Horseman of the Shadows

by Bradford Scott

  “I hope they are right,” Slade replied. Personally he did not feel quite so optimistic. With somebody deliberately stirring up trouble in the section, anything could happen and probably would. Well, anyhow it was nice to have support and he felt he could look for cooperation from the people across the river and those who lived in the disputed territory, who didn’t know just where the devil they stood, geographically speaking — a portion of what was formerly Juarez before the Rio Grande decided to throw a shenanigan now being considered by El Pasoans living in the strip as part of El Paso, and the erstwhile Juarez dwellers reluctantly conceding it might be so, but if it was, it was an outright steal.

  Under the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, the Rio Grande was formally recognized as the boundary between the United States and Mexico; but the Rio Grande refused to cooperate properly, especially around El Paso — with resulting confusion, recriminations, and opportunity for gentlemen of easy conscience. Altogether, a mess that was calculated to put gray hairs in the heads of law-enforcement officers on both sides of the river.

  A regrettable condition Walt Slade accepted as existing, but not beyond remedy, and from which he did not expect to personally acquire any silver threads to streak his black thatch. He had encountered somewhat similar situations before, which had proven amenable to clear thinking, concerted effort, and dynamic action when necessary. He enjoyed his dinner with a carefree mind.

  A couple of dances with Carmen also helped. Then, promising her that he would be back soon, he took his departure and headed for Roony’s place to keep his appointment with the sheriff and Sime Judson.

  As he walked toward South Santa Fe Street, he glanced up at the bridge, as he always did. A man was leaning on the railing.

  Just in time Slade saw the gleam of shifted metal. He was going sideways when the rifle cracked. The bullet thudded into the building wall scant inches from his head. It was long range for a sixgun, but he jerked both Colts and sprayed the railing with lead. He thought he saw the fellow stagger as he headed for Juarez at a shambling run.

  Muttering under his breath, Slade whipped around to the approach and sped up the ramp. Some distance ahead, the rifleman was not doing too well. Slade raced in pursuit.

  The fellow glanced back, glanced back again, saw Slade was gaining; and he was still not halfway across the bridge. He glanced back still again, whirled and vaulted over the railing to vanish in the darkness below. To Slade’s ears came the sound of the splash as he struck the water.

  With an exasperated exclamation, El Halcón slowed down. If the hellion could swim, and there was little doubt but that he could, he would have no trouble reaching the shore farther downstream. For the river was low and here, except for the midstream channel, was, citing a popular local expression, a mile wide and a foot deep, too thin to plow and too thick to drink.

  Up the approach dashed three figures. “Capitan! are you all right?” called the voice of Gordo Allendes.

  “Just fine,” Slade called reply. “But the sidewinder escaped.”

  When Gordo and two more of Pablo’s young men reached him, Slade informed them of what happened. Gordo said things in three languages that wouldn’t bear repeating.

  “Capitan, always when you leave the cantina we should accompany you,” he concluded.

  “Would be fine, Gordo, but there’s a catch to it,” Slade replied. “You’d scare everybody away and I’d never get a chance to drop a loop on one of the horned toads.”

  “Better to miss one’s throw than to be one of the missing,” said Gordo.

  Slade didn’t argue the point, for truth dwelt in the philosophy of Gordo Allendes.

  “Please tell Carmen I’m all right and will see her soon,” he requested as Gordo and his companions hurried to quiet the crowd streaming from the cantina. “I don’t think there’ll be any more excitement tonight.”

  “Doubtless, Capitan,” Gordo agreed politely. But Slade knew they’d keep an eye on him till he reached Roony’s place.

  When he entered the restaurant, without further incident, Wimpy and Judson were at the bar, but Serby was waiting for him at a table. He acquainted the sheriff with what had happened. Serby’s remarks almost equalled Gordo’s in descriptive quality, his linguistic limitations taken into account.

  “Already after you hot and heavy, eh?” he concluded.

