The Hate Trail, page 4
He paused to roll and light a cigarette and after the brain tablet was going good continued:
“My chore is to try and anticipate his move and, if possible, thwart it. We were lucky this time to get off without loss of life—Sosna doesn’t usually leave witnesses, and with him in the temper he now is it’s very likely that his streak of sadistic cruelty will come to the fore. I’d say his only reason for letting the driver and guard remain alive yesterday was his desire that they report him and his bunch heading west. Next time will very likely be different.”
“The snake-blooded devil!” growled Carter.
“Sometimes,” Slade observed, “I find myself actually wondering if he is a man and not really a devil. One thing is sure for certain, he is a madman. Yes, a mad genius who somehow took the wrong fork in the trail. He is an educated man, a graduate, summa cum laude, from a great university. He could write both M.D. and Ph. D. after his name if he chose to do so. He thinks and acts with bewildering speed, witness last night, when he instantly took the only course by which he could hope to save his hide. He was into the brush almost before you spoke.”
“He’s a heller, all right,” agreed the sheriff. “How’d you come to get tangled up with the sidewinder?”
“It’s quite a story,” Slade replied.
“I’d like to hear it,” Carter said.
“Okay, here goes,” Slade answered. “I first contacted him in Tascosa. He tried to kidnap a girl there—dealing in women sold to the Indians or the New Mexico outlaws was one of his operations. I frustrated his attempt and nicked him in the arm, which didn’t set well with him. So he tried to kill me a couple of times, which didn’t set well with me.”
“That I can understand,” chuckled the sheriff. Slade nodded.
“Then I managed to spoil a raid or two for him. After which I trailed him to the Cap Rock hills and by way of the ‘Trail of Tears’ to. the hidden valley where the Comanche Indians used to take their women and children captives. With the help of some poor devils he was holding there as slaves, I smashed his bunch. But Sosna escaped. I followed him through the hills to the open prairie and thought I had him in my loop. But at the last minute, when I was closing in on him, a freight train had to come along. He grabbed the train and got away. That was the last I saw or heard of him for quite a while.
“But he always left a trail of blood and bones behind him, so after a while I managed to pick up his trail again. Followed him to Boquillas, Mexico. He had a hangout south of the Border and was working both sides of the river. Details don’t matter, but again I managed to bust up his gang. Of course I was sort of fracturing international law by working south of the Rio Grande, but figured I could get by with it, under the circumstances.”
Sheriff Carter’s shrewd old eyes twinkled suddenly as Slade paused to roll and light a cigarette, but he said nothing and waited expectantly.
“I chased him north to the river,” Slade resumed. “Again I thought I had him, but I didn’t. From Boquillas, Mexico, to Boquillas, Texas, an overhead conveyor system cable stretches across the Rio Grande from the south shore to the north. The cable services ore buckets from the Boquillas silver mines to Texas, where the ore is run north for smelting. That night the cable serviced something else. The river was at flood—no horse could swim it—and it looked like Sosna was cornered. He left his horse and went up the south conveyor tower like a squirrel and started across the river via the cable, hand over hand. I followed. I was overtaking him when he swung around and began throwing lead at me. I answered and got him in the arm. Down he went to the water, which swept him into Boquillas Canyon. Everybody said nobody could live through that canyon with the river in flood, but Sosna did.”
“And then?” prompted the sheriff.
“And then,” Slade continued, “he dropped plumb out of sight for a long time. But he didn’t stay out of sight. I learned that he was operating in Texas, just east of the Big Bend country. He was preying on emigrant wagons from east Texas and Louisiana. Once again we had it out. And once again I succeeded in putting his bunch out of operation. Sosna I chased into the hills. I saw him try to jump his horse across a narrow gorge at least fifty feet deep with sheer sides. Horse didn’t make it and down they went to the rocks. In the clear moonlight I saw him and the horse lying motionless on the rocks. I was certain he was dead, so certain that, not being in very good shape myself, I didn’t try to find a way into the gorge and make sure. Guess the shock broke the horse’s neck, but evidently Sosna was only stunned. At least he sure wasn’t dead.”
