Horseman of the Shadows

by Bradford Scott

  Crossing the moonlit clearing to the building would be a hazardous undertaking. If somebody happened to step out the door while he was crossing, the game would be up. But he had to know what was going on inside the ranchhouse. He braced himself, arrived at a decision. He sent Shadow ahead until he reached the south edge of the rise, which fell away a short distance from the trail. The brush that grew on the slope was not overly thick, but thick enough and high enough to conceal the horse. He turned the big black’s head and sent him into the growth a few paces, until he was almost opposite the lighted window. Dismounting, he dropped the reins to the ground.

  “Stay put and be quiet,” he breathed. Shadow was silent and did not move a muscle; he’d been through this before and knew exactly what to do and what not to do. Slade glided to the edge of the growth, gazed at the window a moment, swept his surroundings with his glance.

  Then with quick, lithe steps he raced across the open space, almost holding his breath. Any minute and there might be the flash of a gun, a slug tearing through his body. His vivid imagination could visualize the leveled barrel, the murderous eyes glinting along the sights. He breathed deep when, after what seemed an eternity of time, he reached the building wall and flattened against it.

  After pausing a moment to relax his taut nerves, he eased along the wall until he reached a point from which he could look through the window. The light inside was strong and he didn’t believe he would be seen by anybody inside. He risked a quick glance.

  Seated around a table, drinking and smoking, were three men. Two were lean, hard-visaged individuals he had never knowingly seen before. The third was Nelson Evers. On the table in front of him lay the much talked about black false beard, an excellent piece of work, Slade judged.

  The occupants of the room were talking together, but only the indistinguishable mutter of their voices came through the closed window. He saw Evers glance impatiently at a clock on the wall. Appeared he was expecting somebody who apparently was late.

  The air of expectation worn by the outlaw leader, or some subconscious reaction, caused El Halcón to glance back toward the slope. His pulses bounded as he caught a glimpse of a horseman just riding from the crest into the brush.

  Slade’s mind worked at lightning speed. Very likely the fellow, from his elevated position, had spotted him crouching beside the window and was riding down the slope to get a shot at him. He whirled and raced back to the base of the slope and dived into the chaparral to stand tense and listening, and heard nothing.

  Instantly he divined the reason for the unexpected silence. The fellow, fearful that the noise his horse would make pushing its way through the brush would be heard by his quarry, had dismounted and was stealing down the slope on foot. Slade glided up the slope a few paces, straining his ears to catch the slightest sound.

  Began a grim game of hide-and-seek, with death very likely the forfeit for the loser. Holding his breath, Slade moved ahead a few more paces, calculating how long it should take the unseen outlaw to ease down the slope. He believed he was directly in line with the course the other would take.

  Abruptly he hard a sound, a sound only the ears of El Halcón would have caught. Just the slither of a boot on the dry leaves which carpeted the ground; it was directly ahead of him. He took a long stride forward, and came face to face with his stalker.

  The fellow gave a gasp. In the dim light, Slade saw his hand flash down, and struck — with all his two hundred pounds of muscular weight behind the fist that crashed against the other’s jaw.

  The fellow gulped and went limp. Slade caught him before he fell, fist poised to strike again. But a second blow wasn’t needed; the owlhoot was completely out.

  Easing the flaccid body to the ground, Slade stuffed a handkerchief into the gaping mouth, secured it in place with a tightly knotted neckerchief. Plucking the fellow’s gun from its holster, he cast it aside. Then he shouldered the unconscious man and carried him to where Shadow waited. Cutting his tie rope in two, he securely bound the fellow’s ankles, and his hands behind him. Then he carried him a few yards farther into the growth, and eased him to the ground.

  “Guess that’ll hold you,” he muttered. “Hope you don’t choke to death on that handkerchief, for I’d like to have you alive to do a little talking when I come back for you. That is, if things work out right and I come back. If they don’t and I don’t come back, all you have to worry about is starving to death before somebody stumbles on you. Perhaps they’ll spot your horse and comb the brush for you.”

