In that, however, he was doomed to disappointment; the bodies were nowhere to be found. Evidently they had been loaded onto the horses the pair must have ridden and carried off.
“Which means, I’d say,” he remarked to Shadow, “that they were a couple of Shaw’s cowhands and would have been recognized by somebody as such.
Well, guess we’d better head for Estaban’s shack. Be long past daylight by the time we get there.”
It was, and both horse and man were pretty well worn out; it had been an exhausting night.
Estaban took a look at him, asked no questions and motioned to the comfortable bunk in his little spare room, where Slade had slept before. The Ranger did not argue the point and tumbled into bed without delay, knowing Estaban would properly care for Shadow.
It was past mid afternoon when he awoke, still a bit sore from his tumble of the night before but otherwise his normal self and much refreshed. While he ate his breakfast, he recounted his adventure on the slope and his conclusions relative to Tobar Shaw, mentioning, too, his apprehension lest the outlaws, did they know of his visit to the adobe, might seek to retaliate by harming Estaban.
The old Mexican’s lined face grew grim. “Have not the fear on that score,
Capitan,
” he replied. “I myself can care for, and besides I have
amigos
who know and watch. None can my adobe approach with evil intent and live.” Slade believed it.
“Well, at least I now know whom to keep an eye on, which is a lot more than I knew this time last week,” he observed.
“The eye of El Halcon sees all,” said Estaban.
As he rode to Amarillo, Walt Slade did some hard thinking. It was all very well to be convinced that Tobar Shaw was the head of the outlaw bunch which had been terrorizing the section, but proving it was something else again. He was forced to admit that he had not a scintilla of proof against Shaw that would stand up in court. So far, the Bradded H owner had kept absolutely in the clear. Confronted with the charge that the stolen cows had passed over his holding to reach the desert crossing, Shaw could come forward with any number of plausible explanations:
he had mistakenly stationed his patrols too far to the east; some of his men had been sick—he employed less than a dozen—and those fit for duty could not efficiently cover so wide an area, etc.
All of which meant that he, Slade, had to get his slippery quarry dead to rights. How? He hadn’t the slightest notion, at the moment. Meanwhile, Shaw was free to commit some other depredation, which Slade gravely feared might be more lethal than cow stealing.
What would it be? Again he had no idea. Perhaps a talk with Sheriff Carter might help. He quickened Shadow’s pace.
Sheriff Carter listened with absorbed interest to Slade’s account of the night’s happenings, but when the Ranger expressed his conviction that Tobar Shaw was the head of the outlaw organization, the old peace officer’s reaction of astonishment bordered on incredulity.
“If you’d said Ditmar, I wouldn’t be so dadblamed flabbergasted,” he protested. “But Shaw! Never gave him a thought.”
“The same went for me until there was no doubt but that Fletcher’s cows were driven across his land,” Slade replied. “Then I began thinking seriously about Shaw. He’s a smooth hombre, all right, with brains he knows how to use.”
“You don’t suppose it could have been a bunch Shaw had nothing to do with that really managed to avoid his patrols?” the sheriff asked. Slade shook his head.
“I took that into consideration,” he replied, “until that elaborate, carefully planned, and skillfully executed attempt to do away with me there on the slope. Was largely just luck it didn’t succeed.”
“Rather, your ability to think like a lightning flash,” the sheriff interpolated.
“Possibly,” Slade conceded, “although I hold that luck played a part. As I told Shadow, any other time of year they would have put it across. Remember, it was definitely admitted that the cows were run across the Valley by way of a far western route. An outlaw bunch would have known that and that there would be nothing to be gained from endeavoring to protect that route. In my opinion, Shaw realized I was catching on and made a desperate attempt to get rid of me before I passed my conclusions to others.”
“I see,” said Carter. “You sure make a case against him, all right. Were it anybody else doing the talking I’d still be a mite dubious, but if you say it, I reckon it’s so. By the way, do you figure he’s caught on that you discovered the hidden water?”
“That I’m inclined to doubt,” Slade replied. “I’m of the opinion that he doesn’t believe I have the necessary know-how to figure that out. Otherwise, I’d say he would have hesitated to run that last herd south and across the desert. Very likely, did he believe I had discovered the water, he would probably presume that I would have laid a trap for him at the edge of the desert or along the dry wash. In fact, I would have, had I not feared I’d only bag a few hired hands, with Shaw in the clear. And dropping a loop on him is my most important chore.”
Again the sheriff agreed. “And you figure he may turn to something else and drop the cow stealing for a while?”
