Range Ghost (2 page)

At the stable, the old keeper greeted Slade warmly. “And the cayuse remembers me,” he chuckled, greatly pleased, and reached out a fearless hand, into which Shadow thrust his velvety muzzle, blowing softly through his nose.

“First time you were here you had to introduce me before he’d let me touch him,” he continued. “Guess he’d have taken off half my arm if you hadn’t. He’s a one-man horse, all right, the sort I like. He’ll get the best.”

Confident that Shadow would lack for nothing, Slade donned his slicker, for now it was really raining, and repaired to a hotel on Tyler Street he had patronized before and registered for a room, in which he stowed his saddle pouches. Then he returned to the saloon. Old John, fortified by a couple of snorts, was feeling much better.

“Sit down and have a snort with us, have a dozen,” he boomed.

“I’ll settle for one, and then something to eat,” Slade accepted, doffing his hat and slicker and drawing up a chair. “Beginning to feel a mite lank.”

Meanwhile the old stable keeper was having a talk with Shadow. “Yep, you’re just about the finest cayuse I ever laid eyes on,” he said as he busied himself with currycomb and brush. “And the feller who forks you is one of the finest looking men I ever saw. A big feller, too. Big with the sorta bigness that
is real bigness and not just overpacking of tallow. Yep, he sure is.”

The keeper was right. Walt Slade was very tall, more than six feet, and the breadth of his shoulders and the depth of his chest slimming down to a sinewy waist were in keeping with his splendid height. A rather wide mouth, grin-quirked at the corners, relieved somewhat the tinge of fierceness evinced by the prominent hawk nose above and the powerful jaw and chin beneath. His lean cheeks were deeply bronzed. His thick, crisp hair was the same color as the “midnight-black” of Shadow’s glossy coat.

The sternly handsome countenance was dominated by long, black-lashed eyes of very pale gray—cold, reckless eyes that nevertheless seemed to have little devils of laughter dancing in their clear depths. Devils that, should occasion warrant, could be anything but laughing.

His dress was that of the rangeland—bibless overalls, soft blue shirt with vivid neckerchief looped at the throat, well-scuffed half-boots of softly tanned leather, and broad-brimmed “J.B.,” the rainshed of the cowhand—and he wore it with the same careless grace with which he would wear evening clothes. Around his waist were double cartridge belts from the carefully worked and oiled cut-out holsters of which protruded the plain black butts of heavy guns, from which his slender, powerful hands seemed never far away.

All in all, he looked to be a better outfi tted and more than average prosperous chuck-line riding cowhand, which was what he wished to look.

“Pretty good chuck served here,” said Fletcher. “We usually eat at Swivel-eye Sanders’ place, the Trail End, but this joint ain’t so bad—a new one. Tore down
some of the hide shacks and put in a decent building, like they’re doing all over town. This pueblo is growing.”

“It is,” Slade agreed, sipping his drink. “A lot of new construction since I was here last year, decidedly noticeable.”

“Yep, she’s growing,” Fletcher said, adding confidently, “We’ve got no local government, so far, and the county officials sorta run things and try to keep down trouble. Yep, she’s growing. Going to take over the Cowboy Capital from Tascosa, which is sure on the wane. I figure Amarillo will be the real city of the Panhandle country before she’s finished.”

Slade thought so, too, and future events would justify his faith in the town that later would be called the Queen City of the Texas Panhandle, that vast plains empire which would be famous not only for cattle and sheep but for agricultural products, oil, gas, and helium as well.

Right now, however, Amarillo was strictly a Border boom town and made hell-raising a specialty, having also usurped that prerogative from Tascosa in the Canadian River Valley.

Not that Tascosa was dead yet—far from it—but, as Fletcher said, it was on the wane. The hoped-for Rock Island Railroad had bypassed the former Cowboy Capital, fifty miles to the north, and the great ranches, such as the XIT—“Ten Counties in Texas”—land donated in payment for the construction of the State capitol building, had fenced off the trail herds coming up from the south, which had been Tascosa’s life blood.

Yes, Tascosa was on the wane, while Amarillo was on the boom. With two railroads, it was now the shipping point for the herds from the south.

While Slade was eating, the Diamond F hands filed in from their fruitless chase of Clyde Brent, drenched, disgruntled, and worried about Fletcher. However, their apprehensions on his account were quickly relieved and Unger gave them a vivid account of the happenings in their absence, ending dramatically with—

“Yep, we now have El Halcon in our midst, praise be!”

