Death's Corral, page 6
“I only wish I had been able to do more,” he said. “As I was telling Tom, if I’d just caught on a little sooner I might have saved the two guards.”
“No man could have done more,” Arista declared with decision. “You certainly have no reason to blame yourself on that score.”
Slade fingered the telegram. “It would seem Mr. Hopper has a sense of humor,” he commented. “He struck me as being an able and intelligent young man.”
“Oh, he’s all of that,” conceded Arista, “but I think macabre describes the quality of his sense of humor.”
“Whatever the devil that means,” grunted the sheriff. “I knew a feller over in Alpine named Mack Kober, but there wasn’t anything funny about him.”
“Grisly might also be fittingly descriptive,” Slade smiled. “But young fellows like Hopper, who look death in the eye with frequency, are apt to regard it lightly. Familiarity breeds contempt.”
“Guess that’s so,” conceded Arista, “but as you grow older, you accord greater respect to the ‘Grim Reaper,’ feeling his cold breath on your neck. Yes, grisly is also appropriate.”
“Grizzly!” snorted the sheriff. “Now I suppose you’re talking about bears. Trying to keep up with what you fellers are sayin’, without a dictionary handy, is a chore.”
Slade laughed, and changed the subject.
“I directed Hopper to inform the sheriff of Brewster County of what happened and to tell him that if he wished me present at the inquest to get in touch with you, Tom.”
“Okay, I’ll take care of it,” Crane promised. “Now what?”
“Now I crave a session of ear pounding,” Slade replied. “Had very little sleep last night, and it’s been a busy day. See you tomorrow, Mr. Arista.”
Slade went to bed, to dream of Macabre leading his skeletons, all of whom wore black “headsman” masks that covered the back of the skull, to the grave in the dance of death.
8
HE CHUCKLED over the dream the following morning as he walked through the brilliant sunshine to the Branding Pen and breakfast; dreams were amusing things.
But there was nothing amusing about the possibility that Juan Covelo really was operating in the section. That was a deadly serious matter, as Slade well knew, and might well be deadly, period, for him. For if Covelo was in the section, he must know that El Halcón was again on his trail. El Halcón, the man he had sworn to kill at the first opportunity.
Well, he hadn’t had much luck so far, and perhaps his lack of luck would hold. Slade believed it would and sat down to a table in a cheerful frame of mind.
A hearty breakfast with plenty of steaming coffee made him feel even more cheerful. A walk in the sunshine and a few words with Shadow also helped.
“We’re not doing too bad,” he told the big black. “With a mite of help, we’ve been able to account for seven of the devils, and I’ve a notion an eighth isn’t feeling any too good right now, from the way he wobbled when he skalley-hooted into the brush. So stop your grumbling and take it easy. Nothing to be pessimistic about.”
Shadow refused to comment, so Slade tweaked his ear and went in search of Sheriff Crane, whom he found busy at his desk.
“Got a wire from Sheriff Traynor over at Marathon,” he announced as the Ranger entered. “Says he’d like to have us both at the inquest tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. Why he wants me I’ll be hanged if I know, but that’s what he said.”
“Perhaps to advise him as to how to deal with notorious El Halcón,” Slade smiled. Crane snorted.
“Darned old terrapin-brain,” he grumbled, apropos of the Brewster County peace officer. “Shall we go by train? It’s quicker.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to ride,” Slade replied. “Never can tell when we might need our cayuses.”
“That’s right,” Crane agreed.
“If we start early, we can make it without difficulty,” Slade added. “And the weather is fine.”
“Okay, we’ll trail our twine right after daybreak,” nodded Crane.
“Expect the carts will roll in sometime today,” Slade observed.
“Will be a long and hard pull, covering that distance in one day,” the sheriff commented.
“Yes, but they can do it if they keep moving,” Slade said. “I imagine Hopper will be anxious to get those loads and the money to Sanderson as quickly as possible. I doubt if he’d chance a night camp on the way.”
Slade was right. The cart train did arrive, long after dark. He was sitting at a table in the Branding Pen, after enjoying a late dinner, when Clyde Hopper entered, glanced about, and hurried to the table.
