“And meanwhile that blasted river is liable to kick up some other shenanigan, maybe taking a notion to run right through El Paso,” the sheriff snorted. “‘Ol’ Debil River’ is right!”
“Well, time that levels the mountain range and raises the prairie to the skies will tell us all,” Slade observed.
“That gives plenty of leeway,” chuckled Trevis. “Hope it won’t take that long. But that river! Liable to act up most anytime.”
“The trouble can easily be remedied,” Slade said. “It will cost something, but all that’s necessary is to cut a new concrete or tile-lined channel through here. Then there will be no danger of the river wandering and no more similar disputes. Eventually, I predict, it will be done.”
Trevis listened respectfully, for he shared with “Jaggers” Dunn, the General Manager of the C. & P. Railroad System, Jim Hogg, the former Texas Governor, and “Bet-a-Million” Gates, the Wall Street tycoon, that there was no better engineer in all Texas.
He was right.
Shortly before the death of his father, which followed business reverses that occasioned the loss of the elder Slade’s ranch, young Walt had graduated from a noted college of engineering. He had anticipated a post-graduate course to better fit him for the profession he planned to make his life work.
This, however, became out of the question for the moment, so when Captain Jim McNelty, with whom he had worked some during summer vacations, suggested that he come into the Rangers for a while and pursue his studies in private, Slade was receptive.
Long since, he had gotten more from private study than he could have hoped for from the postgrad; but he realized Ranger work had gotten a strong hold on him, providing as it did so many opportunities to right wrongs, help deserving folks, and make the great land he loved an even better land for the right kind of people. And he found himself reluctant to sever connections with the illustrious body of law-enforcement officers, at least for the present. He was young. Plenty of time to be an engineer. He’d stick with the Rangers for a while.
Often he had found his knowledge of engineering and geology of service in the course of his Ranger activities. Right here might well be another example.
“How about taking a look at the docks and see how the boys there are making out?” suggested the sheriff.
“Not a bad idea,” Slade agreed. “I’m sort of curious myself.”
When they reached the dock, they found a scene of hectic activity. Working shoulder to shoulder with the Texans were a number of Mexicans.
The foreman came forward, grinning, to greet them. “Got a big hurry-up job of loading,” he said. “The boys over to the other side of the river heard about it and, not being very busy right at the time, came over to lend a hand. We didn’t ask ‘em to; they came on their own. They’re making an easy chore outa a hard one.”
“When good folks get together, anything is easy,” Slade replied.
“Guess that’s so,” agreed the foreman and hurried back to his many duties.
“The El Halcón touch,” sighed the sheriff as they headed uptown. “Nobody else could have done it.”
“There was really not much to it,” Slade deprecated the feat. “Just showed them the error of their ways and pronto they got busy rectifying them.”
“Oh, sure, just as easy as falling off a slick log,” Serby replied sarcastically. “But let somebody else try it! And I’ve a notion the hellions who have been making the trouble hereabouts are getting an idea what it means to have El Halcón lined against them.
“But which may mean trouble for El Halcón,” he added. “They’ll sure be after you.”
“Just so they don’t catch up,” Slade said lightly.
As they walked, Slade turned back to gaze across the Chamizal.
“Right now,” he remarked, “the Mexicans are saying the Chamizal is a clear-cut case of Yanqui imperialism. But I’ll wager that before all is said and done, their newspapers will be calling the final settlement a great example of how the most powerful nation in the world recognizes an error. Which won’t do us any harm, and may come at a time when it’ll do a lot of good.” A truly prophetic utterance.
“And if you say that’s how it’s going to work out, I reckon it’ll be just the way,” conceded the sheriff.
Having nothing particular in mind at the moment, they paused at Roony’s place, Slade craving coffee, the sheriff a surrounding of redeye. Roony himself served them.
“Gregory Cole was in a little while ago,” he remarked. “He sure was in a bad temper. He’s always cantankerous, but today more so. Sorta hinted something he’d depended on went plumb haywire; didn’t say what.”
