Horseman of the Shadows

by Bradford Scott

  “So that’s how things stand,” he concluded. “I’m still losing cows, and I don’t know where they go. You got any notions, Slade?”

  “I hope to learn something soon,” was the noncommittal reply. Judson glanced at him, and let it go at that.

  • • •

  It was well past dark when Walt Slade left El Paso — after making sure he was not followed. Not that it made any particular difference if he was. With Shadow going strong, any tailing horse would soon be left behind. The big black snorted gleefully, and although Slade gave him free rein, he did not slacken his gait. He was heartily weary of being cooped up in a stable and welcomed the chance to stretch his legs.

  Slade rode south by slightly east, following the trend of the river. He bypassed Ysleta and Clint and continued on his way. The sky was overcast with a thin veil of cloud. It was a night of misty moonlight that rendered all things vague and unreal. On his right the river moaned and muttered. To the left was the cultivated land, which after a while was left behind. Now to the left was rangeland, rolling north to New Mexico, and he knew he was skirting the south pastures of the Circle S, Nelson Evers’ unstocked range. He rode on, keeping a sharp eye to his surroundings although he did not really expect any trouble. Best not to take chances, though, for the wideloopers might be on the job and he didn’t hanker to tangle with them at the present. Nothing would be gained other than the possible elimination of one or more of the miscreants — but at the cost of losing his opportunity to learn their mode of operation, which once learned might provide a chance to drop a loop on the entire bunch, including the big he-wolf of the pack.

  Mile after mile he rode, until in the far distance to the southeast loomed the rugged wall of the Malone Mountains, with the trail farther north flowing on through a pass between the Quitman’s and the Finlay Range that was like to a suspension bridge in the clouds — the austere gateway to the verdant length of the Middle Valley of the Rio Grande.

  But he did not approach the trail, keeping well to the south and close to the river.

  After a while, with the moon swinging down the western slant of the sky, he drew near the foothills, those on the north, especially, heavily brush grown and scored by canyons and gorges. Now he slowed Shadow’s pace, for the dawn was not far off. Entering a canyon that looked promising, he came to a spot where grass grew and there was a trickle of water. Dismounting, he flipped out the bit and loosened the cinches, so that the horse could drink and graze in comfort. Spreading his blanket on a soft rock, he lay down and was almost instantly asleep.

  Birds were caroling in the thickets when he awoke and the sky was an azure cup brimming with golden light. He yawned, stretched, sprang to his feet and doused his head in the cool waters of the little stream. Feeling much refreshed, he combed his thick black hair and went about the business of spreading some breakfast.

  Not knowing how long he might be out, he had stowed plenty of staple provisions in his saddle pouches, along with a helping of oats for Shadow.

  Confident that the faint streamer of smoke would not be observed were there anybody around to observe — which he considered unlikely — he kindled a small fire of dry wood and let it burn down to a bed of coals suitable for cooking.

  Soon, bacon and eggs were sputtering in a small skillet, coffee bubbling in a little flat bucket. Which, along with a hunk of bread, made an appetizing and satisfying meal for a hungry man.

  After eating, he cleaned and stowed the utensils, rolled a cigarette and sitting with his back to a tree, enjoyed a leisurely smoke. Pinching out the butt, he glanced at the sky and remarked to his equine companion —

  “Well, it’s full daylight and we’ll see what we can see. Playing another hunch, horse. Rather more than a hunch this time, though, based as it is on some pretty sound evidence and careful brain work.”

  Shadow rolled his eyes to Heaven in a gesture that said plain as words —

  “What kind of work? Didn’t know it was possible to work with nothing.”

  “Shut up!” Slade told him. “You took up with me, didn’t you? You spavined cross between a mud turtle and a snail!”

  Shadow’s resigned answering snort seemed to say, “Everybody, even a horse, is entitled to one mistake in life.”

  Having mutually affronted each other, they got ready for business. Shadow swallowed a final mouthful of oats. Slade tightened the cinches, flipped the bit back into place and mounted.