“Figured I might find you here. Got something to tell you,” he announced.
“Yes?” Slade replied interrogatorily, waving him to a chair and beckoning a waiter.
“Yes,” Hopper said, sitting down. “I couldn’t deliver that message to the sheriff over there for you. We took the bodies to the sheriff’s office, as you told us to. Wasn’t anybody around but the door wasn’t locked so we packed ’em inside and laid ’em out on the floor. The boys made camp and headed for something to eat. I went looking for the sheriff. Didn’t find him, but did find a deputy I know. Deputy said that Traynor was down at Costolon, by the Rio Grande, on some business. Wouldn’t be back until late tomorrow at the earliest. Deputy promised to relay the message to him soon as he got back. I figured you’d ought to know about it.”
“I’m very glad you told me,” Slade replied, his eyes very thoughtful. “And you’re sure he said the sheriff wouldn’t be back until tomorrow?”
“That’s what the deputy said, and I reckon he ought to know,” Hopper answered. “I know he hadn’t come back this morning. Deputy said he’d look after the bodies but couldn’t decide what to do about an inquest until Sheriff Traynor got back. Said he reckoned Traynor would get in touch with you as soon as he got back.”
Slade sat silent for a moment, while Hopper addressed himself to his drink and motioned the waiter for refills for both of them.
Abruptly he turned to face the guard captain. “Clyde,” he said, “will you do me a favor?”
“Huh!” exclaimed Hopper. “Is there anything I could refuse you, after what you did for us down on the trail? What is it?”
“Just this,” Slade explained, “don’t mention what you just told me to anybody; I have a reason for asking.”
“If you’ve got a reason, I reckon it’s a good one,” Hopper answered cheerfully. “Okay, I’ll keep the latigo tight on my jaw.”
Slade asked a question, “Did anybody overhear what the deputy told you relative to the sheriff’s absence from Marathon?”
“Why, I reckon they did,” Hopper replied, looking puzzled. “I found him at a bar and there were quite a few fellers around who could have heard if they were listening. Didn’t know there was any reason for keeping it secret and didn’t ask him to keep his voice down. Yep, I reckon others heard what he said, all right.”
“And how about your boys, did they know about it?” Slade pursued. Hopper shook his head.
“I didn’t discuss it with them,” he said, “so I reckon they don’t know about it. Say, what’s going on, anyhow?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Slade answered. “And thank you again for bringing me the word so promptly.”
“Glad I did,” said Hopper. “I’m going to have something to eat—been quite a while since I tied onto a surrounding.”
“Good trip?” Slade asked by way of a diversion.
“Fine,” the guard captain replied. “We just kept rolling along. I was going to make town tonight or fail up. I sent one of the boys to tell the boss I’d be here. Reckon he’ll want to check the load, even if it is late.”
While Hopper ate, Slade sat smoking and sipping coffee, and thinking hard, contemplating just what use he should make of the information he had received. Rather surprising information, everything considered. Might well be highly important, even mean the difference between life and death for himself and Tom Crane. Finally he resolved not to mention what he had learned to the sheriff, for the time being at least.
For he was formulating a plan, a plan that called for absolute secrecy were it to possibly succeed. He debated whether or not to try and dissuade the sheriff from accompanying him on the trip, but, rather reluctantly, dismissed the idea as not feasible. And after all, if his conclusions were correct, the capable old peace officer might well come in very handy.
It was a daring plan, something like walking into a den of grizzly bears and punching them on the nose. But Slade believed there was a chance that it would work if his estimate of the situation was not erroneous, and it might rid the section of a pest once and for all.
So he decided to put it into effect and was fairly sanguine as to the outcome.
He had no fear that Crane would do any talking out of turn did he know what was in the wind; but his attitude might give the thing away were somebody keeping close tabs on them in town, which Slade believed might be the case.
Arista arrived before Hopper finished his meal and was treated to a vivid account of what happened on the trail south of Persimmon Gap, stressing the part Slade played.
