Maverick Showdown (4 page)

Slade gazed thoughtfully at the dead face. It would appear the fellow had spotted him in the Washout and apparently knew he would head for the hotel. He wondered had he acted on his own initiative or had somebody a lot shrewder than he appeared to be planned the move. Slade was inclined to believe the latter.

“I’ll walk to the office with you,” he told Carter.

“And I’m tagging right along,” Jerry declared. “You’re not getting out of my sight.”

“Good gal, he ain’t to be trusted alone,” chuckled the sheriff.

“Mr. Slade, do you always live this way?” Griswold asked as they followed the somber cortege to the office.

“Not always, I’m thankful to say,”
El Halcon
replied. “Has been an unusual thirty-six hours or so.”

“Don’t you believe it,” snorted the sheriff. “Has been plumb peaceful, for him.”

At the office, Carter shooed out some stragglers and closed and locked the door. He and Slade gave the body a careful once over. The pockets divulged a surprisingly large sum of money, but nothing else of significance until, from a shirt pocket, Slade drew a crumpled bit of paper, which he glanced at and deftly palmed while the sheriff was counting the money, not wishing to discuss it with the others.

“Hellion has been doing all right by himself,” Carter said, stowing the
dinero
in the safe. “Will pay for planting him, and more. Guess Doc will be wanting to hold an inquest tomorrow. Find out what time later. Well, guess that’s all we can do tonight.”

“Looks that way,” Slade agreed. “Come on, Jerry, time you were in bed.”

“Uh-huh, it sure is,” Jerry replied, her big eyes slanting him a sideways glance.

Doc Beard, the coroner, held an inquest on the two bodies the following afternoon at five o’clock. It didn’t take long. The jury allowed the valley dweller met his death at the hands of parties unknown. The sheriff was advised to run down the varmints as quickly as possible. The man who tried to kill Slade in the hotel lobby got just what was coming to him.

When he and Carter were alone, Slade produced the slip of paper he found in the dead killer’s shirt pocket and spread it on the desk between them.

“What is it?” the sheriff asked.

“It is a very neatly drawn map of a portion of the trail between here and Tascosa,” Slade replied. “I recognize several landmarks that are noted.”

“And what does it mean?”

“Frankly, I can’t say for sure,” the Ranger answered. “Here you will notice a little
X
has been inscribed.”

“What could that be for?” Carter wondered.

“In my opinion, it is meant to mark a certain spot for somebody’s guidance,” Slade said.

“Looks plumb loco to me,” Carter declared. “Like some sort of a fool puzzle.”

“Yes, it looks a little that way, but I venture to say it isn’t,” Slade replied. “And I’ve a hunch we’d better find the key to the puzzle. By the way, when does the stage for Amarillo leave Tascosa?”

“Day after tomorrow,” Carter said, after a moment of thought. “No, that’s wrong. The next day or the day after tomorrow. Say! you don’t think — ”

“I don’t know just what to think, at the moment,” Slade interrupted. “I’ll have to mull over it a bit. Well, I’m going to take a little walk. We’ll meet Jerry and old Keith Norman at the Trail End for dinner. See you there not long after dark?”

“I’ll be there,” Carter promised. “Watch your step, now, the devils are sure after you hot and heavy.”

“Haven’t had any luck catching up so far,” Slade replied cheerfully. “Be seeing you.”

For some time he wandered about the town, dropping in at various places, chatting with businessmen and others of his acquaintance. He stood at the outskirts of the lower town and watched the flaming colors of the sunset soften and fade, then turned his steps to the Washout, where he found Thankful Yates preparing for the night’s business.

As they sat together over cups of coffee, Thankful remarked:

“What say we amble up to the Open Door and have a word with Frayne, the owner? He strikes me as a purty nice sort; got a notion you’ll like him.”

“Guess we could do worse,” Slade agreed.

When they reached the Open Door, big, well lighted, excellently appointed in every way, Slade noted that the majority of the patrons were of the younger farmer element. There was a sprinkling of cowhands who appeared to be getting along all right with the farmers.