  With which he made his way back to the edge of the growth, took up his post in the shadow and awaited developments.

  They were not long in coming. Suddenly the light inside the ranchhouse was extinguished. A moment later a door banged and three men came out; the moonlight glinted on the black beard of one. They rounded the house and disappeared into the nearby barn to reappear a little later leading saddled and bridled horses. They mounted, rode to the trail and headed west by north at a fast pace. Slade waited a few moments, then mounted Shadow and poked his nose out of the brush.

  Some distance ahead he could just make out the forms of the three horsemen. Confident they would not be able to spot him, he drifted along in their wake, holding the distance.

  After a bit, the quarry turned more to the north. They passed from the Circle S range onto the Tumbling J and Slade knew his carefully thought out surmise was correct; Evers’ objective was the herd recovered at the crossing the night before. The cattle had been shoved onto Judson’s southeast pasture, where there was water and plenty of good grass. The thoroughly worn-out cows would not have strayed to amount to anything but would be pretty well bunched where they were left. The daring devil had figured it all out and had acted accordingly. And had it not been for him, Slade, divining what he had in mind, he would have gotten away with it.

  As he rode, Slade drew something from a cunningly concealed secret pocket in his broad leather belt and pinned it to his shirt front.

  It was the famous silver star set on a silver circle, the feared and honored badge of the Texas Rangers. His face set in granite lines, his eyes the color of a glacier lake under a stormy sky, he rode on, barely able to see his quarry, knowing they could not see him.

  Finally the dark smudges that were the cows, lying down to rest after grazing, came into view. Slade studied the surroundings. Close to where the very little scattered cattle lay was a belt of thicket. He turned Shadow due north and rode swiftly until he was behind the belt, which was narrow. Dismounting, he stole through the growth on foot.

  When he reached the far edge of the belt, the wideloopers were already rounding up the cows. Slade waited patiently until they were in close herd, the rustlers bunched behind them, then he stepped into view, a gun in each hand. His voice rang out —

  “Elevate! You’re covered! In the name of the State of Texas — ”

  With exclamations of alarm, the outlaws whirled in the direction of the command. For an instant they seemed stunned by the suddenness of the onslaught. Then Nelson Evers howled a curse and went for his gun. His companions instantly followed suit. Slade shot with both hands.

  The odds were against him, but the advantage was with the man on the ground; the back of a frightened and moving horse is not a good shooting stance. One of the outlaws fell. A moment later a second pitched from his horse to lie motionless. Nelson Evers, raving, cursing, spurred his horse right into the blaze of the Ranger’s guns, shooting as he came. He had almost reached El Halcón when he straightened in the saddle, the gun dropped from his nerveless hand and he slumped slowly sideways to the ground, to lie writhing and moaning.

  Ready for instant action, Slade, one shirt sleeve ripped to shreds, two holes through the crown of his hat, blood trickling over his left hand from his bullet gashed arm, glided forward cautiously.

  A glance told him that Evers’ two followers were dead. Evers himself was still alive but going fast, his chest shattered, his lungs riddled by the slugs from the Ranger�
��s guns. Slade holstered his empty Colts and bent over him.

  Evers glared up. His glazing eyes fixed on the gleaming star.

  “A Ranger!” he gurgled through the blood welling in his throat. “El Halcón, a Texas Ranger! If I’d known that, I’d have pulled out long ago. You can’t — buck — the Rangers!”

  “Yes, I’m a Ranger,” Slade said. “Undercover man for McNelty’s company. Why not come clean, Evers? May make taking the Big Jump easier. Tim Billings was in on the scheme, wasn’t he?”

  Nelson Evers was looking across into eternity, and seeing it wasn’t far.

  “Yes,” he gasped. “He figured if there was enough trouble from the Mexicans along the Border, the Federal government would take over the Chamizal and it would become Texas State land and with his influence he’d be able to bid it in, and, as you guessed, later dispose of it at a tremendous profit. Didn’t work. But you’ll never be able to pin it on him. Nobody can ever prove anything against Tim Billings. Damn his crooked soul to the — hell — to — which — I’m — going!”

