Range Ghost
Bradford Scott
LEISURE BOOKS
NEW YORK CITY
The paymaster and the paycar guard sat rigid in chairs; two men stood with guns trained on them. Two more men were squatting beside an open safe, transferring its contents to a canvas sack. Slade’s voice rang out—
“Elevate! You’re covered! In the name of the law—”
The men at the safe leaped erect, while the other two whirled to face Slade. The car rocked to a bellow of gunfire.
Weaving, ducking, slithering, Slade shot with both hands. A slug gashed the flesh of his arm, another tore through the leg of his overalls. One of the robbers slumped to the floor. A second rocked on his heels and fell backward. The two remaining trained their guns on the moving Ranger.
Ranger Walt Slade, named by the
peones
of the Rio Grande River villages
El Halcon
—The Hawk—rode into Amarillo to the not inappropriate rumble of distant thunder. Not too distant, at that, Slade decided as a forked streak of fire split the lowering heavens and was followed by a staccato boom.
He glanced upward as he rode on between two rows of buffalo-hide huts, a remnant of the original Ragtown, as Amarillo was first called.
“We’d better get under cover as quick as we can, Shadow,” he told his magnificent black horse. “Otherwise you’re liable to get a bath you don’t hanker for. Let’s go! Just a little ways and around a corner and we’ll come to the stable where you hung your hat the last time we were here. Hope there’s room, for it’s okay and so is the crusty old gent who runs it. Then I’ll head for Swivel-eye Sanders’ Trail End saloon and a surrounding; been a long time since breakfast, and not much of a breakfast at that. Let’s go!”
Shadow snorted cheerful agreement to all that was said and ambled on.
Again a zigzag flash of lightning, and again a roll of thunder—and almost instantly it was echoed by another “thunder,” a low-down thunder that could only come from the muzzle of a six-shooter; the sound seemed to come from around the next corner.
“Now what?” Slade wondered as he reined Shadow in, close to one of the buffalo-hide walls.
The report was followed almost instantly by a chatter of hoofs and a volley of angry yells.
Around the corner bulged a horse man, leaning low in the saddle; and he had a gun in his hand. Seeing Slade almost barring his way, he threw up the gun to line sights. For a moment it looked like El Halcon was in for trouble.
However, the horse man had not counted on “the fastest and most accurate gunhand in the whole blasted Southwest!” Slade drew and shot. The rider gave a howl of pain and wrung his blood-spurting hand. The gun spun through the air and hit the ground a dozen feet distant. The fellow reeled in the saddle but kept his seat and went scudding out onto the open prairie.
Slade did not fire a second time, for he didn’t know what it was all about and had no desire to kill anybody if he didn’t have to.
Again a clatter of hoofs. Around the corner swept half a dozen riders, shouting and cursing. Slade tensed for eventualities.
“Which way did the blankety-blank go?” howled a voice. Slade nodded toward the prairie, where the first rider was in plain sight and going like the wind.
“We’ll get him!” yelped the voice and the troop swept past El Halcon without giving him a second glance.
Slade didn’t think they would, for the fugitive was well mounted on a tall bay that gave the appearance of speed and endurance, and unless all signs failed, a real Panhandle drencher was going to cut loose at any second, the deluge of rain hiding the pursued like a drawn curtain.
Cries and curses were still sounding beyond the corner. Slade spoke to Shadow,
“Let’s see what’s going on, feller.” The big black moved forward.
Rounding the corner, Slade came upon a group of men bunched about a man stretched on the ground, groaning. The whole front and left side of his shirt was drenched with blood.
El Halcon took in the situation at a glance. He dismounted with lithe grace, flipped open a saddle pouch and from it took a roll of bandage and a jar of antiseptic salve.
“Out of my way!” he said. It was a voice that expected, and got instant obedience. Kneeling beside the injured man he deftly cut away the blood-soaked shirt, exposing the wound, which was bleeding copiously.
“Lie still,” he told the man. “That bleeding’s got to be stopped.” He probed the area of the bullet hole with sensitive fi ngers.
“High up and through the shoulder, no bones broken so far as I can ascertain,” he said. “Lie still.”
Swiftly and deftly, he smeared the wound with the salve and padded and bandaged it, curbing the flow of blood.
“Make a pillow for his head from a coat or something,” he ordered over his shoulder. “And have a slicker ready to cover him if the rain starts, which it is liable to do any minute. I don’t want him moved till the doctor sees him. How do you feel now?”
“A helluva sight better,” rumbled the sufferer. “I reckon you saved me from bleeding to death.”
“Possibly,” Slade conceded. “At least you would have lost a lot more than you should.”
