Gunsmoke over Texas (13 page)

M
AWSON,
R
ELEFORD AND THE
B
RADDED
R
HANDS
, even the wounded cowboys who had been patched up by the doctor, were jubilant over the outcome of the affair and proceeded to celebrate fittingly in the various saloons, but Walt Slade was in a black mood. To all appearances he had just about cleaned up the rank and file of the outlaw bunch, but the head of the snake was still very much alive, and he knew well that that kind of a “head” would quickly grow a new body.

“Well, I’ve one more card to play,” he told Tom Mawson as they rode home in the light of dawn. “It’s up to you and Bob to get busy with your well drilling. The way I see it, everything depends on Ballard and Richardson not knowing that we know what they know, which sounds a bit complicated, but I guess you get what I mean.”

“Reckon I do,” Mawson agreed. “If they haven’t tumbled to the fact that we know they know there’s oil under my property they’ll go ahead and try to pull something instead of pulling out.”

“That’s right,” Slade nodded. “If they realize that we know all the angles and suspect Ballard is something other than just a saloonkeeper, I’m afraid they will pull out and get completely in the clear. In fact, all they’d need to do is sit tight, for I Still haven’t a dang thing on them no matter what I think. Well, we’ll start things moving and see how it works out. Anyhow, I’m convinced you and Bob will hit the jackpot and that’s something.”

• • •

The project got underway, with Bill Ayers, the pessimistic but highly efficient head driller in charge. Machinery and supplies were purchased and moved onto Mawson’s middle pasture several miles north of the creek.

“And this is the craziest one yet,” Ayers declared. “Now I know Kent has gone loco.”

“That’s what you said down on the mesa,” Quales the rigger reminded him.

“Uh-huh, but this is worse,” Ayers replied. “Who the devil ever heard of oil running uphill! And that’s what it would have to do to get here. It’s a shame to waste a nice new rotary bit on a dry hole.”

He patted the shining metal affectionately. “This thing cost puhlenty, but she’ll sure cut through a damn sight faster than an old churn,” he added. “Oh, well, we’re getting paid for it and we have to work at something.”

The rotary did work fast and the bore deepened steadily. The eight-hundred-foot level was reached with the drill thudding on rock after a significant belt of sand. Even Ayers became cautiously optimistic. An old hand at the game, he had noted encouraging signs.

But aside from the steady boring of the drill deeper and deeper in the earth nothing happened. Old Tom began to grow doubtful that anything would.

“I’ve a notion the sidewinders have caught on and give up,” Mawson said. “Everything’s been almighty quiet in the section of late. Nothing off-colored happened since they made the try for Tol Releford’s money.”

“Not particularly surprising for two reasons,” Slade pointed out. “In the first place it would take Ballard a little time to get another bunch together. Secondly, he wouldn’t want to stir up the section right now. People occupied with their own affairs quickly forget what’s taken place and as a result drop their guard. And an experienced oilman like Richardson can figure mighty close just how much money you’re spending day by day; and you let it be known how much you were prepared to invest before abandoning the project. They’ll want to be sure you’re close to scraping the bottom of the barrel before they do anything. They can also figure fairly close just how long it is safe to wait. Admitting that there is an oil pool beneath your land, they can estimate pretty accurately how deep the bore should be before there is likelihood of a strike. Incidentally, I think we’re getting mighty close to the required depth. We’re hammering rock right now and my guess is that it’s the cap-rock over the reservoir. They’ll guess that, too, and if they’re going to make a move, they’ll make it soon. A few well placed sticks of dynamite would smash the bit and the derrick, warp the casing and cave in the well. And it would take a lot of time and money to straighten out such a mess, the money they believe you have no intention of spending. I think they’ll make their move any night now.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Mawson conceded, “but I sure wish you’d let me and some of the boys string along with you. I hate to think of you out there alone in the dark every night.”

“It’s my chore and it’s up to me to handle it alone,” Slade replied. “Besides, they may be keeping a pretty close watch on us and any undue activity might tip them off.”

The following afternoon, when Slade arrived at the scene of the drilling after a few hours’ sleep, Ayers approached him.