“They’d better,” Thankful replied to his comment on the fact. “Frayne don’t stand for no foolishness, and he sure knows how to handle himself. And those two floor, men of his ain’t no snides, either. That’s Frayne down at the other end of the bar.”

Erskin Frayne was of a little above medium height, broad-shouldered, lean and sinewy of build. His features were regular, his mouth firm, his hair dark, inclined to curl, and neatly trimmed.

Neat also was his attire. He wore striped trousers stuffed into shiny black half-boots, a white shirt with a frilled bosom, a black string tie, and a long black coat becomingly creased. As they drew near, Slade noted that his eyes, set deep in his head, were of pale blue, and very bright.

Thankful performed the introduction and they shook hands. The grip of Frayne’s slim fingers was steely, but not pronouncedly so.

“Been hearing a lot about you, Mr. Slade,” he said. “Appears you have a genius for being at the right place at just the right time.”

Neither Slade nor the sheriff had said anything to controvert the general opinion that the ruckus in the hotel lobby was the result of an interrupted attempt to rob the hotel safe.

“Just a lucky turn of the wheel,” he replied to Frayne’s remark.

“Yes, you can never tell into just what slot the ball will drop,” Frayne agreed. “Nobody but the Devil knows, and he won’t tell. Have a drink, both of you.

“Must keep on good terms with my competitor,” he added. “Might need to borrow a bottle or two now and then.”

Yates ran an appreciative eye over the gathering and nodded.

“Looks like you’re liable to need one any time,” he observed.

“Yes, I’m doing all right,” Frayne conceded. “A nice bunch of boys, behave themselves quite well, most of the time. Now and then there’s a bit of a disagreement, but nothing serious, so far.”

“‘Pear to be a quieter bunch than the wind spiders I get, who are always raising hell and shoving a chunk under a corner,” Yates said. “I’ve a notion if it wasn’t for Mr. Slade, the sheriff would close me up. Says I’m a blasted nuisance.”

“I doubt if his bite is as bad as his bark,” Frayne chuckled. “Plan to coil your twine for a while, Mr. Slade?”

“While I am here,” Slade replied smilingly.

“Understand you’ve been here before,” Frayne observed.

“Yes.”

“Not from this section, I gather?”

“No.”

Frayne seemed to hesitate, then, “But you are a Texan?”

“Another lucky turn of the wheel,” Slade answered. “I happen to have been born in this state.”

“Texas is a very big state,” Frayne said, in the manner of stating a fact, but really in an interrogative fashion.

“It is,” Slade agreed.

Old Thankful, who knew something of the impossibility of getting
El Halcon
to tell you anything when he wasn’t of a mind to, twitched his mustache to hide a grin. No matter how adroitly the Open-Door owner might put his suggestions, he would learn nothing.

Apparently Frayne realized the fact, for he desisted in what Slade knew very well was a little fishing expedition in the hope of gleaning information relative to himself, and turned the conversation into general channels, largely dealing with the saloon business.

“I came very near settling in El Paso,” he remarked. “Glad I changed my mind. I figure here I’m getting in on the ground floor, as one might say. I feel this is an up and coming section. Funny how the wheel turns, as you phrased it, Mr. Slade. I was born and brought up on a ranch, but found it hard work and often not adequately recompensed for one’s efforts. So I turned to the liquor business, which pays better, and while it has its headaches, I feel they are minor compared with fighting wideloopers and the climate when it takes a notion to act up. I recall losing nearly a thousand head of stock during a bad spell in the San Bernardino Valley over in Cochise County, Arizona.”

“Wait till you see one of our Panhandle blizzards,” remarked Yates. “They’re plumb something. The big XIT outfit lost heavy when one of those howlers ambled down from the north. The cows wouldn’t face it and ended up against a drift fence, where they froze to death. But that sort of weather is good for the saloon business; folks have to hole up someplace where it’s warm and comfortable.

“Our droughts ain’t no snides, either, but they work in our favor, too, folks feeling the need of a cool drink.”

“It would appear you are a philosopher, Mr. Yates,” Frayne smiled.

“Nope,” said Thankful. “I’m from Maine. Well,” he added, “guess I’d better get back to my place and see if it’s still in one piece. Be seeing you, Frayne.”

