The Hate Trail, page 5
Funny place for a horse to be left, with plenty of hitching space available out front. Slade experienced a sudden stirring of curiosity. He hesitated an instant, then strolled up the alley.
As he surmised, the slightly open door was really that of the Trail End. He paused beside it, peered through the narrow opening, and stiffened to alert attention. He had a view of about half the room and when he saw tensed every nerve for instant action.
Swivel-eye Sanders lay on the floor, his face streaked with blood. In the far corner was a big iron safe, the door open. Two men squatted beside the safe, busily transferring its contents to a couple of canvas sacks.
Drawing both guns, Slade hit the door with his shoulder and leaped into the room. His voice blared at the pair—“Elevate!”
The two men came to their feet like cats, hurtling sideways, going for their guns, ducking and dodging.
Slade shot with both hands, left and right. Answering lances of flame gushed toward him. A bullet whispered in his ear.
Another ripped the brim of his hat. Ducking and dodging himself, he fired again and again.
He sensed rather than saw a flicker of shadow on his left, going backward in a panther bound, he snapped a shot at a man looming in the doorway. There was a yelp of pain, the clatter of a falling gun, and the intruder vanished. Slade whirled to face the others, gun muzzles jutting forward.
Abruptly he realized there was nothing more to shoot at. Two motionless forms lay on the floor beside Swivel-eye, who was rolling his bloody head from side to side and muttering with returning consciousness. Slade raced to the door, peered cautiously, then stepped out. As he did so, he heard a clatter of fast hoofs in the darkness of the alley. He fired twice at the sound, paused to listen. The beat of hoofs was dimming into the distance. He returned to the room, where he found Swivel-eye sitting up, looking dazed.
“W-where the devil did you come from?” he mouthed. His eyes flashed with apprehension.
“Those two devils—” he began.
“They’re taken care of,” Slade interrupted. “How you feel?”
“Not too bad,” Swivel-eye replied.
The tumult in the saloon had abruptly stilled. Now it burst forth anew. Somebody was hammering on the locked door.
“Hold it a minute till I open the door before somebody breaks it down,” Slade said. He crossed to the door, unlocked it and swung it open to come face to face with Swivel-eyes head bartender who began yammering questions.
“Come in here,” Slade told him. “The rest of you stay out till I tell you to come in,” he told the crowd and closed and locked the door.
The barkeep was staring in amazement, his mouth hanging open. Swivel-eye, who apparently was again in command of his faculties, glared at him.
“Who the blankety-blank-blank left that back door unlocked?” he bawled.
“It—it was locked when I came on this afternoon, I tried it,” stammered the barkeep. “There’s the key hanging on the nail.”
“Well, it wasn’t locked when those two hellions barged in and belted me with a gun barrel,” roared Swivel-eye. “Just wait till I find out who left it unlocked! I’ll pistol whip him within an inch of his life and then fire him.”
“Don’t go off half-cocked,” Slade cautioned. “Perhaps somebody got hold of a duplicate key. That’s an old-fashioned lock and not hard to open by somebody who knows how.”
Again there was a pounding on the door. “Open it,” Slade ordered.
The bartender did so and Sheriff Carter strode in.
“What the jumpin’ blue blazes?” he demanded.
“Thieves! that’s what!” shouted Swivel, one eye glaring, the other leering waggishly. “Where the blankety-blank were you fellers who’re supposed to keep such things from happening? If it wasn’t for Slade here they’d have got away with it. Why—”
Slade took charge again. “Simmer down,” he advised, stemming Swivel-eye’s tirade. “Think you can stand up?”
“Lend me a hand,” growled Swivel-eye. With Slade’s help he got to his feet, to stand weaving a little. Slade led him to a chair which hadn’t been knocked to pieces and made him sit down.
“I want to give your head a once-over,” he said. “Not much of a cut, but it bled freely.”
With sensitive fingertips he explored the vicinity of the wound.
