Range Ghost

by Bradford Scott

  Fletcher, already well fortified, whooped a greeting. “Not much past dark and things are beginning to hop,” he said. “Shoulder? Don’t hurt a bit, thanks to Slade and old Doc. Guess it was shock more than anything else that sorta knocked me out for a spell. Anyhow, I feel fine now. Here comes Swivel-eye with drinks; that’ll help.”

  Sipping his drink, and ordering coffee with which to wash it down, Slade glanced about the Trail End, a typical cow-town saloon only bigger and better appointed than most. There was the usual long bar, a dance floor, roulette wheels, a faro bank, poker tables, and others for diners who preferred leisurely eating to grabbing a snack at the spotlessly clean lunch counter.

  Fletcher downed his drink and said, “I’m going over to the bar with the boys for a little while. You sticking around, Slade?”

  “Yes, for a while, anyhow,” the Ranger replied. “Later I figure to amble about town for a bit. Want to drop down to the lake and see Thankful Yates at his Washout saloon.”

  “That rumhole!” growled the sheriff. “Always something happening thereabouts. Ain’t safe to be alive down there.”

  “But interesting,” Slade replied. “I found it quite so the last time I was here.”

  “That time you had Jerry Norman, old Keith Norman’s niece with you,” the sheriff pointed out. “As you said, she’s a good luck piece.”

  “She sure was that day in the Canadian Valley when the drygulchers jumped us,” Slade said. “If she hadn’t downed the one who was lining sights with me, I wouldn’t be here talking about it.”

  “She’s a real gal, all right,” said Carter. “Hope you get to see her this trip.”

  “I’m sure going to try to,” Slade replied.

  He was destined to, sooner than he expected.

  The sheriff went back to the former subject under discussion—

  “I can’t get over the nerve of that wind spider, riggin’ up that infernal contraption to the post outside, where anybody passin’ by could see him working at it.”

  “Not much traffic on that side street, and it was quite dark,” Slade pointed out. “He worked smooth, all right, didn’t make a sound roping the scattergun to the post. If he hadn’t touched the door knob when he looped the wire over it, he might well have been successful.”

  “And if it wasn’t for you having ears like nobody else has, he would have gotten by with it,” Carter declared. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Perhaps you weren’t listening close,” Slade smiled. The sheriff snorted, and called for another drink. Slade settled for a cup of coffee. After finishing it, he glanced around the room, which was crowded, noisy, but to all appearances harmless enough, so far.

  “Brian,” he said, “I’m going to walk down to the Washout; will be back soon.”

  “Okay,” replied Carter. “Only be careful, it’s a rough section.”

  “I will,” Slade promised and left the saloon.

  The walk to the Washout was uneventful. When he arrived there, Thankful Yates, big, burly, and fiercely mustached as before, spotted him at once and came hurrying with outstretched hand.

  “Mr. Slade!” he exclaimed. “Well, well, it’s fine to see you again. Wait just a minute till I tie onto a bottle of my private stock.” He hustled to the back room.

  Glancing about, Slade’s attention centered on a group of half a dozen or so cowhands standing at the bar who were regarding him intently. As Yates departed, one, a hulking fellow with bristling red hair and truculent eyes, detached himself from the group and swaggered toward Slade, pausing a few feet distant and looking him up and down.

  “Guess you’re the feller I’m looking for,” he said.

  “Yes?” Slade replied, his voice deceptively mild. Thankful Yates, who was approaching with a bottle, made no move to interfere. Only he stared hard at the other cowhands and nodded significantly toward the bar, behind which his head drink juggler stood with a sawed-off shotgun ready for business.

  “Yes,” said the redhead. “Guess you’re the feller who shot the boss in the hand, ain’t you?”

  “Possibly,” Slade conceded, his voice still mild.

  “Guess hitting him in the hand was sorta accident, eh?” said the big fellow.

  “I don’t think so,” Slade replied.

  “I figure it was,” said the redhead, scowling ferociously. “And I figure you ain’t as good as folks say you are.” He dropped a hand to his gun butt. Thankful Yates chuckled softly. Slade made no move.

