Range Ghost

by Bradford Scott

  But now Shadow was blowing hard, lurching, his steady gait changed to a weaving shamble; did he fall, he would never rise again.

  Slade swung down from the saddle, looped the reins over his arm and talked soothingly to the exhausted horse, who, relieved of his weight, picked up a bit. And responsibility revived El Halcon’s strength, to a degree. Shadow had done his part. Now it was up to him to save the faithful animal from destruction. He slogged doggedly ahead, stumbling, reeling, each step an agonizing effort. His chest labored and he coughed retchingly. Half delirious, he cursed the wind, the sand, and the heat.

  “Damn you, I’ll beat you yet!” he croaked from his scorched throat. Over and over he said it, until the words were like a rumbling drum in his ears. “I’ll beat you yet! I’ll beat you yet!” He felt there was nothing to him except the will that thundered to him—“Hold on!”

  He did. And his indomitable courage was rewarded. Abruptly the air cleared. The wind still howled, but now it was a clean blast, invigorating, revivifying. Numbly he realized that instead of crunching sand there was whispering grass beneath his feet. His bleary eyes were smitten by the rays of the setting sun, rosy, friendly rays like to the love-light in a woman’s eyes. Slowly he sank to the soft carpet of the rangeland grass and lapsed into the coma of utter exhaustion, his last words a triumphant mumble—“I—beat—you!”

  Beside him, Shadow stood with hanging head and front legs spread wide. He gave a weak snort that seemed to echo his master’s words.

  Yes, they beat it, but as he gradually regained complete consciousness, Slade realized it had been as close a call for both of them as they’d ever experienced. A few more hundred yards to go and they wouldn’t have beat it. He glanced toward the desert with a heightened respect for its devilishness.

  The wind still blew, but its exultant howl had changed to a disappointed whine, and shortly it ceased altogether.

  Shadow had straightened up and looked to be about his normal self again. Slade gave him what was left of the water, mounted and rode north by east. He was outrageously thirsty and his throat felt like an overheated dry kiln, but he could hold out until they reached one of the creeks, which he knew to be not far off.

  Soon he spotted its wavering silver flash and a little later he flopped from the saddle and drank his fill, first flipping the bit from Shadow’s mouth so the cayuse could quench his thirst in comfort. Then, feeling greatly refreshed, he managed to roll a cigarette with fingers that still trembled a little and drew in deep and satisfying drafts of the fragrant smoke.

  The sun had set and the far distant hills were crowned with crimson and the desert was a flame of color. Slade viewed its unearthly beauty with the tolerant and appreciative eye of a conqueror, a feeling quite different from that which he had entertained for it a short time before.

  “And now, feller, we’ll head for Keith Norman’s XT ranchhouse,” he told Shadow. “I’m as empty as a gutted sparrow and I’ve got a notion you are, too. It isn’t so very far off and we’re neither in any shape to make it to town to night.”

  Mounting, he rode east, veering more and more to the north, and reached Norman’s hospitable casa long after dark.

  Old Keith opened to his knock, whooped a welcome, and bawled for a wrangler to care for Shadow.

  “Say! you’ve sure picked up your share of dust, and you look sorta beat,” he exclaimed.

  “I am,” Slade admitted, slumping into a chair. “Was prowling around on the desert and got caught in a wind storm,” he explained, making no mention of his discovery of the hidden water, which he preferred to keep to himself for the time being.

  “That desert’s no place for anybody when there’s a storm up; you shouldn’t have took a chance with it,” Norman said reprovingly. “Here comes Jerry, she’ll fix you coffee and something to eat. Pedro’s gone to bed; he’d be glad to get up for you, but there’s no sense to it. Rustle your hocks, chick, can’t you see the man’s starving?”

  Jerry proceeded to do so and Slade did full justice to the repast she set before him. Old Keith chuckled.

  “Got more sense than most women,” he declared. “Know better than to talk to a man and ask questions when he’s hungry. Okay, honey, now you can turn your wolf loose on him—his belly’s lined.”