  Riding out of the canyon, he paused for a careful look in every direction. Nowhere were there any signs of life other than the birds and the little creatures that had a right to be there. No sound broke the great hush of the wastelands save the muted gurgle of the not-far-off river and the calls of birds. Slade headed for the river bank and rode slowly upstream, closely scrutinizing the soft ground, and found nothing. Finally he halted, rolled another cigarette and gazed at the tawny flood of the Rio Grande, which here was comparatively shallow.

  “Guessed wrong,” he told the horse. “Should have gone the other way. Well, we’ll remedy that.” Turning Shadow’s head he rode back until he was opposite the canyon mouth in which he had slept and ate his breakfast. He curbed Shadow and continued, scanning the ground. Here the river had broadened considerably and was even shallower than farther upstream, an ideal point for crossing, easily negotiated even by heavily fleshed improved stock such as Sime Judson’s.

  A half mile of slow going, with the spur of the hills frowning on the north and the eastern wall drawing near, and he hit paydirt.

  Scoring the ground was a multitude of hoof prints, along with the marks left by horses’ irons. He pulled his mount to a halt, studied the ground a bit and again glanced across the wide stream. The far bank was brush grown, but he could discern an opening in the growth which undoubtedly marked the beginning of a trail.

  “Yep, horse, this is it,” he said. “Hunch paid off. Here is where they swim ‘em across. Very little swimming to do, I’d say, just a few yards of the channel.

  “A neat scheme, all right. Run them east and south across Evers’ holding, where there would be hardly any chance of anybody being around to see; they could make the run in the daytime with almost no risk of being detected. Judson, nor any of the cattlemen for that matter, have any reason to suspect Evers and would not have anybody keeping watch over this way. Yes, darn near foolproof. At a specified time, there’d be a buyer across the river, and not far off, to whom delivery would be made. Always a first-rate market for wet cows over there.

  “But, horse, I’m just about sure for certain that somewhere not far off is a place where they corral the cows until they have a sizable herd ready to cross. They wouldn’t run them across in little bunches. That would mean risking them being observed. Nor would they cross them in the daytime. Then they would take a real chance of being spotted. Spotted by the rurales, the Mexican Mounted Police, who keep a sharp eye out for such operations on their side of the river. And they’re tough hombres to go up against. So they must run them across after nightfall, and that means definitely that they hole up the small bunches somewhere near. And if we can just locate the hole-up spot we may be able to twirl our twine. Well, we’ll go see.”

  Hour after hour he combed the hills, to discover nothing of interest. Twice he came upon old cabins built in little clearings, which he approached with caution.

  Both, however, proved to be deserted and largely in ruins. There were many such shacks in the hills, he knew, once inhabited by hunters and trappers; for years ago this had been one of the most productive hunting sections of Texas, from which a great volume of valuable pelts were secured.

  “And I bet you some old cabin is utilized by the hellions,” he told Shadow. “We’ve contacted such before.”

  Most of the canyons and gorges turned out to be shallow boxes, running but a short distance into the hills, although some continued for several miles.

  “Like hunting for a particular tick on a sheep’s back,” he growled disgustedly, glancing at the westering sun
. Shadow snorted equally disgusted agreement.

  But all things come to him who waits, and sometimes to him who doesn’t. An hour later he reached the mouth of a narrow canyon not far from the western terminus of the hill spur. Inside the mouth the ground was soft, and scoring it were many hoof marks, some of them old, some quite fresh.

  Slade’s heart leaped exultantly. “Horse,” he said, instinctively lowering his voice, “I believe this is it. Yes, I’m sure it is. Somewhere up this crack we’ll find where they hole up the critters until they have enough to shove across the river. Smart, all right. They don’t run them straight south from the canyon mouth but east over the stony ground, before they turn them toward the river. Almost no chance of anybody riding that far east, even were they some cowhands looking for their lost stock; very likely to give up the search that appeared so barren of results. Yes, I’ll bet you a hatful of oats that’s the way they do it. Okay, we’ll go see what we can find.”