  “Go ahead and pull it,” he said.

  The big fellow tried to—and looked into two rock-steady black muzzles that yawned hungrily toward him. And back of those muzz’es were the terrible eyes of El Halcon!

  “Still think it was an accident?” Slade asked softly.

  The other gaped and blanched. “I—I—” he began dazedly. A voice interrupted—

  “Crowly! What the devil are you trying to do, get yourself killed?”

  The speaker was a freckle-faced young fellow sitting at a nearby table, his bandaged right hand resting on the tab’e top.

  “I—I figured he was overrated,” Crowly gulped.

  “Well, I reckon now you know better,” said the other. “Behave yourself while you’re still in one piece.”

  Stifling a grin, Slade holstered his guns with the same blinding speed with which he had drawn them, turned his back on the dazed Crowly and approached the table.

  “Sorry I had to do it, Mr. Brent,” he said, glancing at the bandaged hand, “but you didn’t give me much choice.”

  “Oh, forget it,” said Brent. “I was wrong, but I thought you were another of those Diamond F hellions. Sit down, won’t you?”

  Thankful Yates, making no mention of what for a moment had looked like grim drama in the making but which had quickly deteriorated to a farce, filled glasses with great deliberation, and one for himself.

  “Mr. Slade only drinks my private stock,” he observed. He grinned at Crowly. “Guess you’d better have one, too, Pete. You ’pear to need it.”

  Crowly, who looked like a man who had just glanced across into eternity and saw it wasn’t far, nodded his bristly head. “I need a dozen,” he mumbled. “Much obliged, Yates.” Brent grinned also and regarded Slade.

  “Mighty glad you dropped in when you did,” he said. “We came down here so there’d be less chance of running into the Diamond F bunch; I’m not looking for trouble.”

  “They’re up at the Trail End,” Slade replied, sipping his glass. “And I think it would be a good idea for you to come along with me and shake hands with Fletcher.”

  “Huh!” gurgled Brent, very nearly choking over his drink. “Do you mean it?”

  “I do,” Slade answered. “Fletcher promised me he wouldn’t start trouble with you fellows. He meant it. Yes, I think it would be a good idea for you follows to get together and let bygones be bygones. What do you say? Bring your bunch along with you if you wish to.”

  “Well, if you say it’s so, I guess it is,” sighed Brent. “All right, we’ll take a chance, just as soon as we finish our drinks.”

  He joined his hands at the bar and began speaking to them. They looked a bit startled, but nodded agreement. Slade turned to Yates.

  “I’ll be back,” he said. A few moments later, with Brent on one side and big Crowly on the other, the hands trailing behind, he led the way from the Washout and uptown to the Trail End.

  When Slade arrived at Trail End with his slightly apprehensive entourage, there were stares a-plenty. Old John Fletcher gulped and goggled, but when Slade said, “Mr. Fletcher, Mr. Brent would like to shake hands with you and forget the past,” he didn’t hesitate, but thrust out his big paw.

  “Okay, Brent,” he said. “Let’s see if we can’t make a go of it from now on. Might as well. There’s no arg’fyin’ with him! Just gets you nowhere. Have a drink, all of you.”

  When Slade entered the Trail End, sweeping the room with his glance, as usual, he saw a face he instantly recognized. Seated alone at a
table was a modishly dressed young lady. She was a rather small girl with great dark eyes, very red lips, and dark hair inclined to curl. Her figure left nothing to be desired.

  With a word to Fletcher, Slade strode across to her table. “Jerry!” he exclaimed.

  The girl, whose attention appeared fixed on the bar, or its occupants, turned her head.

  “Good evening, Mr. Slade,” she said coolly, and turned back toward the bar.

  Chapter Three

  Somewhat taken aback by the casual greeting, Slade stared at her. For a moment he seemed at a loss for words, something quite unusual for El Halcon. He tried a jocular remark—

  “Looking for your gentleman friend?”

  “Which one?” she asked, without turning her head. Again the normally poised and thoroughly selfsufficient Ranger appeared somewhat off balance. And he experienced a sense of irritation. Or was it wounded vanity? His black brows drew together and he regarded her in silence, with the sense of irritation or whatever the devil it was completely taking over.

