttered things that were not fi tting for a lady’s ears. He immediately gave the body a careful once-over.

“Nope, never saw the sidewinder before,” he replied
to Slade’s questioning glance. “Well, looks like your luck is still holding.”

“Luck!” Jerry exclaimed reprovingly. “It wasn’t luck, it was just about the fastest thinking anyone ever heard tell of.”

“Really it wasn’t,” Slade differed. “Those enterprising gents gave me all the time in the world to plan just what to do. And they made that one little slip, the sort of thing it seems the outlaw brand always does, sooner or later. I experienced something similar once before. As original a disguise I ever saw or heard about—a pair garbed in the robes of Brothers of a Mexican Religious Order. They, too, made the fatal slip of not synchronizing their footgear with the rest of their outfi t. Anybody would have known they were up to something, after noticing riding boots instead of sandals.”

“Uh-huh, anybody with eyes that miss nothing,” the sheriff observed dryly. “The Mexicans have it right when they say the eye of El Halcon sees all.”

Joyce Echols who had been fortifying himself at the bar came back.

“What you say, Jerry,” he asked. “Shall we finish our dance? Maybe Walt won’t start another ruckus and bust it up.”

“I’ve still got the jitters, but perhaps this time I can fall over somebody else’s feet for a change, instead of my own. All right, I’ll chance it. Walt, please be good—for a change.”

They sauntered off together, arm in arm. The sheriff turned to Slade.

“It seems to me,” he remarked judiciously, “that Shaw’s bunch is pretty well thinned out. What do you think?”

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” Slade replied.
“That it is very likely the pair who escaped are the scrapings of the barrel.”

Carter sat thoughtful for a moment, then added, “And do you think there’s a chance the hellion might pull out? After all, he sure hasn’t had much luck of late.”

“Frankly, I’m afraid of just that,” Slade conceded. “I still lean to the opinion that Shaw’s main objective was the acquisition of John Fletcher’s land, although I must admit it is really nothing but conjecture on my part and I could be altogether wrong. But if so, I also think that Shaw has seen the handwriting on the wall to the extent that he knows he can never hope to acquire the holding, and that it is quite likely he is planning to pull out. But I greatly fear he will not do so until he makes one more good haul. After that, if he manages to pull it off, I believe he and his two hellions will hie themselves to fresh pastures.”

“And if they do, you’ll go hunting for them, I suppose.”

“Of course,” Slade replied simply. “I am a Texas Ranger and Tobar Shaw has broken Texas law and it’s up to me to see that he is brought to justice, one way or another.

“Only,” he added with a wry smile, “the way things stand at present, I have nothing on the elusive Mr. Shaw that would hold up in court. I don’t think I have ever contacted such a shadowy, self-effacing character as Tobar Shaw. I can just hope to catch him dead to rights, and so far I haven’t had much luck in that direction.”

“Just a matter of time,” the sheriff predicted confi dently.

“Yes, but time is running out,” Slade countered. “Once again we’ve got to start hammering our
brains in an endeavor to anticipate his move, and this time without a railroad paycar conveniently providing a logical target for an outlaw operation.”

“Which nobody else even thought of,” the sheriff observed dryly. “I’m just waiting till you hit the bull’s-eye again. Only next time I hope you’ll let me in on the fun.”

“I fear our ideas as to what constitutes fun differ,” Slade said smilingly.

“Nope,” the sheriff declared emphatically. “You ain’t happy unless you’re mixed up in some sort of a ruckus and you might as well admit it. But what in the devil will that horned toad make a try for? Another herd of cows?”

“I’d say definitely not,” Slade replied. “Unless we are making a bad mistake, he hasn’t enough hands left to venture on a large-scale rustling chore, the only kind that would be worth his while. It will have to be something three desperate and competent men can handle.”

“Plenty of things three sidewinders of that brand can put over,” growled Carter. “Oh, the devil! my head’s going ’round and ’round like a fool dog chasin’ his tail; I need a snort. Waiter!”

The dance floor was less crowded now and Slade and Jerry enjoyed a couple of numbers together. Foremen were circulating among the railroaders, urging them to call it a night and get a little rest before work started. The majority took the hint and began filing out, singing and shouting. Soon the Washout was pretty well emptied save for some diehard cowhands and others who apparently had no homes. Thankful Yates began casting suggestive glances at the clock. Jerry also glanced at the clock, then at Slade, smiling and lifting her eyebrows.

