Horseman of the Shadows

by Bradford Scott

  “Nope, don’t rec’lect seeing him before, but he sure talked like he knew what he was talking about.”

  “Quite probably,” Slade agreed dryly. He motioned to the Mexican foreman. “Well?” he said. The other, who apparently was getting the drift of things, looked shamefaced.

  “Capitan,” he said, “with us it was the same. The man appeared suddenly and told us to stay away from this side of the river, that we’d get into trouble if we crossed. He said hombres over here dared us to cross. That we did not like. We talked together and grew angry. We came across.”

  Slade let his cold eyes rest on both groups, and under the contempt in that steady gaze, men shuffled their feet, glanced away.

  “I see,” he repeated. “And the lot of your terrapin-brains let a smooth talker take you in. You should be very, very proud of yourselves.”

  “Capitan,” the Mexican foreman contradicted flatly, “we are not. There is little pride left in us.”

  “Guess that goes for us fellers, too,” mumbled the Texan. “But you know there have been funny yarns going about that have got folks jumpy,” he added defensively.

  “Pay no more attention to such yarns,” Slade told both groups. “You fellows have worked together, drank together, played together for years, and never any trouble between you. That is as it should be, and that’s the way I want it to be. If anybody else comes around with some loco yarn, boot him into the river!”

  “Si, si!” the Mexicans instantly replied. “We’ll do as El Halcón says.”

  “You’re darn right we will,” said the Texans.

  “Okay, and thank you,” Slade said, smiling. “I want you two fellows to come with me,” he told the foreman. “The rest of you get back to work — they’ll join you shortly.”

  As he spoke, he gazed across the heads of the crowd and saw a man walking swiftly away from the wharfs. He was tall and thin, and Slade recognized the irascible head man of the farmers, Gregory Cole.

  5

  THE FOREMEN GLANCED QUESTIONINGLY AT SLADE, WHO said, “I want you fellows to drop over to Pablo Montez’s cantina, you know where it is, just the other side of the bridge head, and have a drink together. Tell Pablo everything. Perhaps he and his ‘young men’ may be able to ferret out something. There’s not much goes on along the Border that Pablo doesn’t know about. I’ll join you there a little later. Incidentally, tell Pablo the drinks are on me — I’d like to have it that way.”

  “Certainly, Capitan,” the Mexican foreman instantly agreed. “When El Halcón tells one to do something, one does it.”

  “Ain’t hard to obey that sort of an order,” chuckled the Texan. “Be seeing you.”

  As they walked away, the Mexicans were streaming back across the bridge, the Texans hurrying to their neglected chores. Satisfied that there was no longer any danger of trouble, Slade strolled about for a while, then bent his steps in the direction of Pablo’s cantina. He figured the foremen, with a snort or two under their belts, had had time enough to tell Pablo everything and spread the word of what had happened around a bit.

  Although very well pleased by the way things had worked out, he was nevertheless decidedly concerned over the affair. Had he not happened along at such an opportune moment, the results might well have been grimly different, heightening the ill feeling along the Border. As it was, the story of what happened would be quickly circulated, with good results, he believed.

  When he reached the cantina, he saw the two foremen standing together at the far end of the bar, glasses in hand, conversing in an animated fashion. He moved to join them.

  Big, smiling Pablo came hurrying to greet him, hand outstretched.

  “Capitan!” he exclaimed. “Good it is to see you. Ha! the fragrant wine we will have together.” He turned and glowered at the two foremen, who looked sheepish.

  “Si, these reformed — not too reformed — ladrones told me everything,” he said. “Like the coyote they are. Much noise they make, but brains they have not.”

  “They’re not so bad,” Slade smiled. “After all, smart people have been taken in by a smooth talker.”

  “Ha! taken in by the talker that is smooth,” Pablo chuckled. “In the back room is one that knows. Come, Capitan, with my loco amigos here I will have the drink while awaiting your return.”

  Seizing Slade’s hand, he led him to the door of the back room, opened it, gave him a shove, and closed it behind him.