“That’s what I fear,” Slade admitted. “I’m beating my brains out trying to anticipate what he has in mind, so far with no success. If we could just get the
jump on him there’d be a good chance to get rid of the pest.”
For some moments, Slade was silent, his eyes gazing through the open window toward the far distances.
“There’s something else I’m wondering about,” he said. “Because of Shaw’s concentrating his widelooping activities on Fletcher’s spread. He seems intent on forcing Fletcher into a position where he’ll be forced to either sell his holding or lose it.”
“And what does that mean?” asked Carter.
“I am firmly convinced,” Slade replied, “that to the northeast of here will be developed the greatest oil and natural gas field in Texas, perhaps in the world, and a portion of it will be under Fletcher’s land. The surface slope of the area, very slight, is from northeast to southwest. But far down in the earth, hundreds, perhaps thousands of feet, the slope is reversed, trending from southwest to northeast; the petrological outcroppings in the Canadian River Valley prove that conclusively, which would mean that oil drainage would be from the southwest, and there are plenty of indications that a vast oil and gas pool is below the surface, doubtless very far below. Eventually Fletcher’s land will be worth a fortune. Up to the present the oil men have concentrated on the Beaumont field and those to the south of Houston and south of Laredo. They have paid the Panhandle country very little mind because of inadequate transportation facilities. That, however, is fast being remedied, with the railroads pushing steadily to the west. Soon their attention will
be focused on northwest Texas, and development will follow. The petroleum industry is growing by leaps and bounds and soon such oil tycoons as Gates, Rocke feller, Hogg, and others will be on the search for new production fields and will turn to northwest Texas.”
“Hmm!” the sheriff remarked thoughtfully, “as it happens I own a little strip over there myself, east of Brent’s holding.”
“Hang onto it,” Slade counseled. “It will make you rich in your old age.”
“Then it had better get busy darn fast,” grunted Carter. “I’m already hearing the ‘old hound’ baying on my trail.”
“Oh, you’ll last to be a hundred,” Slade consoled him. “Yes, right here is going to be an oil and gas production that’ll make folks sit up and take notice.”
Future events were to prove El Halcon right in every detail.
“This whole area was, of course,” Slade continued, “once a great inland sea or lake, with conditions ideal for the manufacture of petroleum, and the slow, subtle chemistry of nature, working through untold ages, did just that.
“So getting back to what all this prefaced, I’m wondering if Tobar Shaw has also read aright conditions prevailing here and is playing for much bigger stakes than widelooping and robbery.”
“Meaning that if he can get Fletcher into enough difficulties so he’ll be forced to sell or can’t meet his notes, the bank would take over the holding and Shaw would bid it in,” the sheriff observed shrewdly.
“Exactly,” Slade agreed. “I’ll admit that I wondered a little about Ditmar when he expressed a desire to acquire Keith Norman’s land, but knew that if he had an inkling as to conditions, he had guessed wrong, there being no oil under Norman’s holding, the seepage that formed the pool being to the northeast. But after talking with him, I concluded he didn’t
have the necessary knowledge and was truthful when he said he merely wished to extend his holdings. And he just didn’t fit into the picture right. The devious manner in which the various depredations were committed was totally at variance with his impulsive, forthright nature; his methods would be direct, and much easier to cope with.”
“Guess that’s so,” admitted Carter. “Now that you point it out, I can see it, too. He’s a brawler and a trouble maker when he has a few snorts under his belt, but I reckon that’s all.
“Blast it!” he added, “I just can’t get over the way the hellions tried to do for you in the Valley. Of all the snake-blooded things, and plumb unexpected, too, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” Slade answered. “It evinced understanding and careful planning. There’s nothing new about dropping a strangle-noose over an unwary rider’s head, from a tree branch, but the manner in which that try was made verged on the unique. They didn’t try it in the Valley below, because there it was logical to believe a rider would be keeping a close watch on his surroundings, but on the slope it was natural to expect his attention would be directed to the trail ahead, which indeed happened to be the case. And having those units posted above and below the slope to take over in case the nice little attempt at hanging happened not to work out—that was original. What the devils didn’t count on was Shadow and what would happen to anything that got in his way when he really meant business. And when he knocked that cayuse heels over tincup and pitched his rider into the brush, the other hellion decided he didn’t want any part of him and also hightailed into the chaparral.”
“Especially with blue whistlers buzzin’ all around him,” the sheriff commented dryly.
“And I’m pretty sure I nicked him, from the way he yelped,” Slade added. “Yes, it was a nice try, but it didn’t work, and that’s all that counts.”
