Horseman of the Shadows

by Bradford Scott

  Now all details could be made out, at least to El Halcón’s eyes. He could see the whitish blobs of faces turned in their direction; the rustlers had spotted them. Another moment and a hat was waved in a circle.

  “Wavin’ us around!” growled Judson, interpreting rightly the signal of the plains: “Stay the hell away from us!”

  “Now what we going to do?”

  “Keep on riding,” Slade replied, his eyes never leaving the fast moving herd.

  There was a puff of smoke from the ranks of the outlaws; a slug whined past, not close. Another followed, high overhead. Slade carefully estimated the distance to the herd. A moment later he pulled to a halt. Now the galloping cows were almost opposite where he sat his horse. He slid his high-power Winchester, a “special,” from the saddle boot.

  “No use, too far,” said Judson. Slade smiled slightly and clamped the rifle butt to his shoulder. His eyes, pale and cold, glanced along the sights.

  The muzzle spouted smoke. One of the horsemen reeled, clutching the horn for support. Answering bullets stormed past, none close. Again the muzzle spouted. This time a man whirled from the saddle to lie motionless. A third shot and a second riderless horse went galloping off across the plain. The raiders remaining in the hulls sent their mounts careening around the herd. Slade managed to line sights a fourth time before they were obscured by the cattle and out of range. He saw an arm fly sideways to drop helpless. Then he lowered the smoking Winchester and gazed after the rustlers, who had turned north and were to all appearances heading for the New Mexico hills.

  His companions were regarding him in slack-jawed amazement.

  “Now I’ve seen it all!” squalled Wimply. “Seven hundred yards if an inch, and he didn’t miss once! Gentle-e-e-men, hush!”

  “It’s a good gun,” Slade replied smilingly as he refilled the magazine with fresh cartridges. “A friend had it made for me, special. Sighted for long range shooting.”

  He did not mention that the friend in question was James G. “Jaggers” Dunn, the famous General Manager of the great C. & P. Railroad System, who was in the habit of getting whatever he went after, from individuals or corporations.

  “Oh, sure, a plumb wonderful gun!” Judson put in sarcastically. “Points itself, aims itself, shoots iself! Some gun!”

  “And now that that wonderful gun of yours has saved Charley Arbaugh’s cows for him, what are we going to do with those perambulatin’ beefsteaks?”

  “I expect we’d better drive them back to nearer their home pasture,” Slade decided. “I’m pretty sure those departed gents, two of them not feeling overly good, won’t reappear; but there might be somebody up there in the hills with sharp eyes and share-the-wealth notions, so best to free them of temptation.”

  “Guess you’re right,” agreed Judson. He glanced westward.

  “We’ll never get to El Paso at this rate,” he growled. “Sun’s almost ready to set. Let’s go.”

  Slade was alert and watchful as they approached the two bodies on the ground. However, there was no need for caution; their heck-raising in this world was a thing of the past. Dismounting, they gave them a careful once-over.

  “Mean looking scuts,” was Judson’s verdict. “Not Mexicans, that’s sure for certain.”

  “I don’t think the other four were, either,” Slade said. “This pair have been cowhands, but haven’t worked at it recently; branding and rope marks on their hands are faint. Let’s see what they’ve got in their pockets.”

  The pockets divulged nothing of interest other than more money usually packed by cowhands.

  “Hellions been doing all right with their stealings,” Judson grunted. “What shall we do with this dinero?”

  “If we leave it for the sheriff, it’ll go into the county treasury, which very likely doesn’t need it,” Slade said. “On the other hand, Wimpy may need some extra for a doctor to look at his finger. So — ”

  Judson chuckled and passed the money to Wimpy, who pocketed it and squeaked, “Doctors come high.”

  “You can buy a couple to keep as souvenirs for that much,” snorted Judson. “Oh, well, the rumhole owners and the dance-floor girls can use it, so it won’t be wasted. And now — ”

  “And now,” Slade said, with a glance at the low-lying sun, “we’ll let those critters graze while we smoke a cigarette and then start them moving south.”

  “A notion,” nodded Judson, hauling out an old black pipe.