The hands stared, almost in awe, at the man whose exploits were fast becoming legendary throughout the Southwest. All insisted on shaking hands and thanking him for looking after Fletcher.

“We’d hate to lose him,” said one. “He’s such a prime example of what an owner shouldn’t be.”

“Uh-huh, and if you did lose me, you’d starve to death,” the rancher retorted. “Nobody else would be loco enough to hire you.”

“Glad to hear you admit you’re loco, we’ve knowed it for a long time,” said the speaker, a gray-haired, wrinkle-faced oldtimer.

“Oh, sit down and shut up!” snorted Fletcher. “Your tongue goes like a dry wind mill, and just sucks air. So Brent got away from you, eh?”

“Yep,” said the other as he drew up a chair. “Left us standin’ still, and then down came the rain. I’ve a notion that bay of his is just about the finest cayuse in this section.”

“Not quite,” differed Unger, glancing at Slade.

“But we’ll drop a loop on the hellion yet,” declared the oldtimer.

Fletcher shook his head decidedly. “Nope,” he said, “Slade says to let him alone, so let him alone.”

“But what if him and his horned toads jump us?” protested the other.

“I somehow doubt if they will,” Slade said. “Of course, if you are attacked, you have a right to defend yourselves, but don’t start anything.”

The hands didn’t look particularly pleased with the prospect, but after a glance at him proferred no argument and got busy on their food and drinks.

“Here comes the sheriff,” somebody remarked. “Thought he’d show up soon as he got back in town.”

Big and bulky old Sheriff Brian Carter approached the table and surveyed its occupants with little favor.

“All right,” he said, “let’s have it; what happened?”

Unger repeated the story for his benefit. The sheriff glowered at Slade.

“Might have knowed it,” he snorted. “Trouble! Trouble! Trouble! Just nacherly follows you around and starts soon as you show up. Ain’t I got enough troubles without you? How are you, Walt? Glad to see you still kicking and out of jail.” He shook hands with vigor, sat down and accepted a drink.

After a bit, Slade pushed back his empty plate and rolled a cigarette.

“Another snort?” Fletcher suggested.

“I think I’ll make out with another cup of coffee,” El Halcon replied.

“Waiter!” bawled Fletcher.

Doc Beard shoved aside his glass. “Let’s have another look at that shoulder, John,” he siad.

Fletcher doffed his borrowed shirt. Doc opened his bag and swiftly changed the pad and bandage.

“That’ll hold you,” he said. “Bleeding’s stopped, and it’s a clean hole without any damaged bones. Guess you’d better spend the night in town, though; no sense in taking a chance of starting the bleeding again.”

“Figured on staying in anyhow,” replied Fletcher. “Payday, you know, and the hellions have to have their bust.”

“Maybe they’ll bust their blasted necks ’fore the night’s over,” Doc said hopefully as he closed the bag. “Guess I’ll amble over to my office and get ready for plenty of business, what with its being payday and El Halcon being here, too. Be seeing you.”

“They don’t come any better,” Fletcher remarked, followed the old doctor’s progress to the door with his eyes. “Knows his business, too. Say, the rain’s stopped and the sun’s beginning to shine. Looks like it’ll be a nice night, after all.”

The low-lying sun was indeed flooding the prairie with reddish light. A little breeze shook down showers of fiery gems from the grass heads. Outside sounded the clump of hoofs on the muddy street. The hands from the nearer ranches were already riding in for the bust. Soon Amarillo would begin to howl.

Slade’s pulses quickened. Young, vigorous, filled with lusty life, he was forced to admit he liked such nights with their promise of entertainment and excitement—sometimes just a mite too much excitement for peaceful comfort. Well, that was all part of the game, and welcome. Soon he’d get the lowdown from Sheriff Carter concerning the recent goings-on which were the reason for his being in Amarillo a little sooner than he had expected to again visit the Cowboy Capital.

Fletcher was speaking. “Suppose we amble over to Swivel-eye Sanders’ Trail End?” he suggested. “Be folks we know there. Coming along, Slade?”

El Halcon glanced at the sheriff, who nodded. “Be seeing you there later,” he said.

After the bunch had ambled out, Slade turned to
the sheriff. “How about going to your office where we can talk uninterrupted?” he said.