  Seated at a table, working on a sheaf of papers, was a girl, who looked just the same as the last time he’d seen her. A rather small girl with great dark eyes, curly dark hair, red lips and a roguish smile. She glanced up, the big eyes widened and she jumped to her feet with a glad little cry and fairly raced across the room.

  “So!” she said breathlessly, a little while later. “So you did come back to Carmen again! Oh, well, I think you always come back to your women, sooner or later, but it must take quite a while to make the rounds.”

  “I am shocked to hear you say such a thing,” he replied severely, but with the devils of laughter edging to the front. “Take it back!”

  Carmen giggled, and refused to retract.

  “Anyhow, it’s wonderful to have you back,” she said. “Will you be with us for a while this time?”

  “From all appearances, for quite a while,” he answered.

  “I sure hope so,” she said.

  “Won’t get tired of me?” he bantered.

  “Can you ask! After — well, can you ask?”

  “Okay, I won’t,” he smiled.

  “Did Uncle Pablo know you would be here this afternoon?” she asked.

  “I think he knew, a little while ago,” Slade replied.

  “And he never told me! Never gave me a chance to make myself beautiful,” she said reproachfully.

  “Does the rose need adornment?” he countered.

  Carmen, who was Texas born, as was her Texas father before her, and spoke colloquially, with occasional lapses into Spanish, sighed and shook her curly head.

  “Oh, what’s the use!” she exclaimed. “You’re always a jump ahead of me. You make me almost believe it.”

  “It is easy to believe the obvious truth,” he replied smilingly.

  “Nice to liken me to a rose, but roses have thorns.”

  “And fingernails,” he added reminiscently.

  Carmen blushed, and hurriedly changed the subject.

  “I must go to the kitchen and tell the cook you will be here for dinner,” she said. “Give him a chance to prepare something fitting to the occasion. You must drop in and say hello to him after a while; it will please him greatly, a word from El Halcón.”

  “I will,” Slade promised. “And now I’ve got to go out and send a couple of work dodgers back on the job before they get fired.”

  As the two foremen left the cantina, arm in arm, Sheriff Serby entered. He nodded to them and approached Slade.

  “Yes, I heard all about it,” he said. “I came down to investigate the shooting that was reported, and the boys over on the wharf told me. You’re the limit! You bust up a battle royal and send the hellions off together on good terms. You’ve done more in thirty-six hours to ease the tension hereabouts than anybody else has been able to do in six months. I don’t know how you do it!”

  But the sheriff did know: through the naked power of his personality and his stalwart manhood and his unswerving faith in the right.

  “What I’d like to know,” continued Serby, “is who was the hellion who started the rukus with his blankety-blank lies. The boys said he was a big feller with whiskers. That ‘pears to be about all they noticed about him.”

  “Which doesn’t mean much, especially the whiskers part,” Slade replied. “The false beard is still a good old standby and put to use more than most folks think. A good one can hardly be detected except by close scrutiny. Something not to be expected from angry and excited men. And one big fellow is much like another big fellow, to the casual observer. The description would fit most
anybody a mite oversized, and there are plenty of that sort around.”

  “Guess you’re right,” the sheriff agreed moodily. “I’d sure like to get my claws on the sidewinder. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you prevented a killing or two. Some good knife men among those Mexicans, and the boys over here ain’t lambs.”

  “So I gather,” Slade conceded. “When I saw a blade or two flash, I figured it was time to put a stop to it. Not difficult, under the circumstances. A couple of blue whistlers fanning their top hair sort of cooled them down.”

  “Uh-huh, but getting them together and sending them off friendly was something else again,” said Serby. “And that was what was really important.”

  “And what is more important,” Slade observed, “is who is responsible for what happened, and why? Who could profit from such a condition as has been developing here, and how?”