“Guess that’s right,” agreed Carter. “Well, suppose we drop over to the Trail End for a bite; all this palaver makes me hungry.”
As they entered the saloon and occupied a table, Carter exclaimed: “Look, there’s the hellion now, standing at the bar. I’d never have in a month of Sundays figured him for what he is. Looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his blasted mouth.”
“Outward appearances are often deceptive,” Slade replied. “There is a keen and ruthless brain back of that placid and quite ordinary countenance. And notice his moves, assured, without hesitancy. His hand goes to its objective without a hint of fumbling. The mark of an able and adroit man.”
“I sure wish I could see things like you do,” sighed the sheriff. “You never seem to miss a bet, and when you point out something, it stands out as plain as a cowpoke in church. Easy to spot as a hole through a grindstone. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Training,” Slade smiled.
“Uh-huh, training, and eyes that see what everybody else passes over,” said Carter.
While he ate, Slade studied the Bradded H owner. Shaw did indeed appear perfectly composed, not at all perturbed over the failure of his cunningly conceived scheme for murder the night before, which had entailed the loss of two of his followers and the wounding of a third. Abruptly he placed his empty glass precisely in the middle of the bar and walked out with his lithe, assured stride. Turning, he glanced
toward the table and waved a cordial goodnight; Slade waved back. The sheriff muttered under his breath.
“That wind spider is up to something,” he vowed. “I can feel it in my bones.”
“Very likely,” Slade concurred. “But what? That’s the question to which I would very much like to have an answer.”
Carter pushed back his empty plate and stuffed his pipe with tobacco. “Think I’ll go to bed shortly,” he announced. “How about you?”
“Not just yet,” Slade replied. “I didn’t get up until afternoon and I’m not sleepy. Think I’ll browse around a bit.”
“Okay, but watch your step,” cautioned the sheriff. “Next time you may not have a shower of autumn leaves to put you hep to what’s in the wind.”
“Perhaps I should have brought one along as a good luck piece,” Slade smiled. Carter grunted, and puffed on his pipe. Abruptly he sat up in his chair.
“Hey!” he exclaimed, “what’s all this?”
Men were filing through the swinging doors. They were not dressed as cowhands but wore overalls, open-neck shirts and laced boots that were mudstained. Fully two dozen crowded to the bar and ordered drinks.
“What in blazes!” the sheriff varied his exclamation. “Who are those fellers? I never saw them before.”
He found out a moment later when Swivel-eye Sanders hurried over and dropped into a chair.
“Figured it was going to be a quiet night, but it ain’t,” said Swivel-eye. “See those jiggers? I just got the word. They’re railroad builders. Understand the railroad is going to expand the yards and about a hundred of the hellions rolled into town just a little while ago—a whole trainload of ’em.”
“Blazes!” the sheriff repeated. “I was told that work wouldn’t start till after the first of next week.”
“So I heard, too,” said Swivel-eye. “But it seems the company is in a hurry to get the work started and tomorrow is those jiggers’ payday, so they rushed ’em to town so they could have their bust and get on the job. Seems a lot of ’em are starting to celebrate early. Paycar is in the yards but won’t start handing out the
dinero
until morning; then things will really hum.”
“I see,” said the sheriff. “Understand those hellions have been working out on the line to the east and I reckon they haven’t been in town since before last
payday and are already pretty well heeled. You’ll do business tonight, Swivel, and so will the other rumholes.” He knocked out his pipe and stood up.
“Where you goin’, Brian?” Swivel asked.
“Where am I going!” snorted the sheriff. “I’m going to round up my deputies and swear in two or three specials; figure I’ll need ’em ’fore the night’s over. Dadblame it! no sleep for me tonight. How about you, Walt?”
“I’ll wait here until you return,” Slade answered.
“Okay,” said Carter. “Oh, why did I ever get in this sheriffin’ business!” he lamented. “Never a minute’s peace!”
“He’s a darned old liar,” chuckled Swivel, one eye jovial, the other leering as they followed the sheriff’s progress to the swinging doors. “Pertends to have his bristles up over what’s happened, but the truth is he just dotes on excitement. Let two or three days without anything happening go past and he gets as restless as a dog sittin’ on a cactus. I’ll send over a drink.”
“Make it coffee,” Slade said.
“Okay,” replied Swivel. He motioned to a waiter and hurried back to the far end of the bar.
Another bunch of railroad builders rolled in and were greeted with hilarious shouts from the first arrivals. Business in the Trail End was picking up, and fast.