“Come again,” the owner urged. “You, too, Mr. Slade. Always be glad to see you.”

Outside, Yates asked, “What do you think of him?”

“Capable, more intelligent than the average, and a man of some education,” the Ranger replied.

“Got a notion he’ll make a go of the business,” Yates commented.

“He’ll very likely make a go at anything to which he sets his hand,” Slade said. “Well, I’m heading for the Trail End; have an appointment with Jerry and the sheriff. Chances are we’ll drop in at your place later.”

“Be looking for you,” answered Yates.

When Slade reached the Trail End, old Keith Norman was at the bar, speaking with some acquaintances. Jerry and the sheriff occupied a table.

“Thought you’d never show up, and I’m starved,” the girl greeted him.

“Well,
you
didn’t show up for breakfast,” he replied pointedly.

“I didn’t have an appointment with the sheriff and didn’t have to get up when — when I wasn’t quite ready to,” she answered.

The sheriff shook with laughter. Jerry blushed.

After eating, the sheriff and old Keith drifted to the bar for more jabber. Young Joyce Echols, who had ridden to town with Norman, asked Jerry to dance. Left alone, Slade drew forth the bit of paper he had taken from the dead outlaw’s shirt pocket, spread it on the table, and studied it carefully.

“The map was drawn by an engineer or a surveyor, all right,” he told his coffee cup. “Has the professional touch, no doubt as to that.”

Slade was capable of correctly interpreting the map.

Shortly before the death of his father, which occurred after financial misfortunes which cost the elder Slade his ranch, young Walt had graduated with high honors from a noted college of engineering. He had intended to take a post-graduate course in special subjects to better fit him for the profession he had determined to make his life’s work.

At the moment, that became economically impossible, so he lent a receptive ear when Captain Jim McNelty, with whom he had worked some during summer vacations, suggested that he sign up with the Rangers for a while and pursue his studies in spare time.

“You seemed to like the work,” said Captain Jim. “Perhaps you’ll get to like it even better.”

That
was the catch. Slade did learn to like the work better. Long since he had gotten more from private study than he could have hoped for from the postgrad and was eminently fitted for the profession of engineering. He had received offers of lucrative employment from high figures in the financial and business world he had contacted in the course of his Ranger activities, such as James G. “Jaggers” Bunn, the famous General Manager of the great C. & PO. railroad system, former Texas Governor and millionaire oil man, Jim Hogg, and John Warne (Bet-a-Million) Gates.

But the “catch” was really getting in its licks. Slade liked Ranger work so well he was loath to sever connections with the illustrious body of law-enforcement officers. It offered so many opportunities to right wrongs, help the worthy, and make of the state he loved an even better state for the right kind of people. Later he’d turn to engineering, but not just yet. He was young, plenty of time to become an engineer; he’d stick with the Rangers for a while longer. This was very likely just what shrewd old Captain Jim anticipated.

For some little time, Slade continued to study the mysterious map. Finally he replaced it in his pocket and sat gazing out the dark window across the room from where he sat. He had arrived at a decision but did not mention it to his companions when they returned to the table.

“Well, do you like this better?” Jerry asked Slade, glancing down at her trim figure.

“Better?” he repeated blankly. “Oh, I see, you’re wearing a dress tonight.”

Jerry appealed to the sheriff. “Did you ever hear of the likes of him? And I wore this especially for him. He never pays attention to what I wear. If I showed up in a gunny sack and hip boots, he wouldn’t notice.”

“I do notice what you wear,” Slade protested. “Or what you — ”

“Shut up, that’ll be enough,” she interrupted. “You talk too much!”

“You started it,” Slade retorted.

Again the old sheriff found something to laugh at. Jerry made a face at him. He contemplated her for a moment.

“There’s a cattle disease down to the south that is causing trouble,” he remarked reminiscently. “It’s called hoof-and-mouth disease. Makes a cow put its foot in its mouth.”

His reward for the outrageous comparison was another face, and a wrinkling of a pert nose.

“I want to go down to the Washout,” she announced.

“And chance getting mixed up in another corpse and cartridge session?” Slade replied.