  “Sorry to have intruded,” he said stiffly, and half turned to go, failing to note the slyly sideways glint of the big eyes.

  Suddenly she laughed—a gay, ringing laugh, her little teeth flashing white against the scarlet of her lips.

  “Don’t look so put out, my dear,” she said. “I saw your name on the hotel register and just thought I’d have a little fun. Sit down, darling, and don’t mind me.”

  “Jerry Norman,” he replied, “you are a devil!”

  “Uh-huh, but you used to say I was a nice devil,” she said.

  “And I still say it,” he answered, “but you’ve got the sense of humor of an imp!” He sat down and gazed appreciatively at her elfinly beautiful little heart-shaped face.

  “So you did come back!” she voiced the obvious.

  “Didn’t I tell you I would?” he countered.

  “Yes, but of course I didn’t believe you. Or at least that it would be so soon, with all the stops you must have had to make.”

  “Stops?”

  “Of course. How are all your women?”

  “Women!” He endeavored to look indignantly innocent, and failed signally. Jerry giggled and regarded him with dancing eyes.

  “Oh, I don’t mind, too much,” she said. “I think I’d worry more if there were only one; then you might get really interested in her.”

  “It’s just possible that I am really interested in only one,” he replied with a meaningful glance.

  “Perhaps,” she conceded, her beautiful eyes suddenly slightly wistful, “but remember the last lines of your song—I’ll never forget them—

  ‘But oh, the wind upon the trail!

  And the dust of gypsy feet!’

  “As I said once before, the wind and the dust and the gypsy trails—those are the real rivals.”

  Walt Slade was silent.

  Very quickly she was gay and laughing once more. “Uncle Keith was overjoyed when he saw your name on the register and knew you were in town, and so were the boys, and old Pedro, the cook, of course,” she said.

  “I’ll be glad to see all of them, and it’s wonderful to see you again,” he replied.

  “Nice of you to say it,” she said. “And are you going to take me down to that lovely place, the Washout, again, and that nice Mr. Yates?”

  “I’ve a notion that adjective has never before been applied to the Washout,” he answered. “But Thankful Yates is nice. Yes, I’ll take you, if you really wish to go. Don’t forget, things were a bit rough the last time we were there.”

  “And I liked it, even though I was scared stiff for a minute,” she said. “Soon as I saw you were all right, I really enjoyed the excitement.”

  “Yes, I think you did,” he replied. “But remember what the sheriff said—flying lead plays no favorites.”

  “And perhaps you’ll remember that flying lead doesn’t frighten me to an extent I don’t know what’s the right thing to do,” she countered.

  “Yes, I remember,” he admitted soberly. “I’m not likely to forget it.”

  “Uncle Keith and the boys will be here after a while,” she said. “They stopped at a place on Filmore Street, where they have some friends. We don’t have to wait for them, though; we’ll see them later.”

  Slade glanced toward the bar, where old John Fletcher and Clyde Brent, glasses in hand, were conversing animatedly, the two outfits mingling.

  At the moment, Sheriff Carter entered. He stared at the group at the bar and shook his head resignedly.

  “So you did it again,” he said accusingly to Slade as he drew up a chair and sat down. “Hello, Jerry. As usual, the young hellion made peace between a couple of outfits on the prod against each other. I don’t know how the devil he does it, but he does.”

  “Yes, he always makes everybody do just what he wants them to do,” answered Jerry.

  “Perhaps,” Slade put in, “it’s just that I sort of provide them with an opportunity to do what they really wanted to do all along, if they could just dig up an excuse for doing it. Right, Jerry?”

  Miss Norman wrinkled her pert nose at him and did not deign to reply.

  “I just came up from the Washout,” Carter commented reflectively. “Yates told me what you did to Pete Crowly; sure took him down a peg. He holds his comb pretty high when it comes to handling a gun, and he’s a trouble hunter. Brent usually manages to keep him fairly well in line, but now and then he kicks over the traces, or tries to. Guess he’s still trying to figure out just what happened.”