  After finishing their smoke, they got the big herd moving, not pushing the cows, for they were tired. Nearly an hour passed and the western sky was flaming scarlet and gold when they sighted a troop of horsemen riding up from the south at a fast pace.

  “Now what?” muttered Judson. “Maybe you’d better say a word to that self-shootin’ gun of yours, Slade.”

  “Don’t think it will be necessary,” the Ranger replied, his eyes on the distant horsemen. “Those are cowhands and appear legitimate. I expect it is your friend Arbaugh and his riders, looking for their cows.”

  Slade was right. As the riders drew near, a squat, grizzled old fellow let out a whoop —

  “Judson! What the blue blazes? So you’ve turned cow thief, eh? Well, I always had my suspicions. What the devil is going on, Sime?”

  “Hello, Charley,” Judson replied as the group jostled to a halt.

  “Slade, this is Charley Arbaugh, the spavined old coot I was telling you about. Charley, meet Walt Slade. He’s got the most amazin’ gun you ever heard of. Shoots folks seven hundred yards away as easy as pickin’ berries.”

  “Mr. Slade, will you please tell me what this loco hombre is talking about?” Arbaugh requested as he and El Halcón shook hands. “I know he’s always been weak in the upper story, but didn’t figure he’d plumb break down so soon.”

  It was Judson who told him, and the story, where Slade was concerned, lost nothing in the telling.

  “And he shot my sleeve gun outa my hand and busted my fingers,” Wimpy squealed.

  “Pity he didn’t bust your dadblamed neck,” his employer put in. “Charley, how come the hellions run off the cows in broad daylight?”

  “I’ll tell you,” replied Arbaugh. “It was one of the slickest pieces of cow stealin’ I ever heard tell of. These critters are part of a shipping herd we were getting together, almost ready to roll. It was bedded down on my middle pasture, where the crik runs. Down by a waterhole close to the casa there was a little bunch of cows that always feed there. Sometime before morning, some hellions run off that little bunch, headed them for the river. Prints in the soft ground showed that plain. Nacherly we saddled up and headed after the sidewinders, leaving Chick Courtney to keep an eye on the shipping herd. We got those cows back. The devils hadn’t tried to run them across the river but had left them this side of it and hightailed, figuring we were too close behind them, or that was what we thought.”

  He paused to worry off a chaw of eatin’ tobacco and continued —

  “We rounded up the cows and headed for home with them, but when we got there we found Courtney at the casa with a bullet-creased head, creased purty deep. He said some skunk shot him outa the hull from a thicket while he was watching a bunch of jiggers riding up from the south. Reckon they figured he was dead. He wasn’t, but when he got his senses back the herd was gone. Nothing he could do, so he managed to fork his bronk and make it to the casa where the cook patched him up.”

  “Hurt bad?” Slade asked.

  “Not too bad, I reckon,” Arbaugh replied. “I sent the cook to town for the doctor. Of course we set out after the hellions, hoping we might get a break and run them down. Not hoping over strong, though, with the start they had.”

  “And if it wasn’t for Slade giving you the break, right now your cows would be in New Mexico, with the dark almost here,” said Judson.

  “And I won’t forget it,” Arbaugh replied. “I’m beholdin’ to you, Mr. Slade. I need the money these cows will bring.” He thrust his hand in his pocket.

  �
�And if you happen to be needin’ — ” Meeting Slade’s smiling gaze, he flushed a little, withdrew his hand, empty, and held it out for another shake. “And if you ever happen to be needin’ a friend, you know where to look,” he concluded.

  “Thank you, Mr. Arbaugh,” El Halcón said.

  “And don’t forget,” Arbaugh said, with emphasis. “Well, now what?”

  “You run your critters home and we’ll make another try for El Paso,” Judson said. “Be midnight ‘fore we get there, if things keep going like they have been.”

  “Not that bad, I guess,” said Arbaugh. “You only got about a dozen miles to go, and the sun’s just set. Oh, by the way, I forgot. Were those two horned toads Mr. Slade cashed in Mexicans?”

  “Why, no,” Judson replied. “What made you ask?”

  Arbaugh hesitated, then said slowly —

  “We must have been mighty close to those hellions who drove the bunch south when they decided to abandon the cows. Anyhow, one was in such a hurry he lost his hat. It was lying right alongside where the cows were grazing. Take a look at it.”