“Oh, I didn’t mind,” she returned cheerfully. “I rather enjoyed it. Sort of livened things up and made me all set for — ” Her voice trailed off under the sheriff’s eye.

“Yep, that’s what they call it, hoof-and-mouth disease,” he repeated. Jerry jumped to her feet.

“Come on, Walt,” she said. “He’s impossible!”

Without incident, they reached the Washout, to be warmly greeted by old Thankful.

“Sure glad you decided to come,” he said. “Things are lively, and I got a new orchestra tonight, a plumb good one, Mexican fellers who came up from the south. The other bunch vow’d to move along. Those fellers are just another breed of chuck-line riders; can’t stay put in one place for long. The bunch I got now all know you, Mr. Slade, and are buzzin’ about you.”

Slade waved to the musicians, recalling them as performing at a place in Laredo some months before.

“Yep, they sure have been doing a heap of talking about you,” Thankful continued, and added insinuatingly:

“And, just a notion of mine, suppose the eingingest man in the whole Southwest gives us a little song. The folks would plumb enjoy it.”

“Okay, if you wish to empty the place and send everybody up to the Open Door,” Slade agreed.

“I’ll risk it,” Thankful replied cheerfully and led the way to the raised platform that accommodated the orchestra. The leader bowed low to
El Halcon
and handed him a guitar. Faces turned expectantly.

“Señoritas
and
señores,”
the leader called, “Capitan will sing,” apparently deeming that all the introduction necessary.

Making sure the instrument was tuned to his liking, Slade turned to his waiting audience, played a lilting prelude and sang, his great golden baritone-bass quivering the hanging lamps.

First a song of the rangeland, its beauty and its threat, the roar of white waters, the whispering of the wind, the hills and the valleys, and the ever advancing skyline that lures restless men to the fulfillment of a dream or, mayhap, to death.

When the applause had stilled, he thundered forth a rollicking ballad of the Kentucky hills to the accompaniment of clapping and stamping by the young farmers present, in whom every line evoked nostalgic memories.

He smiled at Jerry and in conclusion sang a number of his own composition, during which the dance-floor girls gazed at the tall singer, glorious in his youth and strength, as at a vision from another world.

Handing the guitar to its owner, he smiled at the continuing applause and made his way back to Jerry.

“Waiting!” she murmured. “Waiting! A little more of that and I’ll become absolutely maudlin. Let’s dance!”

They did several numbers together. Jerry threw off her somber mood and was again her gay, animated self. When they paused at their table for coffee, Yates joined them.

“Yep, Mr. Slade, the folks sure did enjoy your songs,” he said.

“And I’ve a notion singing that one for the farm boys will be good for my business,” he chuckled. “They’ll be telling their friends about it.”

“That place, the Open Door, you two were talking about is a new place, isn’t it?” Jerry asked.

“Uh-huh, it is, a purty nice place,” Thankful replied. “Like to amble up there for a little while? Guess they can do without me for a mite.”

“Yes, for a few minutes,” Jerry answered. “I’m curious.”

Thankful said a word to his head bartender and they left together.

When they reached the Open Door, Erskin Frayne was not present.

“Rode off somewhere a little while after you gents were here earlier this evening,” the bartender replied to Yates’ question as to his whereabouts. “He does a lot of riding. Guess he’s still a good deal of a cowman and has to be forking a horse every now and then.”

“Sorta gets in the blood, I understand,” said Yates.

He and Slade had a drink with the bartender, Jerry a glass of wine which she sipped slowly.

“And now, dear, I think we should really be going,” she said to Slade. “Uncle Keith wants to get an early start back to the spread. We’ll be looking for you, of course. Sure hope you’ll be able to make it out soon.”

“I’ll sure try,” Slade promised.

As they walked slowly uptown Jerry remarked:

“Hope we won’t run into any more excitement at the hotel.”

They didn’t. The old desk clerk, his head bandaged but otherwise looking fit, was snoozing comfortably in his chair. He did not move as they mounted the stairs together, unless perhaps one eyelid fluttered a trifle.

• • •

Two hours before noon, Slade rode west on the trail that would eventually reach Albuquerque, New Mexico. After making sure he was not followed, he rode at a fair pace until he was a few miles from where the side track from Tascosa bridged the Canadian River and continued to join with the main trail.