  With that curse on his lips, he died.

  20

  WALT SLADE STRAIGHTENED UP WEARILY. AUTOMATICALLY he drew his guns and replaced the spent shells with fresh cartridges. He examined his wounded arm, managed to pad and bandage it, after a fashion. Then he returned to where Shadow waited, leaving the bodies lying where they were. He suddenly felt very tired, but he would have to return to the Circle S ranchhouse, drag the bound and gaggled outlaw from the brush and, if possible, locate his horse and remove the rig.

  After getting the rigs off the three wideloopers’ horses, he mounted and rode back east by south.

  Upon reaching the ranchhouse, he was relieved to see the bound outlaw’s horse standing patiently by the barn door. Opening the door, he struck a match, located a lantern and stalled the horse, giving Shadow a helping of oats from a bin. Then he made his way into the growth to find the outlaw conscious, writhing and trying to swear.

  Slade carried him into the open, removed the gag and the bonds and gave him a once-over. He was a rather unsavory looking specimen that cringed away from El Halcón’s eyes.

  “Any more of your bunch mavericking around?” Slade asked. The fellow shook his head.

  “Not if you did for Evers and Prout and Kull, as I reckon you must have,” he quavered. “I’m the only one left.”

  Slade believed him.

  “We’re going into the house, now,” he said. “Here’s a match. Light the lamp when we get inside, and don’t try anything funny if you hanker to stay ‘left.’”

  The fellow shivered. “I ain’t going to try anything,” he declared emphatically. “I’d heard of you before we came here. Fact is, when you showed up, I told Evers we’d better pull out pronto, nobody could buck El Halcón. He laughed and said you were just a stupid owlhoot he didn’t pay no mind to. Guess he ain’t laughing now.”

  “He certainly wasn’t when last I saw him,” Slade said. The outlaw shivered again. He took the match, led the way to the door, which he opened; moonlight streamed into the room.

  Slade watched him closely as he bent over the lamp, although he did not think there was anything to fear from him; the fellow was thoroughly cowed.

  The light flared up, showing a comfortably furnished room. Slade motioned the other to a chair, and occupied one himself.

  “What’s your name?” he asked abruptly.

  “Wolfson,” the other replied. “Jerry Wolfson.”

  “All right, Jerry, suppose you answer a few questions,” the Ranger suggested.

  “I’ll answer anything,” Wolfson instantly complied.

  “You fellows were responsible for all the things that have been happening hereabouts?”

  “That’s right,” the other answered.

  “Like setting fire to the packing house, stirring up trouble between the riverfront gangs, trying to rob the stage, widelooping the cattle, and so on?”

  “Uh-huh, we did it.”

  “Why?” Slade asked.

  “Well, the big notion was to get the Mexicans on the prod against El Paso folks and maybe start a big row.”

  “That eventually would cause the Federal government to step in, take over the Chamizal, which would then become Texas State Land?”

  “Uh-huh, that’s what we came here for. Saw there were lots of fat pickings to be had and we sorta branched out a bit.”

  “I see, robbery and cattle stealing as a sideline,” said Slade.

  “Guess that was about the way of it,” Wolfson agreed.

  “And Tim Billings over to the capital was back of the scheme?”

  “Guess he was,” Wolfson admitted. “I couldn’t prove it, though — nobody can ever prove anything against Billings — but him and Evers palled around together and he sent out the word for us boys to do what Evers told us to do.” He glowered a bit.

  “But because of you it didn’t pan out. You sure threw a monkey wrench into the works.”

  Slade pondered a moment. “Wolfson,” he said at length, his cold eyes hard on the outlaw’s face, “if you tell the sheriff what you told me and answer all his questions truthfully, I’ll say a word to him and the court, and it may go easier for you.”

  Frankly, he doubted if anything much could be proven against the hellion, doubtful if his offhand confession would go for much in court, with a lawyer picking holes in it. Didn’t matter much, anyhow, he was just a hired hand and if the scare he got didn’t straighten him out, he would get his comeuppance eventually.