  From his saddle pouch he produced a very crumpled steeple-crown sombrero, of a pattern favored by vaqueros, the Mexican cowhands. It was crusted with much silver and looked expensive.

  “No Texas waddie ever wore a rainshed like that,” Arbaugh continued. So we figured right off the hellions must be Mexicans. Figured the same for the bunch that run the shipping herd north. Looks like we were wrong.”

  “Decidedly so,” Slade commented as he examined the sombrero. “But if I hadn’t had the good fortune to down a couple of the wideloopers, you would have been convinced that Mexicans ran off your herd, right?”

  “Guess I would,” Arbaugh admitted.

  “Which would have served to intensify the bad feeling between some of the Mexicans and some of the folks on this side of the river,” Slade observed, his gaze hard on the old rancher’s face.”

  “Guess you’re right again,” nodded Arbaugh. “What you getting at, Mr. Slade?”

  “Just this,” the Ranger replied, “it appears that somebody was deliberately endeavoring to stir up trouble in the section. That hat was planted where you would find it, whoever placing it there being confident you would jump at the conclusion you did.”

  “Makes sense, all right,” Arbaugh agreed. “Say, you don’t miss much, do you, Mr. Slade?”

  “The thing is so obvious it was hard to miss,” Slade smiled.

  “Uh-huh, maybe for you, but it sure had me and the boys fooled,” growled Arbaugh.

  “Would have fooled me, too,” said Judson.

  “Well, be seeing you,” said Arbaugh. “And much obliged again, Mr. Slade.”

  “A fine old jigger, and he meant what he said,” remarked Judson as the herd got under way. “Okay, fellers, let’s amble; I’m so blasted hungry my throat’s closin’ up.” They rode on at a good pace.

  Suffering no further mishap, it still lacked some hours of midnight when they saw the lights of El Paso sparkling in the dark. Soon they were riding through the outskirts of the town.

  “Slade, guess you and I had better drop in on the sheriff and tell him what happened,” Judson suggested. “You going to see a doctor, Wimpy?”

  “Doctor the devil!” squealed Wimpy. “I’m going to see a bartender.”

  “Okay,” said Judson. “Be seeing you in the place on Texas Steeet where we usually eat.”

  3

  PARTING COMPANY WITH WIMPY, SLADE AND JUDSON RODE to the courthouse, which was nearby. There was a light in the sheriff’s office, so they entered, to find the old peace officer at his desk.

  Sheriff Trevis Serby was lean and lanky, with a weather-beaten face that did not move a muscle, but a keen blue eye that twinkled. He rose to his feet and held out a hand.

  “Hello, Walt,” he said. “Nice to see you. When did you get out of jail? Or are you still managing to dodge the calaboose?”

  Judson stared. “What in blazes are you talking about, Serby?” he demanded. The sheriff looked surprised.

  “Why, don’t you know him?” he asked. “El Halcón, the notorious owlhoot too smart to get caught?”

  Judson’s jaw dropped and he stared, almost in awe, at the man whose exploits, some of them considered dubious, in certain quarters, were already almost legendary throughout the Southwest.

  “You’re El Halcón, the notorious owlhoot, ain’t you, Walt?” the sheriff continued.

  “Been called El Halcón,” Slade admitted, not committing himself further.

  “Yep, he’s El Halcón,” said Serby. “There are folks who swear he’s an owlhoot.”

  “I don’t give a blankety-blank-blank what they swear!” stormed Judson. “For my money he’s all wool and a yard wide.”

  “Oh, he’s about a yard wide, all right,” conceded Serby, with an appreciative glance at the Ranger’s broad shoulders. “And he’s ‘sociated with sheep some, so I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some wool down his back.”

  “Will you shut up and listen!” Judson exclaimed exasperatedly. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “Sure you have, if he was along,” the sheriff agreed cheerfully. “How many did he kill this time?”

  “Why — why, two,” stuttered Judson.

  “Is that all!” snorted the sheriff. “He’s slipping. He should have killed four, if there were that many around.”

  “Well, he did puncture a couple more,” Judson admitted.

  “That’s better,” nodded Serby. Abruptly he became sober. “Tell me what happened, Sime,” he said.