“Maybe one of his debtors defaulted and he can’t collect,” snorted Serby. “Imagine that would set him off for fair.”
“Could be,” Roony admitted.
Slade said nothing, but his black brows drew together slightly.
“Well, I’m going back to the office and see if anything has come in,” said the sheriff. “What do you aim to do?”
“I think, after a bit, I’m going out and stroll around,” Slade replied.
“Okay,” said Serby. “Be seeing you.”
Over another cup of coffee, Slade pondered his next move. He hadn’t the slightest idea what it should be. Aside from the turmoil around the river front and the Chamizal, things had been quiet for the past few days. There had been no reports of cow stealing, robbery, or other outrage.
Too darn quiet, Slade felt. He was convinced the hellions would cut loose somewhere, and soon. Sipping his coffee, he racked his brains in an endeavor to anticipate what they might have in mind, and got exactly nowhere. It was a shrewd and resourceful bunch that did not telegraph their intentions in advance.
Finally he left the saloon and wandered about the town, pausing in front of the stage station, the coaches of which still serviced the smaller towns not tapped by the railroads.
In front of the station stood one of the clumsy vehicles drawn by four mettlesome horses.
“Stage to La Union,” a hanger-on remarked, noticing the direction of his gaze. “Be dark before they make it.”
Three men were approaching the coach, shooting watchful glances in all directions. Two were armed. The third, dressed in “store clothes” giving the impression of a clerk, bore a locked iron box that looked heavy, which he deposited in the body. Immediately a shotgun guard, sawed-off in hand, clambered in beside the box. Slade heard the click of a key as he locked the door from the inside. A second guard, armed with shotgun and rifle, mounted the high seat and took up his post beside the driver.
With a glance around, the driver whooped to his horses, they sprang forward and the stage careened out of town in a cloud of dust.
“Old Herky always has to make a show of it,” snorted the loafer. “He’ll slow down when he hits the Pass.”
Nodding agreement, Slade walked away, deep in thought. Abruptly he turned a corner and headed for Shadow’s stable.
“Playing a hunch, horse,” he told the big black. “Maybe just a loco one, but somehow I’ve a notion it isn’t. Those jiggers who loaded the box into the coach were a bank messenger and a couple of bank guards or I’m a lot mistaken. Which means there is something of value in that box, very likely enough to make a nice haul for gents with share-the-wealth notions. And the way the matter was handled, it was nicely advertised, and very likely before that. Well, we’ll see. You need to stretch your legs, anyhow, and so do I; we’ve been sorta cooped up of late.”
Shadow snorted profound agreement and stepped out at a brisk pace once he was clear of the stable.
However, as they headed for the Pass, Slade pulled him in a bit; he did not wish to overtake the coach or be sighted by its occupants. He was familiar with the trail to La Union and realized its possibilities.
La Union was not a very large settlement, but it serviced a wide stretch of cattle country and boasted, among other things, a bank. And Slade was very much of the opinion that the strongbox ins
ide the locked coach contained a money shipment to that bank, quite likely a large sum.
The way the matter had been handled, any outlaw with half a brain would have immediately sized up the situation — and not beyond the realm of possibility that somebody had advance knowledge of the shipment. He was pretty sure that the real headquarters of the bunch was El Paso, and the man at the head of the organization in a position to learn things not put out for general consumption.
It seemed a trifle absurd to think the outlaws would make a try for the heavily guarded stage — three armed and alert men being something to reckon with, especially with one locked inside the practically bullet-proof coach. But the ingenious hellions might have figured an angle that would render the attempt feasible.
Some distance out of town, Slade drew rein at the edge of a thicket and for some minutes gazed back the way he had come. The trail lay deserted; appeared he wasn’t wearing a tail.
Fording the river without difficulty — for La Union lay to the west of the stream, the flow of which at that point was almost due south — he continued on his way. He felt sure that his unusually keen vision would sight the stage before its occupants were able to discern him.