  “Looks sort of that way,” Slade conceded. “Shrewd and resourceful, too. Placing that fellow on the bridge with a rifle was a smart move. If I didn’t make a habit of always looking at that bridge, it might well have succeeded. As it was, I felt the wind of his slug, which was a mite too close for comfort.”

  “And the hellion got away,” growled the sheriff.

  “Yes,” Slade replied. “I thought I had him, but when he saw he couldn’t outrun me, he took a chance on going into the river. I think he made it, all right, from the sound of the splash when he hit the water. Well, better luck next time, I hope.”

  “And if you don’t watch your step, there’s liable not to be any next time after the next,” Serby warned.

  “I’ll chance it,” Slade said lightly. “I think I nicked that hellion with one of my slugs, judging from the way he ran.”

  “Maybe he drowned,” the seriff remarked hopefully.

  “Not likely, the shape the river’s in now,” Slade differed. “He’d have only had a few yards to swim before the water was shallow enough to wade.”

  “That blasted river never behaves itself as it should,” Serby grumbled. “Why couldn’t one of its ripsnortin’ floods be coming down right now?”

  “The law of averages is against it,” Slade smiled. “I fear we cannot depend on nature to always cooperate where our small affairs are concerned.”

  “Guess you’re right,” the sheriff admitted.

  “By the way,” Slade remarked, “what do you know about Gregory Cole?”

  “Gregory Cole?” Serby repeated. “A crotchety old shorthorn. About half loco, in my opinion. A lot of the farmers kowtow to him, and I guess a lot of them are under obligation to him. I understand that if they happen to need money for something or other, they can always get it from Cole.”

  “A lender, eh?”

  “Something of that sort, I reckon,” replied Serby. “‘Pears to be well heeled financially. I’ve heard — don’t know how true it is — that he has political connections over at the capital. One thing is sure for certain, he can just about deliver the farmer vote on election days. I’ll have to say for him that last election he threw his weight behind me. Helped some. Don’t know how he feels about me now, hardly the same, I’m afraid. But election is quite a ways off and I’m not overly bothered about how he feels at the moment. Why’d you ask?”

  “Roony pointed him out to me and I thought him a rather striking personage,” Slade replied evasively. The sheriff shot him a glance but refrained from asking questions he knew very well would not be answered.

  Slade recalled that when Cole was in the saloon the day before, Roony said, he was complaining about the sheriff’s lack of progress against the outlaws. His interest in Gregory Cole increased.

  While they were talking, Nelson Evers, the grapeman, came in. Serby waved to him and he approached the table and accepted an invitation to squat and have a snort.

  “Didn’t have time to tell you about it before, but I’m going back into the cow business,” he announced. “Bought the Swan place, the Circle S, down to the south of Judson’s holding.”

  “Heard it was for sale,” remarked the sheriff.

  “Yes, old man Swan wants to move over East to live with his son; he’s sort of along in years and the son has been after him to come over. Place is a mite run down, but not too bad. Only a few cows on it, old longhorn stuff, but that doesn’t matter, for I plan to run in improved stock, the only thing worthwhile nowdays. I figure I got a bargain. Borders on the river, which makes it handy for cow thieves, but I’m bringing in some boys I figure can handle ‘em.”

  “You have been in
the cattle business before, Mr. Evers?” Slade asked.

  “Oh, sure,” Evers replied. “Had me a holding up in the Panhandle, not far from the Oklahoma State Line. But what with blizzards and droughts, and wideloopers scooting down from the hills, I finally got disgusted and sold out. Longhorn market wasn’t so good about then, so when I had the opportunity, I tied onto the grape ranch; glad I did. I figure to hang onto it — money in grapes — but once a cattleman, always a cattleman, I reckon. Anyhow, I had an itch to get back into the business, so I did.”

  “Two strings to one’s bow is always an advantage,” Slade observed.

  “That’s the way I see it,” agreed Evers. “Waiter!”

  Evers ordered a round and said, after his glass was empty, “Well, I’m going to call it a night. Plan to ride down to my new holding tomorrow.”

  He strode out, lithe and vigorous, his keen eyes sweeping the room. Slade’s gaze followed him thoughtfully.