  The canyon was heavily brush grown, its walls sheer. A not very promising outlook. But running up the center was the semblance of a trail, with the growth encroaching close on either side. His eyes constantly searching the terrain ahead, he rode up the gorge, very slowly, every sense at hairtrigger alertness. No telling what he might meet around one of the many turns, for the canyon twisted and writhed into the hills like a tortured snake.

  Undoubtedly it had been scoured out by the force of a large volume of water which rushed down it to the Rio Grande, the stream following a softer strata that offered the least resistance to its progress during the course of untold ages through a terrain that in the early days was vastly different.

  For a mile and more he rode with nothing happening. No sound broke the ghostly silence. He saw nothing of life save the birds which he constantly watched, for more than once their movements had saved him from disaster.

  Everything seemed utterly peaceful, but for no good reason on which he could put a finger, El Halcón grew uneasy; and conducting such a search, Walt Slade was indeed El Halcón, the ever alert Hawk for which he was named, with tense nerves, and eyes that missed nothing — and with ears attuned to the slightest whisper of alien sound.

  It was his ears that warned him of possible danger. From somewhere ahead came a sharp crack, as of a dry branch being snapped. How far ahead it was hard to tell, for in the utterly silent canyon with its reverberative walls, such a sound could carry a long ways.

  Slade instantly pulled Shadow to a halt and sat listening. The sound was not repeated, but the foreboding that had been afflicting him intensified.

  Perhaps fifty yards ahead was one of the many turns, and to Slade’s vivid imagination, the encroaching brush had the look of a crouching monster, waiting, waiting.

  So strong was the feeling that he decided that he certainly wouldn’t ride around that bend. He glanced to left and right.

  On the right, the growth here was somewhat thinner than average.

  “I believe you can make it in, all right,” he breathed to Shadow. “Let’s try.”

  Shadow undoubtedly did not particularly favor this adventure with the thorns, but he obediently shouldered his way into the brush until he was out of sight from the trail.

  “For the love of Pete, don’t go kicking up a racket,” Slade whispered as he dismounted. Shadow did not promise, but his master had little apprehension on that score; Shadow was a very quiet horse.

  On foot, silently as a prowling wolf, Slade eased through the growth, stopping often to peer and listen. His pulses quickened as he neared the ominous bend. He slowed his pace, increased his caution. He was directly opposite the near curve of the turn and a few yards distant from the trail when something whispered past his face so close that his cheek was fanned by the wind of its passing. He caught a glimpse of slaty-gray wheeling through the brush.

  It was a catbird, and something had aroused it.

  Unlike the bluejay, which would have been raising hell generally, the catbird is silent when something approaches its nest but swoops past with almost touching wing tips.

  It might have been his own stealthy approach that set the feathered guardian in motion, but Slade did not think so. Invariably the aroused catbird flies behind the intruder, hoping to attract its attention from the nest or the young bird perched helpless on a low branch.

  The bird had come from the direction of the trail. Slade glided forward through the rapidly thinning growth. Another moment and he saw the drygulcher; he was standing almost at the edge of the trail, behind a final fringe of brush. He held a gun in his hand, the barrel of which rested on a stout branch and was trained at the bend of the trail.

  Slade’s hands dropped to the butts of his Colts; he had the devil settin’!

  It was the catbird that was the fellow’s undoing and Slade’s disappointment, for he had hoped to take the devil alive. It whizzed past behind the drygulcher so close its wing tips almost brushed the back of his neck. He whirled with a muttered oath and slashed at it with his gun barrel — and saw El Halcón. He gave a yelp of alarm. The gun jutted forward.

  Going sideways, Slade drew and shot with both hands as the other pulled trigger. The slug ripped the collar of his shirt and burned a red streak along his neck, almost knocking him off his feet with the shock.

  But the would-be killer coughed chokingly and fell forward on his face. His body shivered from head to foot and was still.