Slade stopped talking again to roll another cigarette. “Hope I’m not boring you with this rambling yarn,” he said.
“I find it darned interesting, go on,” replied the sheriff.
“Well, as I said, I was sure for certain he was dead. And I was plumb flabbergasted when I got word that he wasn’t dead and was at work again over around El Paso. So I lit out after him again. Same old story, managed to smash his organization, but I didn’t smash Sosna. I met him and his last horned toad in the mouth of a cave they were using for a hangout. I gave him a chance to surrender.”
Once again Sheriff Carter’s eyes twinkled.
“Didn’t take it, eh?” he observed.
“He sure didn’t,” Slade said. “He went for his iron. I got his follower dead center, but Sosna had ducked behind him in the split second he had to act. He grabbed the corpse and held it in front of him as a shield. The light was to his back, I was facing it. I tried to get him over the dead man’s shoulder. Instead, he got me, in the leg. Knocked me heels over tincup. As I went down, Sosna whipped around and ran out of the cave. I shot as I fell but was never sure if I nicked him, even though he did seem to stagger a mite. Anyhow he got his horse and by the time I managed to crawl out the cave he was just rounding a bend a quarter of a mile distant and, it seemed to me, headed for Mexico. I figured he was headed for the mountains of Sinaloa, perhaps, and planned to follow him.”
“Did he?” asked the sheriff.
“He did not,” Slade replied. “Instead he got a bunch together and started east across Mexico, raiding as he went. Nobody seemed able to stop him. When I got a line on him and what he was doing, I decided I might as well fracture international law again.”
For the third time, Sheriff Carter’s old eyes twinkled and he seemed to have difficulty biting back a grin. Slade was too absorbed in the recital of his misadventures to notice.
“So here we went again,” Slade concluded. “Same monotonous course of events. Just missed hogtying him a few times. Followed him to Brownsville, Texas, and Matamoros across the Rio Grande in Mexico. There he’d gotten going strong. Was setting up as a liberator and organizing an army of peons. Looked for a while that he might foment a real uprising that would have meant trouble a-plenty for the Border country. I managed to stop that. Then, with the sheriff of the county, I again met Sosna face to face, almost, with the two followers he had with him. The two followers died. Sosna made it to his horse, with me after him. There was a small steamer just pulling away from the Matamoros wharf, headed for the Gulf. Sosna jumped his horse across twenty feet of water, landed on the deck, whipped from the saddle, fired a couple of shots and took over. I didn’t get a chance to line sights with him. Down the river he went and that was the last I heard of him till I got word he had moved back here to his original stamping grounds. Naturally I ambled up here, too. Now we’ll see. Maybe his luck will run out, if luck is the right word. I’m hoping he’ll turn out to be human after all and make a slip.”
For the fourth time the sheriff’s eyes twinkled, and El Halcón got a jolt.
“Quite a yarn,” Carter remarked. “And do you think he knows you’re a Ranger?”
Slade stared. “Now how the devil did you catch on?” he demanded.
“Son,” answered the sheriff, “I’m an old man, and I’ve been in the peace officer business, one way or another, for nigh onto thirty years. I’ve learned to notice things a bit, too. In the first place, an owlhoot doesn’t give another owlhoot a chance to surrender when they meet face to face. In the second place, an owlhoot chasing another owlhoot in the course of a feudin’ don’t bother his head about bustin’ international law, or any other law. Figured first off that the outlaw brand didn’t fit you. Knew you couldn’t be a sheriff or deputy or marshal and go sashayin’ all over Texas; only a Ranger could have the authority to do that. Simple, eh?”
“Oh, sure, once you’ve showed it to me,” Slade conceded dryly. “Yes, I’m one of McNelty’s men.”
From a cunningly concealed secret pocket in his broad leather belt he drew a gleaming silver star set on a silver circle, the feared and honored badge of the Texas Rangers, and passed it to the sheriff. Carter gazed at it a moment, nodded and returned it to its owner.
“Knew old Jim McNelty pretty well years back,” he remarked. “Haven’t seen him for quite a spell, though. Fine old jigger.”