  “Never miss a bet, do you?” Serby remarked. “You said the first time you saw him that he’d been a cowman. You were right, per usual. I’ve a notion he’ll make a go at it.”

  “In my opinion, he’ll make a go of anything he turns his hand to,” Slade replied. “I’ve a notion he doesn’t miss many bets.”

  “Judson will welcome him as a neighbor,” the sheriff observed. “He thinks well of him and he’ll make a sort of buffer between the Tumbling J and the south Border. Judson swears some of the cows he’s lost went across the Circle S. Swan was sorta lax of recent years, with just a few old rannies riding for him. Wouldn’t be surprised if he takes ‘em East with him. I gather his son has a big holding over in the Brazos River country. Yep Judson is likely to feel better with Evers to the south of him. Well, now what? It is getting late.”

  “I’m going down to Pablo’s cantina,” Slade replied.

  “Watch your step,” Serby cautioned. “No telling what the hellions might try to pull.”

  “Little danger of anything else tonight, I’d say,” Slade answered. “Will take them a little time to think up something else unexpected and novel.”

  When he reached the cantina, Carmen had changed to a street dress and was awaiting him.

  “And I don’t intend to let you out of my sight again,” She declared. “Just as sure as I do, you get into trouble.”

  “Still got the little place on Kansas street, with the garden and the flowers?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said softly, drooping her lashes.

  7

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, SLADE STOOD FOR SOME TIME gazing across the disputed Chamizal Zone. It was a rather drab strip at the present time. On it were quite a few homes and small business structures, a stockyard, and a packing house under construction. But as the already growing tourist trade increased, there would very likely be a change for the better.

  He wondered if anybody other than himself had realized that if America won the dispute, the Zone would automatically become Texas State Land and for sale to individual purchasers. An interesting point of law might be involved.

  And if the depredations in the section continued, which many believed were instigated by Mexicans, the United States might well insist on taking over the strip, bringing politcal pressure to bear. Mexico wouldn’t like it, but there wouldn’t be much Mexico could do about it. And in Mexico City, political pressure might also be brought to bear. Already the tourist and business trade were growing factors in the prosperity of Juarez and other Border towns and cities, the Mexican govenment possibly, even probably, considering that it would be good business to relinquish claims on the strip.

  And probably somebody other than himself understood the situation that might develop and hoped to profit from it. Which might explain the things that had been happening in the section of late. Some ruthless individual, greedy for gain and with political connections, could be maneuvering to bring that end.

  Which meant that, dimly at least, he was beginning to glimpse the possible motive. And once he was sure of the motive, he would be making progress toward solving the problem that confronted him, the problem which dealt with putting a stop to the outrages committed and bringing the perpetrators to justice.

  All conjecture, of course, with little concrete on which to base it, but something.

  Directly in his range of vision was the not-far-from-completed packing house. It was a two-story structure with gaping window holes opening onto the upper floor. Workmen were busy on both the inside and the outside of the building.

  Looked like a going concern, all right. Well, no matter which way the cat jumped, it would very likely do a brisk business.

  As he gazed, suddenly there was a muffled boom followed by a splintering and crashing. Smoke gushed from the window openings, downstairs and up. A volley of yells, curses and cries of pain arose. Men spewed from the building like pips from a squeezed orange.

  “What in blazes!” the astonished Ranger exclaimed.

  Smoke, lighter in color, now, more of a bluish tinge, continued to pour from the windows. Now from a lower window, directly below one to the upper story, came flickers of flame. And through the smoke cloud upstairs sounded cries of pain.

  Slade raced forward, covering the less than a hundred yards in record time. The workers were clotting together, gesticulating, exclaiming, pointing to the upper window.

  “Mike Thompson’s up there!” somebody yelled. “The stuff must have caught him! He’s trapped!”

  “He’ll burn to death!” howled another voice. “Come on, boys!

  The workers sped to the door, but were almost instantly driven back by a gush of fire.