  Guns ready, Slade eased toward him, cautiously. However, there was nothing to fear. The fellow was dead, two bullets laced through his heart. After a single glance, Slade glided back into the thicker growth and stood listening. There might well be others of the bunch somewhere within hearing distance of the shots.

  For long minutes he stood motionless. No sound broke the silence. Nowhere could he discern movement. Looked like the fellow had been playing a lone hand. El Halcón approached the body again, turned it over on its back.

  There was nothing outstanding in the dead man’s appearance; looked like an average cowhand type. His pockets revealed nothing of interest save quite a bit of money, which was replaced. Slade straightened up and glanced around.

  Abruptly he laughed mirthlessly. Growing from the stout branch on which the drygulcher rested his gun barrel had been a second branch, now broken off close to the parent limb, which lay on the ground nearby. Evidently it had obscured the view to the bend and the fellow had broken it off to give him a clear sight. And it was the sharp crack of that branch when it snapped that had warned El Halcón — one of the thoughtless acts typical of the owlhoot brand, which overlooked the little things El Halcón did not overlook.

  After another glance around, Slade dragged the body further into the growth, where it would be out of sight from the trail, and covered it with brush. Then, leaning against a convenient trunk, he rolled a cigarette and considered the situation. Still there was no sound to be heard, no indications that somebody might be approaching from the depths of the gorge.

  16

  WELL, THE CHORE OF FINDING OUT WHAT THE DEVIL MIGHT be up there was still unfinished. He glanced at the sky. Still a couple of hours or more of daylight. Pinching out the butt, he headed up the canyon, through the brush. Best to go on foot against the chance there might be others of the bunch who for some reason had not heard the shooting. Now the growth was less dense and he made good progress. He had covered something like a hundred yards when he halted abruptly. To his sensitive ears had come a sound, the unmistakable bleat of a steer, and from no great distance ahead. Anyhow, there was no doubt but that cows were up there. Slowing his pace, he continued to advance through the steadily thinning chaparral. Behind a final fringe he paused and peered cautiously out.

  Directly ahead, and about two score yards distant was the end wall that boxed the canyon. Between where he stood and the wall was a cleared space. Over to one side was a very old and dilapidated cabin, to all appearances untenanted. No smoke rose from its stick-and-mud chimney. There was no sign of movement back of the single dirty window. The cl
osed door sagged on loosened hinges.

  But it was not the old shack that riveted Slade’s attention for the moment. With the end wall for one side was a roughly built but stout corral. And inside the corral, seventy or eighty head of cattle munched feed. Nearby was a leanto under which stood a single saddled and bridled horse, undoubtedly belonging to the dead drygulcher and pretty good evidence there was nobody in the cabin.

  Just the same, Slade preferred not to chance advancing across the open space. He noted that the brush grew close to the back of the cabin, so he eased his way around through the growth until he was behind the building, in the hope there would be a back door.

  There was no back door, but there was another window. For several minutes he stood listening. Then, hearing no sound, he whipped ahead to the cabin wall and, hugging it, edged along until he was able to risk a quick glance through the window. The single room was without occupancy.

  Satisfied as to that, he walked around the building to the door and shoved it open.

  The room was furnished with a table and a couple of chairs, all homemade and very old. There were also a couple of bunks, equally old, on one of which were some tumbled blankets. On a shelf was a scanty store of staple provisions. Beside the stone fireplace stood a bucket and an iron skillet, both showing signs of recent use. And stacked along one wall were sacks of feed.

  The shack was not used as a hole-up for the bunch, that Slade quickly concluded. Doubtless its only function was to store the cow provender and occasionally shelter whoever came to feed the stock.

  Now Slade found himself in something of a quandary. Had the drygulcher spotted him when about to ride out of the canyon and slipped back in to await his appearance? The horse wearing a rig hinted at just that.

  On the other hand, had Evers or one of his men seen him riding out of town under cover of darkness, and figuring what he had in mind, and familiar with El Halcón’s skill in nosing things out, set a very clever trap, confident that in the course of his exploration he would enter the canyon?