  As he spoke, his thoughts turned to the man he had seen hurrying away from the scene of the disturbance. Was Gregory Cole, without doubt a fanatic, deliberately stirring up trouble through pure cussedness? Didn’t seem to make sense, but history was replete with similar functionings of the disordered mind, sometimes with disastrous results. For such a mind, although judged abnormal from an ethical viewpoint, was often exceedingly keen and resourceful, and motivated by the driving force of insane hatred was capable of anything. Slade had encountered such types before and had found them among the most difficult with which the law-enforcement officer had to contend, being unpredictable in both thought and action.

  A big man with whiskers had been the meager description supplied by both parties to the riverfront rukus. Well, Cole was tall, and although lean in build, his shoulders were broad. Which would give the impression of bigness to excited men. And a false beard would have materially changed his appearance.

  All mere conjecture, of course — the Ranger was forced to admit — but with nobody upon whom anything definite could be pinned, worthy of some thought. Well, all he could do at the moment was await the next development and hope it would not be too serious.

  Serby glanced at the clock over the bar. “The boys should have gotten in with those carcasses,” he observed. “Suppose we amble up to the office and see.”

  “Okay,” Slade agreed. “Just a minute.”

  Returning to the back room where Carmen was working on the books, he told her what he had in mind.

  “You’ll be back for dinner, won’t you, dear?” she asked. “Enrico is fixing something special for you.”

  “Yes, I’ll be back soon,” he promised. “Be seeing you. Just going to the sheriff’s office.”

  She nodded, but just the same there was an anxious look in her big eyes as he closed the door. Too often in the past, just a short amble had been, where he was concerned, productive of trouble. She sighed and went back to her work.

  When they reached the office, they found the deputies had arrived with their burdens shortly before. A curious crowd had followed them through the streets and the office was crowded with people anxious to view the bodies. Almost at once several persons declared they had seen the pair hanging around the riverfront.

  “I remember the scuts well,” said a bartender. “They were in our place quite a few times. Had a way of looking at you that made you feel sorta funny. Always behaved themselves, though, and always had plenty of money to spend. I rec’lect one saying something about riding for a spread down to the southeast. Was busy at the time and didn’t catch the name of it. They used to talk to a big fellow with black whiskers who would drop in now and then. They sorta seemed to be waiting for him when he came in. Nope, I don’t know what they talked about and I didn’t pay much attention to the big feller. Just rec’lect he was tall and sorta broad. Come to think of it, I don’t remember him ever coming in except when those two hellions were here.”

  Slade had listened attentively to the loquacious drink juggler. The sheriff shot him a questioning glance and he nodded. For he was quite of the opinion that the “big feller” in question was the man who had been responsible for the rukus on the riverfront between the rival dock workers.

  However, the bartender’s description of the fellow was so vague it didn’t help much, so far as identifying that individual was concerned.

  “No, we didn’t see anything of the horses those horned toads rode,” one of the deputies replied to a question by Slade. “Were nowhere in sight.”

  “When their saddles were emptied, they hightailed west and out of sight,” remarked Sime Judson who, with Wimpy, had dropped in a few minutes before. “Acted almost like cayuses heading for home. Could have been, don’t you think, Slade?”

  “Possibly,” the Ranger conceded. “A pity you couldn’t tie onto them; the brands might have told something. Rather unlikely, though. A bunch as shrewd as that one appeared to be would hardly be riding anything that could tend to identify them. And horses can be sold or traded or stolen and show up a long ways from where they were foaled.”

  “What do you think about what that barkeep had to say?” the sheriff asked in low tones.

  “Would seem to substantiate my opinion that the bunch is working out of El Paso,” Slade replied.

  “Yes, it does,” the sheriff agreed. A voice suddenly shouted —

  “Here comes Doc McChesney, the coroner.”

  Old Doc strode in, glanced about and winked at Slade.

  “Well, might as well get down to business,” he said. “Here’s as good a place to hold court as any. I’ll swear in half a dozen of you work dodgers to make a jury.” He proceeded to do so.

  The informal coroner’s court was convened. Slade and Judson and Wimpy told their stories, while the jury listened gravely. Without troubling to move from their places they brought in a verdict that, in substance, said that Slade did a helluva good chore and it was a pity he didn’t bag the whole bunch. Plant ‘em!