  Wolfson accepted the offer with alacrity. “I’ll tell everything,” he promised. “All I know.”

  “Okay,” Slade nodded, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I suppose you know the layout here; how about rustling us some coffee and a snack before we head for El Paso? Horses need a mite of rest and we’re in no hurry.”

  “That’s a notion,” the outlaw said. “Come on out to the kitchen. Where you can keep an eye on me,” he grinned, “and I’ll throw something together.

  “Hope I’ll be able to chaw,” he added with a chuckle, tenderly caressing his swollen jaw. “Feller, when you hit, you hit!”

  However, he made out very well with the tasty helping he threw together, and so did Slade.

  “I thought I had you when I saw you squattin’ by the window,” he remarked frankly over a final cup of coffee, “but it didn’t work out that way. I’d been looking over those cows on Judson’s holding to see if they were still where they’d been left. Took a short cut across the range. That’s how I happened to be up top the ridge. Lucky for me I took that short cut, or I reckon I wouldn’t right now be in any shape to tell you about it.”

  Slade smiled without comment and emptied his cup.

  Then, after a cigarette, the Ranger said, “Guess we might as well be going. Be past daybreak when we reach town, as it is. I’m not going to tie you to the saddle, but keep just a little ahead of me as we ride.”

  “I won’t even look back,” Wolfson promised.

  He didn’t and they reached El Paso without incident.

  “And so you finally cleaned ‘em up,” Sheriff Serby commented, after Slade related what happened. “Just as I figured you would. Now let’s see what this gent has to say.”

  Without reservation, Wolfson answered all the sheriff’s questions and was locked up for safekeeping.

  “Yep, I doubt if the hellion will ever come to trial,” Serby said to Slade. “Really nothing on him. Well, that sort does sometime do an about-face; here’s hoping. I’ll ride down and pick up the carcasses. Sime Judson is in town and he’ll sure be glad to hear about it.”

  “Take him along with you and the deputies and let him see the layout,” Slade advised. “A lot of folks are going to be surprised about Evers, but with the bodies lying there alongside the grazing cows and Evers wearing his false beard, I rather think nobody will question what happened.”

  “I’d like to see someone try it,” Serby growled. “But just you watch, folks are folks, an
d the very ones that thought well of Evers when he was alive will be the first to jump on him now he’s dead.”

  Slade did not argue the sheriff’s cynical viewpoint. And after listening to some of the remarks made when the story got around, was less inclined to do so.

  The verdict of the coroner’s jury, two days later, held that all the hellions got exactly what they had coming.

  Nelson Evers and his two followers were buried in quickly forgotten graves. The brush-covered body in the corral canyon was recovered and disposed of in similar fashion.

  “How about Evers’ holdings, the grape ranch and the Circle S?” Serby asked. “What’ll be done with them?”

  “Will be up to the courts to decide,” Slade answered. “I imagine they’ll be returned to the original owners. He bought both on time, with small down payments, all he ever intended to make. The vineyard was in the nature of a cover-up, to give him an excuse for being in the section and to pose as a reputable businessman. The Circle S was to facilitate his cow stealing.”

  At Slade’s instigation, Sheriff Serby sent a brief message to a gentleman named Billings, at the State Capital. It read,

  Nelson Evers is dead. He talked.

  “And I figure that’ll send the sidewinder hunting cover for a while,” Serby said. “And no more real trouble over the Chamizal Zone, though I figure it’ll be quite a while before the argument will be settled.”

  “And, I predict, in Mexico’s favor,” Slade observed. Future events would prove him no mean prophet.

  “And now?” asked the sheriff.

  “And now back to the Post,” Slade said. “Chances are Captain Jim will have something lined up for me by the time I get there. I’ll be seeing you, Trevis.”

  It was Carmen who said the last goodbye —

  “I’ll be waiting for you, after you’ve made the rounds.”

  She laughed gaily as she said it, and waved her hand. But as he rode away, tall and graceful atop his great black horse, to where duty called and danger and new adventures waited, his face ashine with pleasant memories, there were shadows in the depths of her beautiful eyes.