“He certainly is,” Slade agreed as he restored the badge to its hiding place.
“And now?” Carter asked.
“Now,” Slade replied, “my chore is to try and drop a loop on Veck Sosna, if he doesn’t drop one on me first.”
“Any notion where to look for him?”
“Not the slightest, at the moment,” Slade said. “No telling where he might be—someplace least expected, the chances are. Wouldn’t surprise me if he walked into the office.”
“He’d better not if he knows what’s good for him,” Carter growled. “I won’t give him any chance to surrender, on that you can bet your last peso. You’d better not next time, either.”
Slade smiled and did not comment.
“Suppose we drop in at the Trail End for something to eat?” he suggested.
“My sentiments,” agreed the sheriff. “All this palavering makes me hungry.”
At the Trail End, which was already pretty well crowded, they found a convenient table where they could talk and gave their orders.
“Answering your question of a little while ago,” Slade remarked, “I’m not at all sure but that Sosna does know I’m a Ranger, or at least suspects it. Not that that would make any difference to Sosna. To him a Ranger is just another jigger who can be mowed down by hot lead. And his ego is such that he believes he’s more than a match for any man on earth.
“And,” he added with a wry smile,” there are times when he comes close to proving it so. Has just about made me believe it a few times.”
“My money’s on El Halcón,” Carter declared cheerfully. “May take a while and a bit of conniving, but you’ll get him, sooner or later. No doubt in my mind as to that.”
“Thanks for your confidence, I hope it isn’t misplaced,” Slade replied, with a smile.
“It ain’t,” the old peace officer said with finality. “I only hope I’ll have the luck to be in at the finish. Well, here comes our chuck, so we’ll forget about Sosna and other owlhoots for a while.”
A period of busy silence followed. Finally the sheriff pushed back his plate and hauled out his old black pipe. Slade rolled a cigarette.
When his pipe was going good, Carter glanced around and shook his grizzled head.
“Filling up already, and it’s early,” he remarked. “This is liable to be quite a night. Payday for the spreads and all the young hellions will be ambling to town. I aim to swear in half a dozen specials for duty tonight. You’re still sworn in, if it should happen to come in handy for some reason or other. Places like this ain’t likely to be too bad, but those rumholes down toward the railroad and the lake! Gentlemen, hush!”
“Yes, it should be interesting down there,” Slade agreed thoughtfully.
“Too darn interesting at times,” grunted the sheriff. “Most anything can happen down there, and usually does.”
After a bit, Carter knocked out his pipe. “Guess I’d better be getting back to the office,” he announced. “Got to round up my specials. Be seeing you later.”
SIX
THE AFTERNOON wore on, an unrolling scroll of light and fragrance. Flecks of shadow curdled in the cup of the amarillo flowers blanketing the prairie, from which the lake took its name. Behind the distant New Mexico mountains the sun sank in flaming glory. The blue veil of the dusk shrouded the rangeland. Blank windows alchemized to squares and rectangles of ruddy gold. Overhead, the silver roses of the sky bloomed in splendor, and it was night.
But there was no hush of peaceful dark in Amarillo. What was later to be known as the Queen City of the Panhandle proceeded to live up to its present designation, the Cowboy Capital of the Plains.
Every hitchrack was lined with horses. The board sidewalks were crowded. All the saloons were already doing plenty of business. Amarillo was beginning to rumble. Later the rumble would become a roar. Still later, a screeching howl. The payday bust! Sweat and toil and blood forgotten. Now it was whisky, cards, and girls. Young men lusty with life, carefree, reckless. And Walt Slade knew that at heart he was one of their number. The hard facts of life and the stern hand of duty curbed him somewhat, but not altogether. His pulses were quickening, the devils of laughter in the depths of his cold eyes edging their way to the front. He had a chore to do, and he’d spend most of the night seeking a way to do it; but just the same he was affected by the spirit of celebration that was abroad and resolved to try and snatch a mite of relaxation and enjoyment if possible.