  Court adjourned and the jury headed for the nearest saloon to recuperate from their exhausting labors.

  It was nearly dark and the sheriff was about to clear the office when Nelson Evers, the vineyard owner, entered.

  “Thought I’d drop in and see what you corraled,” he told Serby. Bending over, he scrutinized the stark forms. After a moment he straightened up and shook his head.

  “Nope, never saw them before,” he announced. “I see you got them both dead center, Mr. Slade. Imagine they never moved after they hit the ground.”

  “They sure didn’t,” put in Sime Judson. “A pity one of ‘em didn’t live long enough to talk a little. Might have handed out some information in the hope of saving his own worthless neck.”

  “That would have helped,” conceded Evers. “Well, better luck next time.” With a wave of his hand he departed. Slade’s eyes followed his tall form out the door, his expression thoughtful.

  “Well, suppose we head for Roony’s place and a bite to eat,” suggested the sheriff.

  “Suits me,” said Judson. “You coming along, Slade?”

  “See you there later,” the Ranger replied. “I’m eating at Pablo Montez’s cantina.”

  6

  AFTER PARTING COMPANY WITH THE OTHERS, SLADE WALKED slowly down South Stanton Street, pausing now and then to gaze at the fading colors in the western sky. Automatically, he kept a watch on his surroundings, for the shadows were beginning to curdle and the street lights were inadequate.

  Reaching Seventh Street, he turned west and continued toward Pablo’s cantina, turned a corner and entered. Pausing just inside the door, he glanced around.

  So far as he could see, the big room had changed not at all since his former visit to El Paso, nearly a year before. The illumination still consisted chiefly of numerous wax candles. The same really good orchestra played muted music. The dance-floor girls were pretty, the bartenders and waiters courteous and smiling. And there were many faces he recognized.

  Among these was a sinewy young Mexican with keen dark eyes and an impassive face. It was one Gordo Allendes, the chief of Pablo’s “young men�
� who kept a close watch on all the activities of the place. Gordo, with whom Slade had shared adventures, stood, as usual, at the end of the bar nearest the door. A smile lighted his dark face and he bowed reverently to El Halcón. Slade voiced a Spanish greeting as Pablo himself came hurrying forward to escort him to a table near the dance floor.

  Pablo had a bottle under his arm, from which he filled glasses with golden wine delectable in taste and bouquet, Pablo’s own private vintage, served only to those who could appreciate it.

  “Carmen will quickly join you,” he said, filling a third glass. “To El Halcón, revered by the good, upon whom El Dios smiles!”

  “Thank you, Pablo,” Slade replied. “I hope it will always be that way.”

  “It always will be,” Pablo declared, with conviction. “Ha! here comes cara nina now.”

  Carmen appeared from the back room, gay and laughing. She wore the low-cut bodice and the spangled short skirt of a dance-floor girl.

  “I’ll be on the floor for a while, but not too late,” she said. “As you know, I take care of all the paper work, the stock checking, the ordering for Uncle Pablo, but I have lots of spare time and I love to dance. And there are usually not enough girls to go around, so I take my turn when the place is crowded, as it may very well be tonight. But I’ll find time for you, my dear. Right now I’m starved.”

  “When were you not?” demanded Pablo. “Well, here comes Enrico’s offering, and it is sublime.”

  The old cook had indeed outdone himself in deference to the honored guest and El Halcón enjoyed a dinner that lacked for nothing, Carmen and Pablo assisting with enthusiasm. After which Slade repaired to the kitchen to personally thank Enrico for his thoughtfulness, leaving the cook beaming.

  The cantina was filling up with an animated crowd. Slade knew from the glances cast in his direction and the drawing together of heads, that the afternoon’s happenings on the waterfront were under discussion. Which was corroborated by Pablo when he strolled back from the bar a few minutes later.

  “The boys they talk,” he said. “They say that now El Halcón is here, peace will be restored, and the former good feeling between the towns.”