“So you stood out in the open and shot it out with them, eh?” he scolded. “I knew darn well you weren’t giving us half the story. To hear you tell it, it was just a lucky break with no danger to yourself. Glad you came across with a true yarn, Hopper. Leave it to him and he’ll never get the credit due him.”
“Well, he gets the credit from us fellers,” said Hopper. “If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here telling you about it, and that goes for the rest of the boys. Loads all okay, and the money, too. I left Miguel and Sebastian watching over them with a coupla sawed-off shotguns.”
“They had those scatterguns trained on me when I was ten yards away, before they recognized me,” Arista answered. “Yes, everything is okay. Vive El Halcón!”
It was Hopper’s turn to bellow laughter. “I thought that was a good one when I wrote it,” he chuckled.
“I didn’t see much humor in it last night, but things look a bit different today,” Arista admitted, with a smile. “Well, I’ll get back to checking loads. Waiter, fill ’em up again for my amigos.”
A little later the carters and the guards filed in and business picked up.
Slade watched for a while, then said goodnight to Hopper who joined his companions at the bar, and retired to his room; a few hours of sleep were in order.
He and the sheriff left town at daybreak. Slade rode casually as the miles flowed back under the horses’ speeding irons, apparently relaxed and carefree, conversing with his companion. But always his eyes were searching the terrain ahead, noting and evaluating the movements of birds on the wing, little animals in the brush, the drift of cloud shadows through the chaparral, his keen ears listening for any alien sound.
The miles flowed back, the sun crossed the zenith and slid down the long slant of the western sky, and nothing happened. They were now less than a dozen miles from Marathon and Slade began to wonder if perhaps he had been mistaken in the conclusions he drew.
Then suddenly from the brush ahead that encroached on the trail, and at the beginning of a bend, darted a javelina pig, squealing angrily. It sped across the trail, still squealing, and vanished into the brush on the far side.
“Hold it!” Slade said, in low tones as he reined Shadow in. “Keep your voice down!”
“What—what—” began the startled sheriff.
“Quiet!” Slade interrupted. “I don’t like the way old bristle-back acted. Something sure set him off—something scared him, and javelinas don’t scare easy. Listen, now. Ease your horse into the chaparral, as quietly as possible, out of sight from the trail. Okay, this is far enough.”
“Won’t you please tell me what’s up?” breathed Crane. “Did you see something?”
“No,” Slade replied, “but that little hog evidently did. Now I’ll tell you what I didn’t before. That message you received was not from Sheriff Chet Traynor. Somebody sent it to lure us onto this trail today; I’ll explain everything later. I’ve a notion that right ahead somebody, more likely several some-bodies, are holed up waiting for us to show. I could be wrong, but I don’t believe I am, and we can’t afford to take chances.”
“What are we going to do?” whispered the sheriff.
“If we work it right and you don’t mind taking a chance, we may be able to turn the tables on the devils and give them a nice surprise,” Slade replied.
“I’ll take a chance,” Crane answered grimly. “Be glad of the chance to take one. You give the orders and I’ll toddle right along with you.”
“Will your horse stand, and keep quiet?” Slade asked.
“Yep, he’s well-trained,” said Crane.
“All right, then,” the Ranger explained, “we’ll leave the horses here and slide ahead through the brush, keeping back from the trail. If I’m correct in my surmise, the sidewinders will be at the edge of the growth, watching the bend in the trail. Stay right behind me and for Pete’s sake don’t make a noise or we’ll be the ones to get the surprise. All ready? Let’s go!”
9
SLOWLY AND in utter silence, Slade led the way, bending under branches, carefully stepping over tufts of low growth, pausing often to peer and listen. The sheriff, familiar with such work, trailed after him, equally silent.
They covered at least fifty yards, keeping back from the edge of the growth. Abruptly Slade halted. To his keen ears had come a low mutter of voices almost opposite from where they stood scarce daring to breathe. Slade eased forward a step, then another, and sighted the quarry, two masked men standing at the edge of the growth, their eyes fixed on the trail. They were not more than ten feet distant.