Now he was continually glancing to the north and to the west. Far ahead loomed the mountains of New Mexico, fanning into the deep blue of the sky. He slowed the pace still more, finally pulling to a halt.

“Horse, that should be it, according to the map, about a mile ahead,” he said. “Where a line drawn from the crest of Tucumcari Mountain cuts one drawn from Dome Peak up in Oklahoma. Hmm! Thick brush on each side of the trail, a very nice setup. That is, if our hunch is a straight one, and I think it is. Let’s see, now. Won’t do to keep ambling ahead the way we’re going. If there is something holed up there, we’d very like be a settin’ quail, once we were recognized. So we’ll just head north from here and approach that belt of brush from the north. That way, if nobody is keeping watch in that direction, which I consider unlikely, we should make it to cover all right. Let’s go!”

The maneuver was executed without difficulty, although it was a rather ticklish business, riding across the open prairie to the bristle of brush. If somebody
was
keeping watch to the north — well!

However, evidently nobody was. Reaching the chaparral, he rode south a little way, halted again, sat listening. Ahead, at no great distance, a bluejay was complaining with angry squawks about something.

“Feller,” Slade breathed, “there
is
somebody holed up ahead there, sure as you’re a foot high. That’s what old fuss-and-feathers is raising heck about. Somebody is too close to his nest or his favorite roosting limb. Something he doesn’t approve of, and jays, as a rule, sure don’t approve of people. Okay, you take it easy for a spell. Be seeing you soon, I hope.”

Dismounting, he dropped the split reins to the ground, slipped his Winchester from the boot, and stole ahead cautiously on foot, the cries of the irritated bird loudening. With the racket only a couple of hundred yards or so to the west, he paused amid a final straggle of growth, from where he could see the trail ahead and not be seen himself.

Now there was nothing to do but wait. And it proved a long and tiresome wait, without even the solace of a cigarette to relieve the tedium.

But as Jerry said, all things come to one who waits — long enough! To his keen ears there suddenly came a sound, a faint rumbling, then a jingling of bit irons and the thudding of horses’ hoofs. Slade edged forward a little and held the cocked Winchester at the ready.

Louder and louder grew the sounds, without doubt the stage from Tascosa. He moved ahead a little more, tense and ready.

Around a bend a score or so yards distant bulged the lumbering, swaying vehicle drawn by six horses. Slade raised the rifle.

The stage swept forward, reached the spot opposite where the jay was wheeling and squawking, passed it, and continued on its way, rumbling by where
El Halcon
stood ready for instant action.

What in blazes! He was convinced somebody was holed up in the brush ahead, presumably a band of outlaws intending to make a try for the stage. But they didn’t. And there was no doubt in Slade’s mind that they were still there, keeping under cover. What the heck did it mean? Had the devils lost their nerve at sight of the guard on the seat, a double-barreled shotgun at the ready, a rifle leaning against his knee, a second guard in the boot, similarly armed? Could be, but didn’t seem likely. And if so, why did they remain in the brush instead of riding out to go about some other devilish business?

Well, all he could do was stay right where he was and await developments, whatever the heck they might be.

Another wait, even more tedious than the former, for now his nerves were tense in anticipation of he knew not what.

Then abruptly a sound other than the racket kicked up by the jay became apparent, the muffled thud of a horse’s hoofs in the dust of the trail.

Around the bend appeared a farm wagon loaded with what looked to be sacks of grain. A man in farmer’s garb sat on the seat, lounging easily. And
El Halcon
understood!

From the brush dashed five masked horsemen, guns trained on the driver.

“Hold it!” a deep voice shouted. The driver jerked to a halt. Slade’s great voice rolled in thunder:

“Elevate! You’re covered! In the name of the State of Texas!”

The horsemen whirled their mounts to face him, guns jutting forward. Slade’s Winchester gushed flame and smoke. A saddle was emptied. Answering bullets stormed about him, one coming close enough to fan his cheek with its lethal breath.