After a while the sheriff reappeared, still scowling but with a gleam in his eye that belied his doleful expression.
“Well, I’ve got ’em scattered over town keeping a watch on things,” he announced as he slumped into a chair opposite Slade who, as usual, sat where he could keep an eye on the windows and the swinging doors. “There’ll be trouble down around the lake
before the night is over. You just watch. The gals there and the card sharps will be out to take those fellers over, and they look to me like a salty bunch that won’t stand for much nonsense.”
Slade was inclined to agree; the railroad builders certainly didn’t appear to be all sweetness and light, and after a month or more of slogging along the right-of-way across the lonely prairie, they doubtless craved diversion.
After a couple of drinks, the sheriff hurried off to see how his deputies were making out. Slade stayed on at the table, sipping coffee and pondering what Swivel-eye had said; an idea was building up in his mind.
The night wore on, with the turmoil in the Trail End increasing as the redeye got in its licks. The railroad builders were noisy and hilarious, but Slade did not believe there was any real harm in them. Just a hardy bunch of honest workers out to have a good time. Now and then arguments developed, but Swivel and his floor men quickly restored peace.
Abruptly Slade stood up. He waved to Swivel and sauntered out. The street was also quite crowded, for the word of the excitement had gotten around and the citizens of Amarillo, always looking for an excuse to raise heck, were joining in. Slade chuckled and headed for the Washout and the lake front.
When he reached the Washout, he found it also doing a good business. Thankful Yates greeted him hilariously, asked about Jerry Norman and insisted they have a drink together.
“Those railroad fellers are scattered all around,” he remarked as they sat down. “Not a bad bunch, I’d say. Sorta rough and ready but all right. The gals
seem to take to ’em, and that is always a good sign.” He paused to sip his drink.
“Some jiggers in a little while ago I didn’t particular care for,” he continued. “Salty-looking hellions, four of ’em. ’Peared to be watching for somebody. Cowhands, I reckon, they were dressed that way. Didn’t stay long. We get all sorts here, you know, and I’m usually purty quick at spotting the wrong kind. Somehow those four didn’t strike me as being just right. Could be mistaken, though. Behaved themselves all right. Had a coupla drinks apiece and then moseyed out. Nope, I never saw them before.”
“How long since they left?” Slade asked.
“Oh, about half an hour, I reckon,” Thankful replied. “They didn’t stay long. Say, things are hoppin’ for fair; I’ll have to get back to the bar.”
He rolled away with his peculiar, almost sailor-like gait. Slace wondered if the transplanted New Englander had once been a sailor. Not unlikely. Anyhow, he was all right and a square shooter.
The Washout was booming, no doubt as to that, and Slade enjoyed the hilarity. But he couldn’t keep his mind on what was going on. Somehow Thankful’s discourse on the four men he deemed unsavory kept intruding on his thoughts.
“Blast it,” he muttered. “I’m going to play a hunch. May be plumb loco, but I can’t help but feel it isn’t.” With a final glance around, he waved to Thankful and departed. Without hesitation, he headed for the railroad station at First Avenue and Pierce Street. Arriving at the station, he entered and accosted the night agent, with whom he was acquainted.
“Sam,” he said, after they had exchanged greetings, “just where is the paycar located? I understand they pay off tomorrow morning.”
The agent’s eyes widened a little. “Why, on that spur over to the west, not far from the lake,” he replied. “Something wrong, Mr. Slade?”
“Frankly, I don’t know,” the Ranger answered. “I’m just sort of playing a hunch. Be seeing you later.” He walked out, leaving the agent looking concerned.
It was some little distance to the yards and Slade walked swiftly. Here there were very few people on the streets and the lighting was inadequate, so El Halcon was very much on the alert, frequently glancing over his shoulder. However, he saw nothing that could be termed alarming and reached the yards without incident.
At this point the yards were silent and lonely. At the far end, a couple of switch engines chugged about cheerfully, signal lights turned, couplers clashed, brake rigging jangled, but here there was a lack of activity, the darkness relieved only by the wan glow of the low-lying switch lights. Slade surveyed the scene a moment, then moved on, carefully avoiding the feeble beams of the switch lights, until the bulk of the lighted paycar loomed before him, and beyond it a street.
Again he paused, then glided cautiously toward the car; now the hunch was going strong, and the soundless monitor in his brain was voicing a warning. He slowed his pace, reached the car. Inside the slightly open door he could hear a mutter of voices and a rustling sound. He peered through the door crack, got a glimpse of what was going on inside and flung the door wide open.
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, 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 left 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.