“Well,” said the sheriff, “looks like things are quieting down, and aside from your ruckus, Walt, no serious trouble I’ve heard about. The railroad fellers aren’t quick on the trigger like the waddies and most of their arguments are shouting and waving paws. Not too bad for a payday bust. Got a notion we can call it a night before long.”

“And I think Uncle Keith and the boys have about had their quota,” Jerry observed. “Notice they’re sort of looking sideways at their glasses, and that’s always a good sign. Shall we go?”

“Guess we could do worse,” Slade agreed.

“And if you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you, just in case,” said Carter.

Although he thought there was little chance of more trouble, Slade did not decline the offer.

The afternoon was getting along the following day when Slade visited the sheriff’s office. The old peace officer gestured to the body on the floor.

“Several barkeeps remembered seeing him around the lake front, usually with a couple more hellions,” he said. “Quite likely the pair who got away last night, I’d say.”

“Doubtless,” Slade agreed. “Anything on him of significance?”

Carter shook his head. “Nothing but quite a passel of
dinero,
” he replied. “You should get a percentage cut of all you’ve brought in for the county treasury. Old Potter County is getting rich, and she don’t give a hang if it is blood money, as you might call it. Well, we can use the money and get along very well without that sort of blood.”

Slade chuckled. The sheriff’s sense of humor was a mite “blood-curdling,” he thought.

For a while they smoked and talked and drank coffee, while the sun meandered westward.

“Still can’t figure anything that vinegaroon might make a try for?” Carter asked.

This time Slade shook his head. “I’m sure up a stump, as the saying goes,” he answered. “Well, maybe we’ll get a break.”

They were due to, in short order, one about as grisly as the sheriff’s sense of humor.

A deputy dropped in, accepted an invitation to take a load off his feet and have some coffee.

“Saw John Fletcher and Si Unger, his range boss, about an hour back,” he remarked conversationally. “They were just leaving town. Swivel-eye told me Fletcher picked up his mortgage money at the bank this morning—the money he figures to pay for a bunch of improved cows being driven in the next day or two. A hefty passel of
dinero,
I gathered.”

Walt Slade was suddenly all attention. “And he was talking about it in the Trail End?” he asked.

“Guess he was,” the deputy replied, “ccording to Swivel-eye.”

For a moment Slade sat silent, then he abruptly rose to his feet.

“Come on, Brian,” he said. “Hartley, you stay here against the chance we might send for you,” he told the deputy.

“What in blazes?” demanded the bewildered sheriff, when they were outside.

“To the stable,” Slade said. “Get the rig on your horse as fast as you can. I didn’t tell Hartley to come along because his nag can’t keep up with Shadow and your roan. I only hope we aren’t too late.”

“What do you mean?” asked Carter, still badly puzzled.

“I mean,” Slade answered, “that I have a very strong feeling that Tobar Shaw is going to take advantage of an opportunity handed him on a silver platter, as it were.”

“You figure he aims to make a try for Fletcher’s money?”

“So I think,” Slade said. “If we can catch up with Fletcher and Unger before they reach the Canadian Valley crossing, we may prevent it. At the crossing is very likely where the try will be made—no favorable spot between here and the crossing. If we aren’t in time, I’m afraid Fletcher’s and Unger’s lives aren’t worth a busted peso.”

The sheriff swore luridly and saddled up with hot haste and they rode out of town.

Slade set the pace, gradually increasing their speed until the limit of Carter’s tall roan was reached. For a moment he contemplated forging ahead, as Shadow could easily have done, but decided against it as being foolhardy. Odds of three, possibly more, to one, were just a mite lopsided and he had no way of knowing what he might be up against as he neared the crossing. And after all, their quarry having more than an hour’s start, with Fletcher known as a rider with loose rein and busy spur, there was little hope of catching up before nearing the crossing. He glanced anxiously at the westering sun but concluded they should reach the descent into the Valley quite a while before dark.

Swiftly the miles flowed back under the horses’ speeding hoofs. Slade kept gazing far ahead, toward where the curve of the horizon steadily advanced. Finally he sighted the fringe of growth along the Valley lip. A little more and he uttered a sharp exclamation.

“What is it?” Carter asked anxiously.

“Horses,” Slade replied. “Two horses with empty hulls. Brian, it looks bad.”

The sheriff gazed with squinted eyes. “I can see ’em now,” he said, a moment later. “Grazing alongside the brush. Don’t see hide or hair of the riders.”