Mile after mile flowed back under Shadow’s irons, with the sun steadily westering. Finally Slade spotted the stage, a crawling bug in the distance. The driver was making fairly good time despite the heavy grade, doubtless hoping to near La Union before the dark closed down. Slade kept his distance for a while, then gradually closed it a bit. He felt pretty sure the occupants of the coach would not be able to see him, even did they chance to glance back.
Now on the left was a range of low hills, their crests forming a ridge that, Slade knew, extended for a good ten miles. And if an attempt were made, he felt it would be somewhere in the shadow of the ridge. For at its foot the trail was winding, and considerably brush-grown on the right. The elevation of the ridge crest was perhaps a thousand yards higher than that of the trail.
Studying the slopes on his left, Slade rode on until he reached a point where it would not be too difficult to ride up the slope to the crest. He turned Shadow’s nose toward the straggle of growth which clothed the slope.
“Up you go, feller,” he said. “You’ve climbed worse than this in your time.”
Shadow’s only reply was a disgusted snort as he wormed his way through the thorny brush. Without mishap he reached the crest and Slade sent him forward at a good pace, for now the quicker he overtook the lumbering coach the better.
As he rode he scanned the brush below, on both sides of the track, and saw nothing significant. Birds were going about their business in an unconcerned manner, a pretty sure sign that there was nothing of which they were afraid holed up near their nests or roosting spots. Began to look like the hunch wasn’t a straight one and he had had a long ride for nothing.
Then abruptly he saw something that instantly held his interest. To the north, a mile or so distant, dust was rising. Even as he gazed the swarthy cloud thickened.
“Now what in blazes?” he wondered to Shadow. “Looks like a herd of cows headed this way, and coming fast. A stolen herd? Nope, they wouldn’t be run in this direction, and what rancher with a grain of sense would be running the fat off the critters that way?”
Now he was directly opposite where the stage toiled up the grade. The ridge was changing direction a bit, veering more to the west, the trail following its base in a sweeping curve, around which the driver of the coach could not see for any great distance.
Slade sighted the herd, a fifth of a mile or so to the north of the slowly progressing coach. At top speed it raced forward. It wasn’t a very big herd, less than three-score head. Another moment and he saw, bringing up the drag, a half-dozen riders swinging their quirts and ropes, urging the frantic animals on. The fifth of a mile between the herd and the coach had dwindled to half of that.
And now El Halcón understood. With a muttered oath he whirled Shadow and sent him racing down the slope.
10
AROUND THE CURVE BULGED THE CATTLE. SLADE DIMLY heard the yells of consternation from the driver and the guard. Another moment and the stage and the maddened cows collided head on.
The stage horses reared, whirled, trying to avoid the tons of bone and muscle bearing down upon them. They swung around, cramping the front wheels.
Over went the stage. Driver and guard were flung from the high seat like peas from a shooter to strike the ground at the edge of the brush and lie motionless.
The herd split, flowing around the wreck like a wave around the prow of a ship. Up to the coach swept the six riders. There was a crackle of shots. Slugs hammered the body of the overturned coach. The inside guard’s shotgun sounded a muffled boom, then remained silent.
Down the slope raced Shadow. The thousand yards was now less than six hundred. Directly ahead was a level spot where no brush grew. The outlaws had dismounted and were shooting at the lock of the door.
Suddenly one, evidently having heard Shadow’s drumming hoofs, turned and glanced up the slope. The dimming sunlight glinted on his black beard. He gave a yell of warning. His companions whirled about to face the approaching rider. Puffs of smoke rose from their ranks and the crackle of the guns reached Slade’s ears. Slugs whined past, some of them altogether too close for comfort. He reached the level spot, jerked Shadow to a halt, whipped his Winchester from the saddle boot and clamped it to his shoulder. His icy eyes glanced along the sights.
The muzzle spouted smoke. One of the outlaws crumpled up like a sack of old clothes. An answering slug ripped the crown of Slade’s hat. A second just grained his left arm. But he took his time, steadied the Winchester.