  Later, when they were alone in the living room, Slade told her everything, because she knew what he was and why he was in the section, and he got a sound scolding for risking the desert with a storm imminent.

  “You should have stayed right where you were, safe in the dry wash, until the storm had passed,” she declared. “Why do you always have to take needless chances? Why all the hurry to get back?”

  “Look in the mirror and you’ll see why,” he grinned.

  “Huh!” she sniffed. “I’ll wager you never thought of me once.”

  “I did, too,” he said. “Toward the last, when I was getting a bit woozy, I saw all sorts of things including angels, and they all had your face.”

  “Yes, but we are taught that there are angels and angels,” she retorted. “I wonder just which variety you saw.”

  Slade chuckled and let it go at that.

  “We had a visitor this afternoon,” she remarked. “Mr. Neale Ditmar from over east.”

  “Yes?”

  “Uh-huh, he said he’d heard that Uncle Keith contemplated selling out and moving elsewhere, and if so, he would very much like to have first bid on the property, that he desired to expand his holding and there was no chance to do so eastward, with John Fletcher owning the land to the east. He said Fletcher evinced no intention of moving, and that besides we would not be able to buy such a big holding.”

  “Yes,” Slade prompted, looking interested.

  “The fact is,” she continued, “that right after we’d lost that last bunch of cows, Uncle Keith got mad and did say to Fletcher that he was of half a notion to sell out. Guess Fletcher passed the remark along and Ditmar heard of it. Yes,” she added with a smile and a dimple, “Uncle Keith said he had half a notion to sell and move.”

  Slade chuckled, for he knew what quite likely Mr. Ditmar did not know, that Miss Geraldine Norman was half owner of the XT spread and old Keith could not sell without her consent.

  “What do you think, dear, should we sell?” she asked.

  “It is merely a matter of what you desire to do or desire not to do,” he replied. “If you really wish to move and are offered a fair price, go ahead. But it is a good holding and will increase in value as more and more people come into the section. In my opinion, it will never be worth a fortune, but it will always make you a good living. Later, as more farmers arrive, you might very well sell them a stretch of land at a nice profit, land which they will irrigate. Agriculture is coming to the Panhandle and it will increase land values. That’s the way the situation stands as I see it.”

  “We won’t sell,” Jerry replied decisively. “Among other things, now you always know where to find me instead of having to prowl all over Texas looking for me after you’ve run out of stops. We won’t sell.”

  “I consider it a wise decision,” he said smilingly, “and I appreciate your thoughtfulness of my convenience. Come here!”

  Some time later, “And you discovered the hidden water that nobody believed existed. I think it was just about the cleverest thing I ever heard tell of.”

  “Not cleverness, just knowledge and experience,” he deprecated. “As I said, I once before encountered something similar. Really, it was just a case of knowing what to look for.”

  “But something which nobody else even thought of,” she said.

  “Nobody is hardly the right word,” he differed. “Somebody else discovered it before I did, somebody who evidently had faith in the old Indian legends and was familiar enough with their customs to also know what to look for, and with the knowledge of how it could be put to use. In this case, a reprehensible use.”

  “But what you learned will enable you to put a stop to the widelooping, will it not?”
<
br />   “Yes, it will do that, this particular phase of it at least,” he admitted. “But it far from solves the problem of who is back of what has been happening, things much more serious than cow stealing. But it is something and may provide needed opportunity.”

  She sighed. “But as Sheriff Carter says, you’ll eventually come out on top, of that there is no doubt in my mind. Only I’m liable to suffer a stroke or nervous prostration before you do. Oh, well, meanwhile it’s nice to have you, for the time being at least. I’m glad you were able to make one of your stops here.”

  “Stops!”

  “Uh-huh, that’s the right word this time. I don’t fool myself, my dear. As I think I said once before, you are irresistible to women, but the corollary, the male weakness, women are irresistible to you. ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!’ ”

  She glanced at the clock.