  A man came rushing around the corner. “The whole back of the blankety-blank shack’s blazing!” he shouted.

  Arriving on the scene, Slade took in the situation at a glance. He peered through the upper window, from which came the cries of the trapped man. Through the curtain of smoke he dimly glimpsed a newel post at the head of the stairs. It was almost in line with the window, but not quite. His glance swept his surroundings.

  Standing at the hitch rack before one of the saloons were a couple of horses. A sisal rope was looped to the saddle horn of one. At top speed he covered the short distance, seized the coiled rope and fairly flew back to the front of the building. He halted, measured the distance to the newel post with his eye. The shouting had ceased and men stared, wondering what he had in mind. Only the cries from the man helpless in the burning building broke the silence. The flicker of fire from the lower window was stronger, the flames licking up the wooden wall of the building. Slade twirled his loop.

  It was a difficult cast, devilishly difficult, the post almost invisible in the smoke, the angle bad. Again he measured the distance, gave the riata another whirl, made his throw.

  Straight through the window whizzed the tight loop. Straight and true, it settled over the newel post and was instantly jerked taut. Slade whirled to the workers.

  “Get hold of this end!” he thundered at them. “All of you who can. Stretch the rope straight and hold it; don’t let it slack.”

  Men rushed forward. Willing hands seized the twine. In an instant it was rigid as a bar of steel. They didn’t know what he had in mind, but that voice brought obedience. A concerted yelp arose as he seized the rope and went up it hand over hand, and a chorus of protest —

  “You can’t do it, cowboy!” “You’ll get burned up, too! Look at the fire coming out that lower window!” “It’ll burn the rope in two, and it’s a thirty-foot drop to the ground! You’ll bust your neck!”

  “Keep that rope tight!” Slade roared at them. “I’ve done it before.”

  The cries of the trapped man were growing feebler, interspersed with spasmodic coughing.

  After what seemed to him an eternity of effort, Slade reached the wall of the building. He gasped as the heat poured up from below, his head swam. But he seized the window ledge and hurled himself through the opening.

  Regaining his feet, he peered through the smoke and saw the
trapped man. All about was a mass of wreckage. A heavy beam rested across his leg, with part of the wreckage piled on top of the beam.

  Slade bounded forward, gasping in the heat that gushed up the burning stairs, the smoke almost blinding him.

  “Can you crawl?” he asked, his voice little more than a choking croak.

  “I — I think so,” the other panted, “if that infernal timber was off my leg.”

  “It’ll be off in a second,” Slade told him. “Get ready to move, and move as fast as you can.”

  He seized the end of the beam, put forth the whole of his great strength. The beam creaked, but stubbornly refused to rise. Slade bent his knees, tensed for a supreme effort. Great muscles stood out on arm and shoulder. The right sleeve of his shirt split from elbow to wrist. The beam creaked, seemed to shudder. Slow inch by slow inch it rose. One more mighty surge and it was up a foot.

  “Crawl!” the Ranger gasped.

  The fellow did so, floundering forward, dragging his released but helpless leg. Slade’s arms and back were a flame of agony; he couldn’t take any more. He shot a glance at the frantically crawling man. Now his foot came from under the beam. Another instant and Slade let the timber fall with a crash. He straightened up, shaking from head to foot, gulping great draughts of the smoky air. The crippled man had fallen forward on his face. He groaned, rolled his head from side to side, raised it.

  “We can’t get out!” he croaked. “Maybe you can by yourself, feller. Go ahead, don’t mind me!”

  “Shut up and do as I tell you,” Slade replied. He knelt down in front of the other.

  “Get your arms around my neck,” he directed. “Don’t let go, or you are a goner. Hang on, no matter what happens; we’re going out the window.”

  Rising, with the fellow clinging to his neck like a leech, he staggered to the window. Now flames were pouring from the one below, reaching hungrily toward the taut rope. A cheer arose from the workers.

  Awkwardly, Slade foundered through the window, seizing the rope with both hands, dragging the rescued man after him. Blistering heat struck them. Their overalls were smoldering.