“If we’re going to strike anything,” the driller said with his usual pessimistic emphasis, “I’ve a notion we’re mighty close. There’s a funny hollow sound been coming up the bore for the last couple of hours. Kent tells me you don’t want the well to come in just yet, if it’s going to come in.”

Slade walked to the well and listened to the muffled thudding of the drill. “I’ve a notion you’re right,” he said. “Tell you what, shorten the suspending rope and let the derrick jig with the bit hanging against the casing.”

“Okay,” agreed the mystified driller. As he moved away to make the necessary adjustment, Slade heard him mutter, “Now I know everybody’s loco but me, and I ain’t a bit sure about myself.”

Night descended with an almost full moon due in a couple of hours. Objects on the prairie were shadowy and unreal. The tall derrick stood ghost-like, a nebulous tracery against the starry sky.

In a thicket less than a score of yards from the bore, Walt Slade lounged comfortably near where his horse was tethered, watching and waiting, as he had done for several nights. Now and then he lighted a cigarette, carefully shielding the faint flicker of the match in his cupped palms. He knew nobody could approach the well without him hearing and seeing them, but he took no chances.

The moon rose, climbing slowly above the eastern hills, the shadows became blockier, objects clearly visible. Midnight came and went, and still the ranger watched and waited. Abruptly he stiffened to attention.

First it was but a whisper of sound coming from the south. It loudened to a pattering, loudened still more to a slow beat of horses’ irons on the thick grass. From behind a grove some hundreds of yards to the south appeared a moving clump that quickly materialized to three horsemen riding toward the well.

Slade’s eyes narrowed. He had expected only one man, possibly two. Well, he’d have to make the best of it against uncomfortably heavy odds; but the element of surprise would be in his favor.

The riders approached purposefully. A few minutes more and Slade recognized Wade Ballard, Blaine Richardson and Nate Persinger. They drew rein close to the derrick. Richardson and Persinger dismounted. Ballard remained seated on his tall sorrel horse. Slade noted that Richardson carried something. The next second he saw that what the oilman packed was a bundle of dynamite sticks wrapped together and capped and fused. The pair approached the derrick.

Slade waited a moment longer, until they were beside the bore, so there could be no misinterpretation of their purpose. He drew his guns and stepped from concealment, the star of the rangers gleaming on his broad breast. His voice rang out, shattering the stillness, “Elevate! You’re covered! In the name of the State of Texas — ”

Wade Ballard opened the ball. He drew from a shoulder holster with unbelievable speed even as Slade lunged to the left. A lock of black hair leaped from the side of the ranger’s head; he reeled from the shock of the grazing slug. Wade Ballard whipped his horse around and fled south. Slade couldn’t do anything about it; he had his hands full with Richardson and Persinger. A bullet burned its way along his ribs. Another slashed a furrow in his arm. Through the blaze of his Colts he saw Persinger go down to lie without sound or motion. Richardson, partly shielded by a corner of the derrick, was yelling curses as he fired with one hand and brandished the bundle of dynamite with the other. Slade’s hat turned sideways on his head. Another slug ripped his shirt sleeve. Steadying himself he took deliberate aim at the oilman and pulled trigger. He saw blood pour down Richardson’s face as he plunged forward.

Slade uttered a bitter curse. Richardson’s dead hand had done what it hadn’t accomplished in life; the bundle of dynamite had dropped squarely down the bore. Slade tensed for the explosion as he raced to where Shadow stood saddled and bridled.

It came as he forked the black, a muffled boom far below. But as he flashed past the derrick his heart leaped exultantly. From the depths of the earth sounded a deep-toned rumbling that rose quickly to a crashing roar. Looking back over his shoulder he saw the derrick fly to a thousand pieces while up and up and up soared a hissing black column that caught the moonlight in prismatic glitters.

“She’s in!” he shouted to Shadow. “The dynamite busted the cap-rock and she’s in! That’s a
gusher!
Spindletop never beat this!”

Turning his back on the thundering well he gave his whole attention to riding, for in Ballard’s tall sorrel Shadow had for once very nearly met his match. The yellow horse was almost if not quite as fast as the black.

“But I’m betting he hasn’t got your staying qualities, feller,” Slade told Shadow. “Sift sand, jughead, that sidewinder is making for Mexico, but we’ll get him!”