“No signs of fracture, so far as I can see,” he announced. “Lucky you’ve got such thick hair; otherwise you might have been hurt a lot worse. Is there bandage and salve anywhere around?”
“I’ve got some in a drawer back of the bar,” said the drink juggler.
“Get them,” Slade said. “Keep the crowd out, Brian,” he told Sheriff Carter.
Very quickly the barkeep returned with the medicants. Slade deftly padded and bandaged the wound. He rolled and lit a cigarette and handed it to Sanders, who gratefully took a couple of deep drags.
“That’ll hold you till Doc Beard gets here,” Slade said. “Send for him, Brian. Best not to take chances with a head wound. I’m not a doctor and may have missed something.”
“I doubt it,” growled Swivel-eye. “I don’t think you ever miss anything.”
Sheriff Carter opened the door and called a name. A swamper got his powders and hurried out to fetch the doctor.
“And now,” Slade suggested to Sanders, “suppose you tell us just what happened.”
“I’d just finished counting the take and was stashing it in the safe when I heard something behind me,” Swivel-eye replied. “I turned around and saw those two devils swooping down on me. Next I saw was stars and comets and the roof falling in on me. If I can just find out who left that back door unlocked!” Slade crossed to the door in question and closed and locked it, using the key which hung on a nearby nail. Withdrawing the key from the lock, he looked it over carefully before replacing it on the nail.
“Not hard to duplicate by somebody who knows locks,” he commented. “Of course somebody may have carelessly forgotten to lock the door. Brian, let’s give those two carcasses a once-over. There was a third hellion in on it; I figure he was holding the horses up the alley. He very nearly did for me, but I managed to nick him in the arm, I think. Anyhow, he dropped his gun and skalleyhooted. There’s the gun lying beside the door. I don’t think I shot it out of his hand.”
He picked up the gun and examined it. “Nope, slug didn’t touch it,” he said. “Must have gotten him in the arm. Not enough to stop him, though; he sure sifted sand. Now for the bodies.”
The dead robbers were hard looking specimens, swarthy of complexion, with black eyes. Both were stocky but powerfully built.
“Comancheros, I’d be willing to wager,” Slade muttered to Carter, who was turning out the pockets to reveal nothing of significance other than a considerable sum of money.
“Sosna’s bunch?” the sheriff muttered back.
“Very likely,” Slade replied. “Tell you more later.”
The doctor arrived, white-bearded, frosty-eyed. Without wasting words, he removed Slade’s bandage and carefully examined the wound.
“Nothing to it,” was his verdict. “Couldn’t dent his skull with a cannon ball. Didn’t even need to change the bandage, but I gotta do something to earn my pay. You did a good job of tying up, young feller,” he added to Slade, one eyelid closing the merest trifle. “Surgeon’s hands! All right, Sanders, go get drunk and try not to rob too many folks tonight, or pizen ’em with your cactus juice.” With another half-wink at Slade he stalked out.
“Finest old feller that ever spit on the soil,” said Swivel-eye, drawing on the second cigarette Slade rolled for him. “Him and Slade have a heap in common.”
Slade smiled. “Let’s go get a drink,” he suggested to the sheriff.
“And everything on the house,” said Swivel-eye. “Hope you drink her dry.”
SEVEN
AT A TABLE where they could talk without interruption, the sheriff said, “And you really think those hellions belonged to Sosna’s bunch?”
“Yes,” Slade replied. “And I understand now why Sosna was here the other day. He was looking the place over and concluded the payday take would be worth making a try for. So he managed to get a wax impression of the back door keyhole, I’d say, and made a duplicate. No trick for him; he’s a whizzer where locks are concerned. I doubt if there is a safe or vault in the section he couldn’t open. Had his devils stationed in the alley tonight. They unlocked the door, opened it the merest crack and watched Sanders come in and open the safe to pack away the money he had taken from the tills. Saw the safe was loaded, slipped in and clubbed him over the head.”
“And as Sanders said, if it hadn’t been for you they would have gotten away with it,” observed Carter. “How’d you figure out what was going on?”