Slade hesitated; they would be justified in downing the murderous devils where they stood. But he was a Texas Ranger, bound by the stern code of the Rangers.
“We’ll have to give them a chance to surrender,” he breathed to Crane. “You do the talking.”
The sheriff’s voice rang out. “Elevate! In the name of the law! You’re covered!”
The pair jumped, whirled in the direction of the sound, guns sliding from their holsters. Slade took no chances and, weaving and ducking, shot with both hands. The sheriff’s gun bellowed beside him.
One of the drygulchers crumpled without a sound. The other also went down, shooting as he fell. The slugs fanned Slade’s face. He bounded forward as the outlaw flattened out.
From a few yards down the line of brush a third gun blazed. The sheriff sank to the ground with a groan. Slade boomed a shot at the flash and leaped forward. Through a rift in the growth he caught a glimpse of a man swinging onto the back of a horse, a slender, broad-shouldered man, a black mask covering his head and neck. Slade threw up his Colt, then slewed sideways and down. One of the “dead” drygulchers had raised himself on an elbow and was taking deliberate aim. His bullet ripped the brim of Slade’s hat. Then he pitched forward to lie still as the Ranger’s answering slugs hammered his body. Slade scrambled to his feet, glaring at the motionless form.
“Blast you! you’ll stay dead this time, but you gave the hellion the start he needed,” he growled disgustedly, listening to the beat of fast hoofs on the trail. He hesitated an instant, half inclined to get Shadow and give pursuit, but refrained; the sheriff needed attention.
With a final swift glance at the motionless drygulchers, he turned and hastened to where Crane was groaning and rolling his head from side to side. Slade knelt beside him, anxiously. To his great relief, he spotted only a trickle of blood from a slight cut just above the sheriff’s left temple. The bullet had barely grazed him, knocking him out with the shock. A moment later, with Slade’s assistance, he sat up, holding his head in his hands.
“How you feel?” Slade asked.
“Okay, except my head’s spinnin’,” Crane mumbled, and shook that member vigorously. “Did you get the blasted vinegarroons?”
“We got two of them, but the third got away,” Slade replied. “And I’m willing to swear he’s the big he-wolf of the pack. I’d recognize his build and the set of his shoulders anywhere. The hellion always seems to get a break, one way or another. Think you can stand?”
“Give me a hand and I think I can,” Crane replied. A moment later he was on his feet, weaving slightly but his strength was quickly returning.
“I’m all right now,” he said. “Let’s see what we bagged.”
They stripped off the masks and gazed at the dead faces.
“Guess you’re right when you say there ain’t nothing about owlhoots’ looks to make ’em stand out from honest folks,” the sheriff grumbled. “This pair looks just like ordinary cowpokes.”
He proceeded to turn out the pockets, discovering nothing of interest save a good deal of money which he pocketed.
“Turn it over to Chet Traynor to help pay for planting them,” he said. “What shall we do with the carcasses?”
“I think we’ll find their horses somewhere near,” Slade replied. “We’ll pack them to town and turn them over to Traynor.”
The horses were discovered not far off, tethered to branches. They were good-looking animals and docile. Slade studied the brands.
“Blotted,” was his verdict. “Somebody did a very neat job with a running iron; you’d have to take the hides off and look at the insides to read the original burns. Would very likely mean nothing, anyhow. Horses can be bought, traded, or stolen and turn up a long ways from where they were foaled.”
The bodies were quickly roped into place across the saddles, and the burdened horses led to where Shadow and the sheriff’s mount waited.
“Let’s go,” Slade said. “Be dark before we reach Marathon at this rate. How’s your head feel?”
“Okay,” Crane answered. “Ache has about stopped and I’m seeing clear again. Was close, though. Another inch to the right and it would have been curtains. It was the one who got away that plugged me, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Slade replied. “He holed up away from the Other two, which was characteristic of him. I just about had sights lined with him when that other devil raised up and did his best to take me with him. That was close, too. If I hadn’t spotted him when I did, he would have gotten me dead center. Oh, well, it didn’t work out too bad, everything considered.”