Far ahead he could see the fugitive, veering westward toward the Chihuahua Trail. A few minutes later, Shadow’s irons rang loudly on the hard surface of the track. Ballard was still far ahead, low in the saddle, urging his mount to greater speed.

The lights of Weirton came into view. Shadow foamed through the waters of the creek and went racing up the slope. They topped it and Slade saw that Ballard had not turned aside. He was still riding due south across the mesa.

“I’m afraid he’s gaining on us a bit,” Slade muttered. “His cayuse is packing a lot lighter load.”

The glow of Weirton was left behind. The miles flowed past. In the far distance was what looked like the leaping-off place of the edge of the world; it was where the trail left the mesa and plunged steeply downward to the desert hundreds of feet below.

The east was graying and in the strengthening light of dawn Slade saw Ballard and his speeding horse vanish abruptly as they went over the mesa lip. A few minutes and he, too, was at the crest of the sag. Again he sighted Ballard, nearing the bottom of the slope. And now the yellow horse appeared to be straining a bit, and Slade believed he had gained a little on the fugitive.

“We’ll get him,” he told Shadow as they went down the sag. But he quickly noted something that gave him no little concern. A wind had risen with the dawn and was steadily strengthening. The surface of the desert was growing misty, which meant that the sands were moving. Let the wind gain in power and soon they would be flying in blinding clouds, and a bad wind storm on the desert was no light thing to reckon with. Slade knew he would be taking a chance if he continued to follow Ballard across the arid wastes; but when he reached the bottom of the sag he sent Shadow forward, urging him to greater speed. The distance between him and his quarry was undoubtedly lessening, but slowly, and already things were becoming a bit blurred. A sudden burst of wind sent clouds of dust flying to all but obscure Ballard’s form.

“Trail, Shadow, trail!” he urged. “We’ve got to catch up with him before the storm really breaks!”

Shadow responded with a gallant burst of speed that quickly halved the distance between him and the sorrel; but now they were feeling the full force of the storm. The air was growing unbearably hot, the flying particles of sand stung Slade’s skin like flakes of fire, and he knew this was nothing to what was to come. A warning monitor in his brain told him to give up the chase rather than risk the deadly peril that lay before him. Not so very long before he had nearly lost his life in the Tucumcari Desert in the Panhandle, and the northern desert was mild to this blazing inferno he faced, but he grimly refused to listen and urged the black on.

Ballard’s sorrel had given his best; but now he was failing. Despite the swirling clouds of sand, Slade could still make out the form of his quarry. Now they were well out on the desert and exposed to the increasing fury of the wind, heat and flying sand. The air was filled with flickering yellow shadows through which the sun shone like a blood-red orange. Overhead the wind roared with a hollow, tearing sound. The sand particles hissed and whispered. Even bits of gravel were raised from the ground and sent flying through the air like shot.

Slade knew they were off the trail, or what had been a trail. His mouth was growing leathery, his tongue was swelling, his lips cracking. But still the tall sorrel staggered on with Shadow shambling after him, closing the distance stride by stride.

They were miles out in the inferno of dust and heat when the climax came. Slade, peering through the shrouding dust, saw Ballard pull his horse to a halt and swing him around. A spurt of flame pierced the shadows, the bullet zipped past Slade’s face. He jerked his right-hand gun and answered the other shot for shot.

There was no chance to take aim. One instant the target stood out in bold relief, the next it was obscured by the swirling dust clouds. The two forms were weird, blurred shadows amid the shadows, blasting death at one another through the yellow murk.

Slade heard the hammer click on an empty shell. He pulled his left-hand gun and fired again and again. This time he counted the shots; there would be no chance to reload. Ballard was bearing down on him, looming gigantic in the yellow gloom.

Four — five — Slade held his breath and squeezed the trigger just as the world around him exploded in flame and roaring sound. He reeled in the saddle and fell sideways, clutching at the horn for support. His despairing grip on the leather checked his descent and he slid to the ground, still grasping the pommel sagging against the horse’s barrel, blood streaming down the left side of his face. Some corner of his brain still alive and active forbade his stiffening fingers to loosen their grip on the saddle horn; otherwise he would have died, buried and smothered by the falling sand.