“Mostly luck,” Slade replied. “I saw the light seeping through the crack in the door and thought it was funny Sanders would have left that door open while he was stowing the money in the safe. Then I heard a horse stamp up the alley and thought that was a mite strange. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to investigate. Sort of in the nature of a hunch, and it paid off.”
“It sure did,” grunted the sheriff. “There was plenty in that box. A pity one of the pair you did for wasn’t Sosna himself. Think he’s in town tonight?”
“Not beyond the realm of possibility,” Slade answered. “He may have something else lined up. Otherwise he probably would have been in on this chore. Although he does sometimes leave such routine business to subordinates he can depend on.”
“Bet he’ll be in a temper for fair when he hears about what happened,” chuckled Carter.
“Quite likely,” Slade replied, with a smile.
“Quite likely, too, that he’s found out El Halcón is on his trail again, eh?”
“It is plausible to think so,” Slade conceded.
“And will be out to even the score.”
“Doubtless.”
“You don’t seem much bothered about it,” growled the sheriff.
Slade shrugged his broad shoulders.
“Sosna and I must play the hand out.”
Sheriff Carter sighed and shook his head. “Well, reckon I’d better go and arrange to have those carcasses packed to the office,” he said. “More fodder for our local Boot Hill. Business is picking up since you landed in the section. Say! you’ve sure got everybody looking toward you, including all of the dance floor girls.”
Slade laughed. “They won’t look long,” he predicted. “A few more drinks and they will have forgotten all about what happened. Just added a little spice of variety to the night’s doings.” The sheriff chuckled and sipped his drink.
El Halcón was right. Very quickly everything swung back to normal and the payday hilarity was going full blast. The only reminder of what had happened was the bandaged and thoroughly bad tempered Swivel-eye, who glowered at all and sundry with one orb and regarded jocosely with the other.
Meanwhile, Slade was doing some hard thinking. He wondered if Sosna had really been in town with his followers to whom he had relegated the chore of cleaning out the Trail End safe, and if he had some other nefarious operation in mind. Would be just like him. With the Trail End the focus of interest, he might reason that there would be negligence somewhere else which would provide him with opportunity. Sosna was mighty good at sizing up opportunity and taking advantage of it.
The big question was where would he be most likely to strike, if he did strike. Slade wracked his brains for a possible answer to that question.
The bank? Hardly. Sheriff Carter had assigned two alert specials to keep an eye on that institution. So what else?
The question was still unanswered when Carter glanced at the clock over the bar and announced,
“Guess I’d better mosey over to the office and see if any reports have come in. Coming along?”
Slade shook his head. “I think I’ll stick around for a while longer,” he said. “May drop in at the office later, if you’re still there.”
“I’ll be there for a while,” Carter said. “Be seeing you.” With a wave of his hand to Swivel-eye, he walked out.
Although he did not tell the sheriff so, Slade had already made up his mind to leave the Trail End for a while. He wanted to have a look at the lower town, around the lake and the railroad and did not inform Carter of his intentions because he knew he’d want to accompany him, and he preferred to make his tour of inspection alone.
Carter was almost sure to be recognized in any of the places down there and gentlemen of uneasy conscience would guard their speech. Going it alone, Slade hoped to possibly hear something said that would prove of value; alcohol opens lips that would otherwise be tightly latigoed. He also waved to Swivel-eye and sauntered out, glances following his progress. Walking a little ways down the street he paused and glanced back. Nobody had left the saloon. A few more steps and another backward glance. Satisfied that he was not wearing a tail, he turned toward the lower town.
Gradually the streets grew darker. There were fewer lighted windows and through the panes that were lighted the seepage of glow had a gray look, hinting at unwashed glass and smoky lamp chimneys. Here as elsewhere, the payday bust was going strong, the spirit of hilarity still manifest. But it seemed to Slade it had acquired a shriller note, like to the whine of an irritated owl, or even the sinister buzz of an aroused rattlesnake.