  Chapter Eleven

  As he headed for town, shortly before noon the next day, Slade remarked to Shadow, “I wonder if that Ditmar gent knows something, or thinks he does? Admitting the assumption that he does know, or has been told something, he is a living example of Pope’s couplet, ‘A little learning is a dangerous thing.’ Still assuming that he knows something, he is right so far as the over-all picture is concerned, but erroneous as to details and may be making a colossal blunder.

  “All of which, of course, is pure conjecture on my part. There is no proof that the reason he gave Keith Norman for desiring to acquire his holding was not an honest reason. He could be just farsighted and realize that land values in this section will undoubtedly be on the increase before long. Well, at least he is something to think on, which so far we have sorely lacked.”

  Largely as a matter of habit, Slade rode watchfully, for he did not really anticipate any trouble. He kept well away from the brush fringe of the Canadian Valley and on the open prairie he had little to fear. His belief was justified, for he reached Amarillo without untoward incident.

  An astounded man was Sheriff Carter as he listened to El Halcon’s account of his experience on the desert.

  “So it’s really there,” he marveled. “Water on that burned-over section of raised hell. Well, guess the oldtimers knew what they were talking about when they insisted the Injuns made that crossing with cows. I always believed it just talk, bunkhouse jabber, but I guess I was wrong.”

  “Folks said the same thing about the Lost Lakes Captain Arrington discovered in the desert farther south,” Slade pointed out. “When definite knowledge is lost, people are wont to scoff at something that is maintained without corroborating evidence. Don’t forget, geographers drew their maps with a blank place they labeled the Great American Desert—which was really the Texas Panhandle, and very far from being a desert. Even as late as 1849, Captain Marcy, a noted explorer, said, ‘This country is and must remain uninhabited forever.’ Well, we have before our eyes a refutation of Marcy’s statement. The time is coming, and not too far off, when Amarillo’s grain elevators will handle millions of bushels of wheat each season, to say nothing of barley, oats, and rye. And there will be other things that right now very few people are giving thought to. Instead of roads being marked by furrows plowed in the prairie sod, as many of them are now, there will be broad highways following the course of the old trails. Just a matter of time.”

  Sheriff Carter regarded him curiously. “You have faith in the Panhandle country, don’t you, Walt,” he stated rather than asked.

  “Yes, I have faith in the Panhandle country, and in Texas, and in America,” Slade replied gravely. “This is the land of opportunity. All that is needed is for each and every one of us to do his share toward making opportunity a reality.”

  “And you’re doing your share,” said the old sheriff. “You’re doing your share…But getting back to that blasted water you discovered, what are we going to do about it?”

  “Frankly I don’t know, yet,” Slade admitted. “Knowing the route they take, we could very likely intercept and retrieve a stolen herd at the edge of the desert, but just how much real good it would do I’m not prepared to say. Incidentally, the southern edge of Keith Norman’s range will be patrolled every night from now on—Jerry’s taking care of that—and I don’t think anything will get past his boys, which should help. By the way, who has been the hardest hit by the wideloopers?”

  “John Fletcher and his Diamond F, far and away,” the sheriff replied without hesitation. “As you know, plenty of other outfits have reported losses, but Fletcher has been catching it hot and heavy.”

  “I see,” Slade said, his eyes thoughtful. Carter looked expectant, but the Ranger did not see fi t to elaborate his remark, at the moment.

  “Well, I guess a bite to eat is in order,” he said. “Been quite a while since breakfast, and although it was a good one, I’m beginning to feel lank again.”

  “Let’s go,” agreed Carter. “Trail End?”

  “Good as any,” Slade replied.

  As they sat down at a table and gave their order, Slade observed, “Fletcher is particularly vulnerable because so much of his holding is north of the Canadian Valley; but if Ditmar and Shaw could be persuaded to patrol effectively to the south, as Norman will be doing, the pressure on him would be relieved.”

  “Ditmar!” snorted the sheriff. “I expect Shaw will be glad to cooperate, but as to Ditmar, I ain’t at all sure about that hellion, in more ways than one.”

  Slade nodded without comment; he was not altogether sure about Senor Ditmar himself.