“And very likely you won’t,” Slade said grimly, and quickened the pace a little more, the roan laboring to keep up. And, in less than ten minutes, it was Carter who exclaimed.

“Do you see ’em?” he asked, his voice shaking. “Two bodies on the ground?”

“Yes, I see them,” Slade answered quietly. “Looks like we’re too late.”

“My God! both done for!” Carter groaned. Slade nodded; it sure looked that way.

But as they thundered up to the brush, one of the “dead” men began to writhe and jerk. So did the other.

“Not dead, bound and gagged!” the Ranger cried. “What in blazes! Trail, Shadow, trail!”

Instantly the great black surged forward, leaving the roan as if it were standing still. Close to the neatly hogtied forms on the ground, Slade pulled him to a slithering halt and was out of the saddle with the horse still in motion. He knelt beside old John Fletcher, who mouthed and mumbled behind the handkerchief knotted over his mouth. Before the sheriff arrived on his blowing horse, Slade had the rancher freed of gag and cords and was working on Si Unger who, once the gag was out, cut loose with a flood of appalling profanity.

“Hold it!” El Halcon barked. “Tell us what happened.”

“The blankety-blanks—three of ’em—caught us settin’!” bawled Fletcher, rubbing his numbed wrists. They ordered us out of our hulls and trussed us up—thought I was going to choke. Cleaned the saddle pouches and away they went—got every blankety-blank cent of my mortgage money. Had black rags over their faces.”

“Which way did they go?” Slade asked. Fletcher gestured to the southeast.

“That way,” he said.

“Walt, I betcha the hellions are headed for the railroad—going to catch a train and pull out,” said Carter. “Maybe we can catch ’em up.”

Slade silenced him with a gesture. “And you’re positive they headed south by east, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Sure for certain,” the rancher declared. “I could crane my neck up a bit and I watched ’em almost outa sight. They never swerved.”

Slade turned to the sheriff. “Something very strange about this,” he said. “Shaw is not in the habit of leaving witnesses alive. In my opinion, he spared Fletcher and Unger for a purpose, knowing they would note which way he went, to throw off possible pursuit.”

“By gosh, I expect you’re right,” agreed the sheriff.

“Shaw!” repeated Fletcher, in an astonished voice. “You mean to say Shaw was one of those devils?”

“He was,” Slade said tersely, and explained briefly why he believed so. Fletcher outdid Unger in swearing.

“Listen, Brian,” Slade said, “we’ll give the horses half an hour or so to graze a little and catch their breath, then I’m going to play a hunch. I believe it is a straight one, but if it isn’t, I don’t see that we have much to lose.”

The sheriff understood at once. “Going to head west, eh?”

“That’s right,” Slade replied. “I’m of the opinion the hellions will head west across the desert and into New Mexico hill country till they decide on another area of operation. Mr. Fletcher, you and Si might as well go home, or back to Amarillo, whichever you prefer. I hope to recover your money for you, although I can’t promise for sure.”

“I’ve a darned good notion you’ll do it,” Fletcher said with confidence. “But why can’t Si and me go along with you fellers? We might come in handy.”

“Quite likely you would, but the trouble is you can’t keep up with us,” Slade vetoed the suggestion. “Shadow is in a class by himself and Brian’s roan is mighty good. We’ll be riding fast.”

“I see,” Fletcher conceded. “Well, good hunting! I guess Si and me will make for Amarillo and wait for you there.”

With the bits flipped out and the cinches loosened, Shadow and the roan began putting away a surrounding of grass. Fletcher and Unger, whose cayuses were not in need of rest, elected to start for Amarillo without delay. Slade and the sheriff relaxing comfortably with cigarette and pipe, watched them grow small in the distance.

“Honestly, it wasn’t so much that I was afraid their horses couldn’t stand the pace, but I believe we can handle the chore more adequately by ourselves,” Slade explained. “With a much better chance to work the element of surprise in our favor—a big advantage. We have a long and hard ride ahead of us, but our horses are in good shape and we won’t push them at first. I feel confident that Shaw will stop at his ranchhouse to rest his mounts, or perhaps change them, and make ready for the trip across the desert. I figure we can cover a good part of the desert trek before the sun rises, which will help.”

“You’re aiming to cross the desert?” Carter asked.

“To that dry wash where the hidden water is,” Slade replied. “They’ll stop there, that’s certain, and there is where we should be able to get the jump on them. It is highly doubtful that they will expect
pursuit across the desert, and I am sure they won’t suspect us of being holed up in the wash waiting for them to show.”