For the first time he found time to really look at the wounded man. He was large, bulky, with grizzled hair, a big-featured face and keen blue eyes
now slightly filmed with pain. Then with a nod Slade stood up and swept the suddenly silent group with his cold, pale eyes.
“Well, what was it all about?” he asked. “Speak up, somebody.”
A lean and wizened individual stepped forward. “Him and Clyde Brent had a falling out,” he said in a piping voice.
“I gather he fell out with somebody, but why, and who is Clyde Brent?” Slade countered.
“Brent’s the hellion who shot him,” said the lean man. “They reached and—”
“Tell him the straight of it, Unger,” rumbled up from the ground. “I reached first, but it didn’t do me any good. Brent’s almighty fast on the draw.”
“Not too fast,” Slade observed dryly. “But why were you on the prod against each other?”
“Brent runs sheep,” broke in the man Unger, his voice almost a snarl.
Slade’s eyes seemed to grow a shade colder. “That so?” he said. “And since when is running sheep a capital offense in Potter County? Must have been some changes since I was here last.”
With that bleak stare hard on his face, Unger squirmed. “This is cow country,” he said, sudenly defensive.
“It was sheep country before it became cattle country,” Slade reminded. “And it looks to me like you gentlemen are taking the law in your own hands, which isn’t good. Also, odds of six to one are a bit lopsided. Seems that was how many were chasing the man you call Brent.”
“Maybe the boys will catch the horned toad,” came hopefully from the oldster on the ground.
“I doubt it,” Slade said. “He was pulling away
from them, and he appeared to know exactly where he was heading; they may find they have bitten off more than they can comfortably chew.”
“That’s right,” agreed the old man. “Brent has a salty bunch riding for him.”
“Owlhoots always have tough jiggers riding for them,” Unger put in.
Again Slade let his eyes rest on the other’s face. “Have you proof that Brent is an outlaw?” he asked. Unger reluctantly shook his head.
“Guess nobody’s proved anything against him, so far,” he admitted.
“Then don’t go making accusations you can’t back up,” Slade advised.
“Feller,” said Unger, “we seem to be just getting nowhere. I ain’t even thanked you for looking after the Boss like you did. I’m Si Unger, range boss for the Diamond F spread. The feller you just took care of is John Fletcher, the owner.”
Fletcher raised a rather shaky, big, and gnarled paw. “Guess I’m a lot beholdin’ to you, son,” he said. “I didn’t catch your handle.” Slade supplied it and they shook hands.
“And if ever the time comes when I can do something for you, ask darn fast,” Fletcher added. “All right, Si, tell him about it.”
“Well, it was like this—” Unger began, when there was an interruption.
“Here comes Doc Beard!” somebody shouted.
The old frontier practitioner strode up to the group, lifted an inquiring eyebrow at Slade, who nodded slightly.
“How are you, Walt?” he said. “Why did you plug that old shorthorn? Not that he hasn’t had one coming for quite a while.”
“He didn’t plug me, he patched me up,” rumbled Fletcher. “If I’d had to wait for a cross between a mud turtle and a spavined snail like you to get here, I’d have bled to death.”
Beard gazed at the blood-soaked remnants of Fletcher’s shirt. “Yes, I’ve a notion you would have,” he said soberly. “But if Slade took care of you, I reckon you’re okay except for a sore shoulder for a couple of weeks.”
Kneeling beside Fletcher, he examined Slade’s handiwork and nodded. “Yes, you’ll do,” he said. “All right, lift him up and get him inside; it’s starting to rain. Sure you can have a drink, a dozen of them if you want. Maybe they’ll kill you, but I reckon that’s too much to ask of even the rotgut they sell in that rumhole across the street. Rustle him a shirt, somebody.”
Waving aside assistance, Slade gently raised Fletcher to his feet. He clung to the Ranger with his good hand for a moment, until he was steady. With a hand under his elbow, Slade guided him across to the saloon and deposited him in a chair.
“See you a little later,” he promised. “Got to take care of my horse before the rain really gets going. Yes, I know where there’s a stable—it’s close to here. I’ll see you shortly, too,” he promised the doctor.
At that moment a man came running in holding a sixgun. “Say,” he exclaimed, “ain’t this one of Clyde Brent’s ivory-handled irons? I picked it up around the corner; got blood on it.”
Unger stared at Slade. “By gosh, I rec’lect I did hear a shot around the corner right after Brent hightailed,” he said. “Was so bothered about the Boss I forgot all about it. Did you shoot that hogleg outa Brent’s hand, Slade?”
“I did,” El Halcon replied.