  “The own ers’ chief weakness,” he added, “is that they have concentrated on the Canadian Valley, being convinced that the cows were run by that route to the New Mexico hills. In fact, I rather leaned to that assumption myself, at first. That bunch being run across the Valley and onto the prairie to the south changed my opinion. That was what really started me looking for hidden water in the desert.”

  “Well, you found it, and I’ve a notion it’s going to just about put an end to the real widelooping hereabouts,” predicted Carter.

  “Perhaps,” Slade conceded, “but it won’t put an end to our troubles. With that source of revenue dried up, the outlaws will turn to other things. As you told me in the beginning, they have already branched out quite a bit.”

  “You’re darned right,” growled Carter. “Robbery, burglary, and murder as a sideline.”

  “Yes, that’s the worst angle,” Slade said. “A chore of rustling is usually pulled off without a killing. Incidentally, Fletcher made the mistake of guarding the southwest edge of his holding, being convinced that the wideloopers used the Canadian River route, whereas instead they struck straight across the Valley, and at more than one point, according to what old Estaban told me—which makes the task of intercepting them more difficult.”

  “How about the hidden water?” Carter asked. “You going to tell folks what you found?” Slade shook his head.

  “Not just yet. Somebody would be sure to talk, and perhaps with the wrong pair of ears listening, which would be to our disadvantage. I may be making a mistake by not spreading the word around, but I don’t believe I am. So long as the outlaws use that route across the desert, we may have a better opportunity to drop a loop on them.”

  “I’ve a notion you’re right,” agreed the sheriff. “What’s our next move?”

  “To try and anticipate what the devils have in mind,” Slade replied. “Which is likely to be something of a chore.”

  “Uh-huh, a helluva chore,” grunted Carter. “Hello! here comes Fletcher and Ditmar.” He waved an invitation to the ranchers and they made their way to the table; Fletcher ordered drinks all around.

  “Well, Mr. Slade, what you got to tell us now?” he asked.

  “If you don’t feel I am presuming, I am going to offer you a little advice,” the Ranger replied.

  “Shoot!” said Fletcher. “What is it? Any advice you hand out I figure worth listening to.” Ditmar nodded agreement.

  “Just this,” Slade answered. “I understand you h
ave been concentrating on keeping watch at the southwest edge of your range. Refrain from doing so and spread your men along the north edge of the Valley. A similar provision goes for you, Mr. Ditmar.”

  “Hmm!” said Fletcher. “So you figure them cows don’t go west by way of the Valley?”

  “They do not,” Slade replied. “They go south across the Valley, on south a ways and then across the desert.”

  Fletcher stared. “You mean you figure the hellions know where there’s water out there?” he demanded.

  “Water, like gold, is where you find it,” Slade answered evasively. Ditmar shot him a quick and curious look but refrained from asking questions.

  “Well, if you say to string the boys along the north edge of the Valley, that’s what I’ll do,” said Fletcher. Ditmar again nodded agreement, without comment.

  “You’ll be doing the right thing if Slade says so,” the sheriff put in.

  “Got a notion you’re plumb right, Brian,” Fletcher agreed. “But what about Norman and Shaw?”

  “Norman is already patrolling the south edge of his holding, tonight, and he’s passing the word along to Shaw,” Slade told them.

  Ditmar spoke for the first time. “I assume you mean I should patrol where my holding ends to the south, Mr. Slade?”

  “Exactly,” El Halcon replied. “That way you should be able to intercept any stock that’s being run in that direction.”

  “I see,” Ditmar said thoughtfully. “Okay, I’ll follow your advice, assiduously; I’ve a notion it will pay off. But suppose the devils catch on that we’re patrolling that way?”

  “Then,” Slade said, with a slight smile, “it is logical to believe they will not attempt the run to the southwest; either way you stand to win.”

  “Makes sense,” Ditmar conceded. “Okay, Mr. Slade, as I said, I’ll follow your advice. The devil knows I can’t trust my own judgment anymore, and when one can think of nothing, it’s wise, I hold, to string along with somebody who can think of something.”