Slade walked warily, for here were the hangouts of the more sinister elements, the vultures who preyed on whatever victims chance might send their way. The vicious, the depraved, the furtive, the stealthily cunning. Here a drunken cowhand might well be found knocked on the head and his pockets turned inside out. Here a stacked deck in a card game was not uncommon. The dance floor girls were questionable, to put it mildly. The bartenders were not above slipping a soporific drop or two into the glass of a likely-looking prospect. And the victim, awakening unexpectedly, would be silenced by a knife thrust.
Altogether a veritable devil’s brew. But one which, for various reasons, the visiting cowhands found attractive. That way in all such Border towns, Slade knew. And Amarillo was a Border town in the sense that it was one of the outposts of civilization in a wild land. So El Halcón walked warily, his keen eyes probing the shadows, his hands never very far from the butts of his guns.
Now he was nearing the point where the railroad curved around the lake, the final outskirts of the lower town. In view was the sparkle of the water, and the gleam of the twin steel ribbons stretching east and west.
Abruptly he slowed his pace, came to a halt. Across the street was a wide window that glowed a bit brighter than most. On the glass was legended in staring red letters—
THE WASHOUT
The place Deputy Bill Harley had mentioned in unfavorable terms. Over the swinging doors came strains of music, not too bad, the thump of boots and the click of high heels on the dance floor. The rumble of voices was punctuated by the clink of bottle necks on glasses and the sprightly ring of gold pieces on the “mahogany.” Evidently the Washout was doing a good business.
After gazing a moment, Slade sauntered across the street and pushed his way through the swinging doors, casting an all embracing glance over the crowded room. Finding a place at the long bar, he ordered a drink and continued to survey the room by the back bar mirror. The Washout boasted a rather motley gathering, including many cowhands, railroaders, teamsters and some “store clothes” gents. All in all, not much different from the patrons of the better lighted and possibly more orderly places farther uptown. Slade felt that Harley’s estimate had been slightly colored by prejudice against the place, although he was ready to concede there was plenty of potential dynamite present.
The bartender who served him favored him with a keen and appraising scrutiny but was a affable enough. His entrance had attracted no more than the passing attention doubtless accorded any newcomer, so far as he was able to judge.
One group intrigued Slade’s interest. Six men sat at a table near the door, drinking and playing a desultory game of cards. The majority, he noted, were inclined to swarthiness. Nothing particularly unusual about that in this section, though, where an infiltration of Indian blood was not uncommon. Also, there were quite a few Mexican sheep raisers in the Canadian Valley.
“I’m seeing Comancheros wherever there’s a good case of sun-tan,” he chuckled to himself.
It appeared that the group was expecting somebody or had some sort of an assignation in mind, for they kept glancing at the clock over the bar. However, they showed no signs of tension or repressed excitement; their glances were casual. He dismissed them for the moment and studied other occupants of the room. Gradually he became convinced that there was nothing out of the ordinary in the place, nothing that invited his serious attention. He finished his drink and strolled out. He hesitated a moment, then walked slowly to the railroad; the station was just a short distance to the east. To the west the tracks ran straight for better than a mile. As he gazed absently along their dwindling gleam, he heard the wail of a whistle thin with distance. Doubtless the night passenger train, the Tucumcari Flyer, which would pause briefly at Amarillo. He decided to watch her pull in, leaned against a convenient telegraph pole and rolled a cigarette.
Far to the west appeared a sparkle that swiftly grew larger, the locomotive headlight. Slade watched it increase in brilliance. Now he could hear the engine’s exhaust, a loudening hum. The rails at his feet began to click. The train was not much more than half a mile distant, and already slowing for the station.
Suddenly the beam of the headlight was drowned by a blaze of yellowish flame. A moment later to Slade’s ears came a muffled boom followed by a crashing sound. And at the same instant, from the direction of the saloon he had just quitted erupted a bellow of gunfire and a wild shouting. Instinctively, he turned in that direction, then his gaze swung back to the west as there was another burst of flame followed by a louder boom.