“Sounds reasonable,” the sheriff conceded. “Do you think Shaw finally caught on that you suspected him?”

“I’ve a notion he did,” Slade said. “Anyhow, it’s pretty sure he concluded the section had gotten a mite too hot and he’d do better to go on the hunt for fresh pastures.

“Getting back to Fletcher and Unger,” he added with a chuckle, “there was an angle they in their excitement plumb overlooked.”

“How’s that?” Carter asked.

“That Shaw relieved them of their artillery before tieing them up,” Slade answered. “Neither one had a gun.”

“Dadgum it! Now that you mention it, you’re right,” snorted Carter. “Say, do you ever miss anything? I plumb overlooked it, too.”

Slade laughed, and changed the subject. “I’m afraid we are going to do a little law-breaking on our own account,” he said.

“How’s that?”

“Little doubt but that dry wash is the other side of the New Mexico Territorial Line, where neither of us has any authority,” Slade explained.

“I figure we’re packing all we’ll need,” the sheriff said grimly, tapping his gun butt.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Slade admitted. “Anyhow, the governor and Captain McNelty are pretty good friends, and I guess we can risk it. Well, our cayuses appear to have packed away their surrounding and are rarin’ to go, so we might as well get moving.”

It still lacked quite a while till sunset when they set
out, heading west by slightly south, on a long slant that Slade knew was the shortest line to the desert crossing. Riding at a good pace but not pushing their mounts, they covered mile after mile and as the dusk neared, Slade was quite pleased with their progress.

“Yes, we’ll cover the major portion of the desert to the wash before the sun really begins to get in its licks,” he told his companion. “And if the contrary desert just behaves itself and doesn’t kick up another unexpected storm, we should do all right. It’s a very uncertain terrain, however, and not to be depended on. Well, we’ll have to do the best we can, no matter what happens.”

“And that’s all anybody can do,” said Carter.

The stars blossomed in the blue-black vault of the sky and the great hush of the wastelands enfolded the two horse men. It was an hour Slade loved, anywhere and under any circumstances, but he felt that on open range it was at its best, the hour when all things seemed relaxed, quiescent, building up strength for the activities to come. Soon the coyotes would begin their chorus, the owls their cheerful hooting, other night birds their weird cries. But now the stillness pressed down like something tangible, with breathless expectancy.

The miles flowed back, the hours passed, now attuned to the sprightly noises of the night. Slade veered the course a little more to the south, until they saw in the distance the star-drenched mystery of the desert.

“And now comes the real nice portion of our jaunt,” he observed to Carter. “The real cosy angle is whether or not I made a mistake in assuming Shaw and his two horned toads will pause at the ranchhouse for a while. If they did, okay. If they didn’t,
they’re ahead of us, will reach the wash before we do and be all set to treat us as settin’ quail, which is exactly what we will be, riding up to the wash in the open with the late moon or the early day providing good shooting light. In fact, I wish you’d let me handle this part alone.”

“Oh, go set on a cactus spine,” the old sheriff snorted. “Where you go, I go, and if we take the Big Jump it’ll be together and we can start all over together. But I don’t think we’ll be taking it tonight. I feel sure you’ve figured things out just right and that those sidewinders are the ones who’ll take the Big Jump, if they don’t have sense enough to knuckle under when we brace ’em. Let’s go. Not at all hot right now.”

With which they entered the desert and rode steadily across the whispering sands, the hoofs of the horses kicking up little puffs of the alkali dust that glinted in the starlight.

Mile after mile they covered. Finally the stars turned from gold to silver, dwindled to needle points of steel piercing the blue-black robe of night. The “robe” grayed, the stars winked out, the east flushed scarlet and gold, the eerie hush enshrouded them. Another moment and the flaming beauty of the desert manifolded, and once again the great rim of the sun pushed above the horizon and almost at once the heat intensified, beating up from the sands.

From time to time, Slade glanced back the way they had come, but the flatness of the terrain and the shimmer of the rising heat made visibility poor. So far as he could see, the desert behind lay empty.

And now, no great distance ahead, he perceived the scattered straggle of mesquite which fringed the lip of the wash. It would seem that if they were ahead
of the outlaws, all was well; but there was no guarantee that they were. And the wash steadily drew nearer.

It was a business to make the flesh crawl and the backbone grow cold, riding in the glare of the sunlight toward that ominous lip, from which at any moment might come a blaze of gunfire. He strained his eyes to probe the growth, cast a glance to the south, and gave vent to an exasperated mutter.