Again the spurtle of blue smoke. A second outlaw whirled sideways and fell, to lie without movement. Slade reeled slightly as a bullet burned along his cheek bone. He fired a third time, and a third man pitched forward on his face. The three remaining dashed frantically for where they had left their horses half concealed by a stand of growth. They had had enough, and more than enough, of that flaming rifle. Slade squeezed trigger a fourth time, and thought he saw one stagger slightly, the bearded man, but if so, his injury was evidently slight, for he managed to fling himself into the hull without difficulty. Another instant and the trio vanished around the curve. Slade sent a couple of slugs whining in their direction on general principles. He did not believe they would return.
Quickly shoving fresh cartridges into the magazine, he sheathed the Winchester and rode down the slope to the trail. As he reached it, the stage driver sat up, staring dazedly about. His gaze centered on El Halcón and he gave a yelp of alarm.
“Take it easy,” Slade called. “Everything’s under control. You hurt much?”
“Don’t think so,” the driver mumbled. “Head’s buzzin’, but I guess I was just knocked out by the fall.”
A single glance had sufficed to assure Slade there was nothing to be feared from the three outlaws. He paid them no more mind for the time being.
“How about your partner?” he asked.
“Reckon he’s knocked out, too, if his neck ain’t busted,” the driver replied, bending over the guard. “Nope, he’s beginning to grunt. Guess he’ll be coming out of it before long. But I’m scairt poor Pete inside the coach is done for. Don’t hear a sound from him.”
“We’ll see,” Slade said, approaching the coach, which lay on its side. He peered through the narrow door-window and could make out the huddled form of the inside guard lying on the down side of the coach.
The outlaws’ bullets had smashed the lock, but the door was jammed. Slade managed to get a grip on it, put forth his strength and tore it open. Lying on the slanting floor, his feet on the outside, he reached the guard, got his arms around his limp form and drew him out.
“My God!” gasped the driver who was on his feet. “He’s done for! His face is covered with blood!”
“Just creased, I believe,” Slade replied. “He’s breathing. I imagine a ricocheting bullet glanced
off the side of his head. Cut an ugly gash but I doubt if it amounts to much.”
With his sensitive fingertips he explored the wound. “Don’t think there’s any fracture,” was his verdict. “I’ll pad and bandage the wound to stop the bleeding and I’ve a notion he’ll be all right after a bit.”
Securing the medicants from his saddle pouches, he went to work on the wound. Before he finished his ministrations, Pete opened his eyes, muttered and blinked.
“How you feel?” Slade asked as he gave a final pat to the bandage.
“Guess I’m darned lucky to be able to feel at all,” Pete replied. “What happened?”
Herky, the old driver, and the other guard told him, and the part Slade played was certainly not glossed over. When they paused for breath, Pete stuck out his hand.
“Much obliged, feller,” he said, a bit shakily. “Guess we all owe our lives to you. Those devils wouldn’t have left one of us alive. They knew we got a look at them and might know them if we saw them again. I’m pretty sure I would, especially the tall one with the black whiskers.
“Yes, if it wasn’t for you, we’d all three be dead right now.”
Slade did not disagree; he thought Pete was probably right, that the outlaws would not have left any witnesses.
“And the chance you took!” said Herky. “Standing up there in the open, swappin’ lead with the six of them!”
“Conditions favored me, in a way,” Slade replied. “I was sort of in the shadow, while they were standing in the light.”
“Hmmm!” said Herky, dryly, glancing up at the cleared space above, “funny, ain’t it, how the sun’s shining bright up there, even though it is lower than it was a bit ago, and it ain’t hitting down here.
“And I suppose you got that cut on your cheek from a mesquite thorn, eh?” he added, even more dryly.
Slade smiled, dabbed at the cut, which was slight, with a bit of bandage, and refrained from arguing either point, deftly changing the subject.
Horseman of the Shadows Page 7