  “How was that?” Jerry asked.

  Carter told her, in detail. She shook her curly head and sighed.

  “Yes, I guess Pete learned a lesson, too,” she said.

  “Uh-huh, and one I figure he won’t forget soon,” said the sheriff. “May do him good to know there’s better men in the world than him.”

  “I’ve a notion he’s not a bad fellow, down at the bottom,” Slade observed.

  “Maybe so, but if so, it’s way down,” said Carter. “And here comes another one I’ve been keepin’ an eye on.”

  The newcomer was a big man, almost as big as Crowly, and had something of the same irascible countenance. His eyes were quick and bright and moving, sweeping the room with their glance. Shouldering his way rather roughly to the bar, he ordered a drink and, Slade thought, continued to survey the room in the backbar mirror.

  “Why, it’s Neale Ditmar, our new neighbor on the east,” Jerry said.

  “Uh-huh, and I wish he’d stayed a lot farther east,” grumbled Carter. “He’s another trouble hunter or I’m a heap mistook. Ugly customer in a rough-and-tumble, I gather. Had a ruckus with a couple fellers in one of those rumholes down by the lake and cleaned ’em both. One he had on the floor pulled a gun, but Ditmark kicked it outa his hand, busted a couple of fingers, I heard.”

  “What was the row about?” Slade asked, mildly curious.

  “Oh, over a dance-floor gal, I believe,” replied the sherfiff. “Or some similar sorta trifle.”

  “Well! I like that,” said Jerry. “So a woman is just a trifle and not worth fighting for, eh?”

  “I didn’t say that,” the sheriff protested. “I meant the ruckus was just a trifle.”

  Miss Norman sniffed delicately and crinkled her eyes at Slade.

  “Been quite a few changes since you were here last, Walt,” she said. “We’ve got a new neighbor to the west, too. A Mr. Tobar Shaw, a very pleasant person and gentlemanly. He bought the Hartsook place. Calvin Hartsook was murdered by wideloopers about five months back. His daughter was his only heir and she’s married to a bank clerk in Dallas who knows nothing about ranching and, I understand, cares less. So they put the spread up for sale at a low price and Mr. Shaw bought it. It isn’t very big but good grass, and he’s been running in some improved stock, almost as good as ours. I’ve a notion he’ll make a go of it. Appears to favor progressive methods.”

  “Yes, Shaw seems to be all right,” put in Carter. “
I’ve talked with him a couple of times. A notion you’d like him, Walt. I figure he’s a sorta educated feller.”

  Slade nodded without speaking; he was studying Neale Ditmar’s profile and broad back. He experienced a feeling that Mr. Ditmar was a mite out of the ordinary.

  Jerry jumped to her feet. “Come on, Walt, take me to the Washout,” she said. “It’s nice here, but too quiet.”

  The sheriff wagged disapprovingly. “Everybody to their taste, as the herder said when he kissed the sheep. Hope you don’t get walloped by a thrown bottle or something.”

  “I’ll chance it,” Jerry replied cheerfully. “Come on, Walt, Uncle Keith will take care of the check; he’ll feel bad if he isn’t allowed to. Be seeing you, Uncle Brian.

  “This is better,” she said, snuggling closer as they turned into a quiet and fairly dark side street, and raising her face.

  “And that’s a lot better,” she added, a moment later, when her lips were free for speaking. “I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to—again.”

  The Washout was not quiet, far from it. Jerry’s eyes were sparkling as they made their way to a table near the dance floor, which at the moment happened to be vacant. “There’s Mr. Yates, he’s seen us.”

  Old Thankful came hurrying forward, bottles in hand. “Well! well!” he exclaimed. “Miss Norman again; she hasn’t been here since you brought her the last time, Mr. Slade.”

  “As I told you before, Uncle Keith won’t take me to the really interesting places,” Jerry replied, extending her little sun-golden hand. “How are you, Mr. Yates? It’s good to see you again.”

  “And it’s plumb wonderful to see you again,” Thankful said gallantly. “Here’s your favorite wine. See, I didn’t forget. And a snort from my private bottle for Mr. Slade before he starts in on coffee.”