“That’s a notion,” Carter agreed, rising to his feet. “No tab—Fletcher took care of everything.”

Reaching the small building which housed the office, they mounted a couple of steps onto a little covered porch that canopied the door. Carter unlocked it and they entered, closing the door behind them. The sheriff drew a shade over the single window and lit the lamp, for the sun had set and it was growing dusky. They sat down with their chairs comfortably tilted back against the wall.

“Brian, just what’s going on hereabouts?” Slade asked.

“Walt, there’s plenty,” the sheriff replied. “Never seen anything like it.”

“So I gathered from your letter to McNelty,” Slade said. “But what specifically?”

“Well,” answered Carter, “the Tascosa stage was robbed of a hefty money shipment. A feller who runs a sort of bank for cowhands up at Gluck was murdered and robbed. A saloon right here in Amarillo, down by the lake, was robbed, a bartender killed. Two cowhands were found murdered down there, their pockets emptied. There’s been cow stealing right and left. It’s not only here in Potter County but in Oldham and Hartley as well. A bunch of hellions ’pear to be swallerforkin’ all over the section. Nobody knows who they are or where they come from; I figure they have their headquarters here in Amarillo, but I could be wrong about that. Getting so everybody is looking sideways at everybody else. The oldtimers are getting together and the newcomers are sorta bunchin’. We could have a range war on
our hands to liven up things still more. Nobody seems safe. Even the big spreads like the Frying Pan have been losing stock, to say nothing of the smaller ones up to the north and over to the east. It’s bad.”

“So it seems,” Slade admitted soberly. “What about the row between Fletcher and Clyde Brent?”

“That one could really end up blowin’ things wide open,” replied Carter. “Brent is one of the newcomers, been here less than a year, and Fletcher is one of the real oldtimers. Brent’s holding, which ain’t very big, is up to the northeast, butts against the Canadian River Valley. Fletcher’s is west of Brent’s. It’s a big one. Brent has sorta newfangled notions. Been running in something he calls improved stock.”

“Something all cowmen will have to do if they hope to survive,” Slade interpolated. “The market for longhorns is closing out; people are demanding better beef than the longhorns supply. Go ahead.”

“Well, Fletcher didn’t like it, especially after Brent began stringing barbed wire.” Slade interrupted again.

“Something else the oldtimers have got to get used to. For a long time the really big fellows like the XIT have strung wire. Open range will not be able to compete with fenced pasture.”

“That’s right,” Carter admitted. “But up to the east and the north is still open range, with fellers like Fletcher against wire.”

“How about Brent’s sheep?”

“You know how the oldtimers feel about sheep,” Carter countered. “Even when they’re fenced in they are suspicious of them. Say it’s just a matter of time till they’re turned loose to ruin range. Hard to make them believe anything else.”

“Does Brent keep his woolies fenced in?”

“He does,” the sheriff had to admit. “He’s got some broken ground on the north of his holding. No good for cows but all right for sheep. He says sheep will tide a feller over when the cow market is bad for a time.”

“And he’s right,” Slade said. “So it boils down to Fletcher being on the prod against Brent because he ran in sheep and is a newcomer?”

“Guess that’s about it,” the sheriff conceded. “But that’s enough to stir up real trouble between them and always liable to suck others into the row, on one side or the other.”

“I think,” Slade said, “that I have slowed that one up to an extent; I practically secured a promise from Fletcher and his hands not to start anything with Brent.”

“Well, that helps,” replied Carter. “Now if you can just manage to get the same sort of a promise from Brent. Afraid he don’t feel over kind toward you right now, though, after you knocked a hunk of meat outa his hand.”

“I’ve a notion he’ll cool down, after his hand stops smarting, and if he is at all fair-minded he will realize that he made a mistake in throwing down on me like he did and forced me to do what I did for my own protection.”

“Oh, I expect he’ll figure he made a mistake, all right,” Carter agreed dryly. “He’s lucky you didn’t take him a mite more seriously or he might have made a worse mistake.”

Slade smiled, and changed the subject. “So it looks like we have our work cut out for us,” he observed. “Well, I’ll scout around a bit and try and learn something. I am inclined to say it is not a unique situation,
typical of the new lawless element invading the West; just as salty as the oldtimers but with more brains. And you have no notion as to who might be heading the organization? No suspects?”