“Out of his hand on purpose?” Unger asked incredulously.
“Yes,” Slade answered. “I had no desire to kill him, not knowing what it was all about and giving an excited man the benefit of the doubt, but when he lined sights with me I figured I’d better prevent him from doing something he’d probably have been sorry for later.”
“Shot it outa his hand when he had the pull on you,” Unger said in awed tones. “The chance you took!”
“Wasn’t much of a chance,” Slade deprecated the feat. “He was slow as cold molasses and he throws up instead of shooting straight from the hip.”
Unger shook his head and whistled, while Fletcher stared and blinked.
“Clyde Brent slow!” said the range boss. “Gentlemen, hush!”
Slade smiled, and left the saloon.
“Shot the gun outa Clyde Brent’s hand!” Unger repeated dazedly.
Old Doc, taking his cue from Slade’s slight nod when they met beside the wounded Fletcher, decided it was a good time to drop his bombshell.
“Guess it wasn’t much of a trick for El Halcon,” he observed casually. His hearers regarded him wide-eyed.
“El Halcon!” repeated Unger. “By gosh, Doc, you’re right. Now I’ve got him placed. I never saw him before but I heard folks talking about what he looked like. And that black horse! Say, he was the feller who killed Veck Sosna, the big he-wolf of the Comanchero outlaw pack, ain’t that right?”
“Guess so,” admitted Doc.
“And Slade really killed him!”
“Well, if he didn’t a coupla fellers with shovels played a mighty mean trick on Sosna,” Doc said dryly. “Yep, Sosna’s planted up on Boothill. Or what the worms have left of him. Slade chased him all over Texas and Mexico, with Sosna just slipping out of the loop a few times. But Slade finally caught up with him here in Amarillo, and Sosna got his comeuppance. Yep, he’s El Halcon. ‘The singingest man in the whole Southwest, with the fastest gunhand!’”
“Heard some folks say he’s just an owlhoot himself,” a voice remarked.
“The world’s fulla damn fools!” roared John Fletcher, glaring about like an angry lion. “Who’s the skunk who said that?” Unger dropped a hand to his gun-butt.
Nobody admitted ownership.
“Waiter!” bawled Fletcher, “bring everybody a snort. An owlhoot! The blankety-blank-blanks!”
“Rec’lect hearing he palled around with Sheriff Carter when he was here before, worked with him some,” observed Unger. “And Brian Carter don’t take up with no owlhoots.”
Owing to his habit of working under cover as much as possible, and often not revealing his Ranger connections, Walt Slade had acquired a peculiar dual reputation. Those who knew the truth swore that he was not only the most fearless but the ablest of the Rangers. Others, who knew him only as El Halcon, were wont to declare he was just another blasted owlhoot too smart to get caught, so far, but who would get his comeuppance sooner or later. Still others who also knew him only as El Halcon vigorously defended him. “Killings to his credit? You’re darn right to his credit! Ever hear of him killing anybody who
hadn’t one coming and overdue? A chore for the duly elected or appointed peace officers, eh? Well, when the peace officers can’t make the grade, they’re darn glad to have El Halcon lend a helping hand.” And so the argument raged.
The deception, which Slade did nothing to correct, worried Captain Jim McNelty, the famous Commander of the Border Battalion of the Texas Rangers, who feared his Lieutenant and ace-man might come to harm at the hands of some trigger-quick deputy or marshal, to say nothing of professional gunslingers out to enhance their reputation by downing the notorious El Halcon, and not above shooting in the back to achieve their aims. However, Slade would point out—
“Folks will talk in my presence who wouldn’t talk in the presence of a known Ranger. And outlaws, considering me just one of their own brand, sometimes get a mite careless.”
So Captain Jim would grumble, but not specifically forbid the deception. And Slade would chuckle, and blithely amble along as El Halcon and bother about the future and its possible hazards not at all.
And the Mexican
peones
and other humble people would say, “El Halcon! the just, the good, the friend of the lowly.
El Dios,
guard him!”—which Slade considered the finest compliment he could receive.
At times Slade was inclined to wonder if he hadn’t developed a sort of dual personality, too. For it appeared that in moments of stress or peril, “El Halcon,” the great mountain hawk with its telescopic eyes, amazingly keen ears, and hair-trigger perceptions gained the ascendancy and dominated his thought and action.
He was inclined to scoff at such a patent absurdity,
but after all, he was descended in part from the wild Highlanders of the Scottish glens, who firmly believed in such things as the second sight which enabled one to, dimly at least, forecast the future and govern one’s self accordingly.
All theory, nothing more, of course, but all progress was based on theory, imagination and—dreams.