  Judson proceeded to do so, and again the story lost nothing in the telling. The sheriff nodded thoughtfully when he paused.

  “What do you think, Walt?” he asked.

  “I think,” Slade replied quietly, “that, at least where the rustling is concerned, there is somebody directing operations who has brains. That chore of widelooping was just about the cleverest I ever heard tell of, and the most original.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” sighed the sheriff. “Well, I’ll ride over there tomorrow and fetch in the carcasses and put them on exhibition; somebody might recognize them. Hard to get anybody to admit anything more, though; folks are scared.

  “Well, I’ve a notion you gents are hungry, and I can stand a bite myself,” he added. “Roony’s place on Texas Street okay? You’ve been there before, Walt.”

  “Sure,” said Judson, “I usually eat there. And there’s a stable right around the corner where we can put up our cayuses. Let’s go!”

  The stable proved satisfactory in every way. The keeper was introduced to Shadow, who was strictly a one-man horse and allowed nobody to touch him without his master’s permission, and led the big black to a stall.

  “Now suppose we sign up for rooms at the Cattleman’s Hotel right around the next corner and stash our saddle pouches in ‘em, then to Roony’s place and eat,” Judson suggested.

  Which they proceeded to do.

  Roony’s place was big, well-lighted, and noisy, the patrons mostly cowhands, with a sprinkling of farmers and town people. But the food was excellent and it was run strictly on the up-and-up.

  Roony himself was a wisp of a man who looked harmless; but he could jump three feet from the floor, flat-footed, and kick a man in the face before the gentleman in question realized what was happening. He had two able floor men to help keep order when the boys happened to get a bit rambunctious, especially on payday nights, but usually managed to handle the chore without assistance.

  Heads turned as the three companions entered the saloon. Which was not strange. Heads usually turned when Walt Slade entered a place.

  Very tall, more than six feet, his girth matched his height. His shoulders were broad, his chest deep, slimming down to a lean waist. His face was as arresting as his splendid form. A rather wide mouth, grin-quirked at the corners, relieved somewhat the tinge of fierceness evinced by the prominent hawk nose above and the powerful jaw and chin beneath. His chee
ks were lean and deeply bronzed, his forehead broad, surmounted by thick, crisp, black hair.

  The sternly handsome countenance was dominated by long, black-lashed eyes of very pale gray. Cold, reckless eyes that nevertheless could at times be as glowingly warm as a sunny sea.

  He wore the efficient attire of the rangeland — the Levis, or bibless overalls, favored by the cowhands, soft blue shirt with a vivid neckerchief looped at his sinewy throat, half boots of softly tanned leather, and a broad-brimmed, somewhat battered “J.B.” — and he wore it in a manner that lent distinction to the homely garb. Around his waist were double cartridge belts, from the carefully worked and oiled cut-out holsters of which protruded the plain black butts of heavy guns. And from the handles of those big guns his slender hands seemed never far away.

  As he ate, Slade wondered if the attention focused on the table might possibly be due to the fact that he had been recognized as El Halcón. Not too unlikely, this not being his first visit to the section. Not that it mattered, in his estimation — might work to his advantage.

  Due to his habit of working under cover whenever possible and not revealing his Ranger connections, Walt Slade had acquired a singular dual reputation. Those who knew the truth declared vigorously that he was not only the most fearless of the Rangers, but also the ablest.

  Others, who knew him only as El Halcón with killings to his credit, were wont to declare as vigorously that he was just a blasted outlaw too smart to get caught, so far.

  This worried Captain Jim McNelty, who feared his ace-man might come to harm at the hands of a mistaken peace officer or some ambitious gun slinger.

  However, Slade pointed out that certain people would talk in his presence, which they could not do in the presence of a known Ranger, and that owlhoots, thinking him just one of their own brand but a lone wolf who specialized in horning in on good things others had got started and skimming off the cream, would sometimes grow careless, much to their detriment. Captain Jim would grumble but not specifically insisting that he must correct the erroneous conclusion, Slade went his careless way as El Halcón, treasuring more than all else what was said by the Mexican peones and other humble folk — “El Halcón! the good, the just, the compassionate, the friend of the lowly. El Dios, protect him!”