But as Slade had planned it, the advantage was with the man on the ground — rifle against sixguns at more than two hundred yards. A second outlaw fell to lie motionless. One managed to jerk a rifle from the saddle boot and fire a shot that ripped the sleeve of Slade’s shirt. Then he gave a howl of pain and the long gun dropped to the dust, the arm that had held it flopping limply and spouting blood.

A voice boomed an order, a voice Slade thought was vaguely familiar, and the three remaining owl hoots, including the wounded man, whirled their mounts and went streaking west, Slade’s bullets speeding them on their way.

Reloading his rifle as he did so, Slade approached the wagon. The driver, evidently badly frightened, cowered on the seat, regarding the tall Ranger with apprehension. A glance at his untanned face and hands told Slade he was no farmer or other outdoor worker.

“Take it easy,” Slade told him. “Everything’s under control.” He glanced at the heaped wagon bed.

“Suppose there’s quite a bit of
dinero
under those sacks?” he said.

The driver hesitated, then, apparently reassured by Slade’s appearance, replied in the affirmative.

“And I suppose your superior fixed up this little scheme of having the empty stage precede you and the wagon as a lure to possible highjackers?”

“That’s right,” the other agreed. “Looks like it didn’t work, and if it wasn’t for you the money would be gone, and myself in all probability dead. It’s a wonder they didn’t shoot me from the brush.”

“Didn’t want to take the unnecessary chance of frightening the horse and causing it to run away,” Slade replied. “Had you fallen forward onto its back, it might well have bolted.”

The bank clerk, as Slade rightly guessed he was, shivered.

“In all probability they would have killed me after taking the money,” he said, his voice quavering a little. Slade thought it not unlikely. He speculated the load of grain.

“A rather smart scheme, but somebody evidently had a loose
latigo
on his jaw, with the wrong pair of ears listening,” he commented.

“It certainly looks that way,” the clerk agreed. “And both the bank and myself are greatly in your debt, sir. How’d you manage to be so handy?”

“Just sorta happened,” Slade replied. He ripped the masks from the faces of the dead outlaws, revealing hard-bitten countenances with nothing outstanding about them. They
were
, or had been undoubtedly outdoor workers. Cowhands, he judged, from the marks of rope and branding iron on their hands, but hadn’t worked at it much of late.

With effortless ease, he picked up the bodies and tossed them onto the sacks of grain.

“We’ll take them to town and turn them over to the sheriff,” he said. “I’ll slip the rigs off their cayuses and then fetch my horse.”

“And if it wasn’t for you, I’d very likely be packing my own body to town,” said the clerk.

“A novel proceeding, to put it mildly,” Slade smiled.

“You don’t suppose there’s any danger of those three coming back?” the clerk asked nervously.

“I certainly wish they would,”
El Halcon
replied grimly.

Looking at him, the clerk thought the three outlaws would do well to keep on riding till they reached the Pacific Ocean, then bridge it and go on.

Slade secured Shadow, over whom the clerk exclaimed admiringly, and they set out. With the sunset flaming in the west, they were still a few miles from Amarillo when they spied a body of four horsemen riding swiftly to meet them.

“Now what?” the clerk quivered apprehensively.

“Stage reached town, and with you long overdue, the sheriff and his deputies are riding out to learn why the delay,” Slade replied laconically.

It proved to be the case. A little more and Carter was bawling profane questions.

Explanatory words fell over the clerk’s lips as he gave his version of the affair, which was far from uncomplimentary to
El Halcon
. Slade filled in the gaps, tersely. The sheriff swore some more.

“You’re the limit!” he snorted. “Going up against that bunch single-handed. Why the blankety-blank-blank didn’t you tell me what you had in mind? I’d have gone along with you.”

“I was so uncertain in my mind as to just what might develop that I hesitated to mention it,” Slade replied. “I just played a hunch that the map of the trail I fished out of that dead robber’s pocket might have a certain significance. And if I was guessing right, I figured I should be able to handle the situation by myself.”

“And you sure did,” the bank clerk put in.

“A wonder you didn’t get yourself killed,” grumbled Carter. “Well, guess your devil took care of you, as he usually does.”

“He’s a nice devil to have around,” Slade said cheerfully.