The Trail End was rowdy and boisterous but, Slade decided, fairly innocuous, at least in the earlier hours of the night. Later, when the red-eye began to get in its licks it might be different. Most of the patrons, at present, were fresh-faced young cowhands from the neighboring spreads, ready for a fight, a frolic, or a footrace, but with no real harm in them.
Four husky floor men circulated among the crowd with watchful eyes for potential trouble, which they could usually stop before it really got started. And Swivel himself, Slade felt, was a salty hombre, and he quickly concluded that his nickname was not a misnomer; his eyes did swivel in all directions, continually, and he was the first to spot a possible row and first to forestall it.
So Slade found himself a small vacant table in a corner near the dance floor, ordered a drink, rolled a cigarette and eased back comfortably in his chair to survey the colorful scene.
It was colorful, all right, a typical payday night in a Border cowtown. With a charm all its own. The charm of gay recklessness that counted not the cost. Life, which might well be short, lived to the full for a few fleeting hours. Tomorrow? Why bother about that? Let the bubble of pleasure burst in the hand. It was lovely while it lasted. Sufficient unto eternity was the glory of the hour.
But while absorbed in his kaleidescopic surroundings, he nevertheless kept a watch on the swinging doors of the saloon, and not a man entered he did not note and try to evaluate. He hardly thought that Sosna or some of his followers would put in an appearance at the Trail End, but he was taking no chances. Would be like the unpredictable devil to do just that. His effrontery was colossal and at times he achieved his ends by sheer audacity.
A lanky, leathery-faced individual strolled in, paused and glanced keenly around the room. Slade recognized Bill Harley, the sardonic-looking deputy sheriff. Harley’s gaze centered on him and he sauntered over to the table.
“Take a load off your feet and have a drink,” Slade invited, beckoning a waiter. Harley nodded acceptance and drew up a chair. He glanced around complacently.
“Place is really hopping,” he remarked. “Same down by the lake and the railroad. Be trouble down there before the night is over is my bet. A gathering of prime specimens down there, not all of ’em cowhands even though they look to be. Especially in a rumhole called the Washout. The sort on the lookout for pickin’s. Carter has a couple of specials circulating there but they got a lot of territory to cover, and those hellions usually manage to pull something where they ain’t.”
“The Washout?” Slade repeated interrogatively. Harley nodded again.
“Uh-huh,” he replied, sampling his drink. “Real close to where the lake reaches when she’s high. Be a good notion if it did get washed out. Places like this one are okay, plenty of heck raising and a rukus now and then but no undercover stuff likely to be pulled here. But places like the Washout! We could sure do without them.”
He tossed off his glass, beckoned the waiter and ordered another round, which they consumed slowly. Suddenly he chuckled.
“There goes Swivel-eye into the back room with another poke of dinero,” he remarked. “He took back a couple while I was here before. That old strongbox of his must be stuffed. It’s a big night.”
Shoving his empty glass aside, he beckoned the waiter, paid for the round and stood up.
“Guess I’d better be moseying around,” he said. “Carter wants us on our toes tonight. He seems to think something really bad might happen.”
“He could be right,” Slade agreed.
“Yep, could be,” said Harley. “Be seeing you.” He sauntered out, his keen eyes shooting glances in every direction. A hard man and one who didn’t miss any bets, was Slade’s conclusion.
El Halcón was growing restless and he decided he’d emulate Harley’s example and stroll around a bit. The Washout! Somehow, the name was intriguing. Doubtless because of what Harley had said about the place. He paid his score and left the saloon, noting absently that Swivel-eye was nowhere in sight and that the door to the back room was closed. Doubtless he was counting the take, and from the way gold pieces were ringing on the mahogany, it was likely something of a chore.
The Trail End was two doors from the corner of a rather dimly lighted side street. Slade walked to the corner and turned into the side street. A few steps brought him to the mouth of a dark alley. He glanced up it, noted a pencil of light that evidently came from the crack of a partially closed door. And he judged from its distance from the alley mouth that the door was the back door of the Trail End, which opened onto the alley. He was slightly surprised that the owner should have left it open while stowing the money in the safe. And as he gazed at the bright streamer an instant he heard a sound that he quickly catalogued as the impatient stamp of a horse somewhere up the dark alley.
