Range Ghost

by Bradford Scott

  Abruptly Slade stood up. He waved to Swivel and sauntered out. The street was also quite crowded, for the word of the excitement had gotten around and the citizens of Amarillo, always looking for an excuse to raise heck, were joining in. Slade chuckled and headed for the Washout and the lake front.

  When he reached the Washout, he found it also doing a good business. Thankful Yates greeted him hilariously, asked about Jerry Norman and insisted they have a drink together.

  “Those railroad fellers are scattered all around,” he remarked as they sat down. “Not a bad bunch, I’d say. Sorta rough and ready but all right. The gals seem to take to ’em, and that is always a good sign.” He paused to sip his drink.

  “Some jiggers in a little while ago I didn’t particular care for,” he continued. “Salty-looking hellions, four of ’em. ’Peared to be watching for somebody. Cowhands, I reckon, they were dressed that way. Didn’t stay long. We get all sorts here, you know, and I’m usually purty quick at spotting the wrong kind. Somehow those four didn’t strike me as being just right. Could be mistaken, though. Behaved themselves all right. Had a coupla drinks apiece and then moseyed out. Nope, I never saw them before.”

  “How long since they left?” Slade asked.

  “Oh, about half an hour, I reckon,” Thankful replied. “They didn’t stay long. Say, things are hoppin’ for fair; I’ll have to get back to the bar.”

  He rolled away with his peculiar, almost sailor-like gait. Slace wondered if the transplanted New Englander had once been a sailor. Not unlikely. Anyhow, he was all right and a square shooter.

  The Washout was booming, no doubt as to that, and Slade enjoyed the hilarity. But he couldn’t keep his mind on what was going on. Somehow Thankful’s discourse on the four men he deemed unsavory kept intruding on his thoughts.

  “Blast it,” he muttered. “I’m going to play a hunch. May be plumb loco, but I can’t help but feel it isn’t.” With a final glance around, he waved to Thankful and departed. Without hesitation, he headed for the railroad station at First Avenue and Pierce Street. Arriving at the station, he entered and accosted the night agent, with whom he was acquainted.

  “Sam,” he said, after they had exchanged greetings, “just where is the paycar located? I understand they pay off tomorrow morning.”

  The agent’s eyes widened a little. “Why, on that spur over to the west, not far from the lake,” he replied. “Something wrong, Mr. Slade?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know,” the Ranger answered. “I’m just sort of playing a hunch. Be seeing you later.” He walked out, leaving the agent looking concerned.

  It was some little distance to the yards and Slade walked swiftly. Here there were very few people on the streets and the lighting was inadequate, so El Halcon was very much on the alert, frequently glancing over his shoulder. However, he saw nothing that could be termed alarming and reached the yards without incident.

  At this point the yards were silent and lonely. At the far end, a couple of switch engines chugged about cheerfully, signal lights turned, couplers clashed, brake rigging jangled, but here there was a lack of activity, the darkness relieved only by the wan glow of the low-lying switch lights. Slade surveyed the scene a moment, then moved on, carefully avoiding the feeble beams of the switch lights, until the bulk of the lighted paycar loomed before him, and beyond it a street.

  Again he paused, then glided cautiously toward the car; now the hunch was going strong, and the soundless monitor in his brain was voicing a warning. He slowed his pace, reached the car. Inside the slightly open door he could hear a mutter of voices and a rustling sound. He peered through the door crack, got a glimpse of what was going on inside and flung the door wide open.

  The paymaster and the paycar guard sat rigid in chairs; two men stood with guns trained on them. Two more men were squatting beside an open safe, transferring its contents to a canvas sack. Slade’s voice rang out—

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

  The men at the safe leaped erect, the other two whirled to face Slade. The car rocked to a bellow of gunfire.

  Weaving, ducking, slithering, Slade shot with both hands. A slug gashed the flesh of his left arm, another tore through the leg of his overalls. One of the robbers slumped to the floor, a second rocked on his heels and fell backward. The two remaining trained their guns on the moving Ranger.

  Chapter Fifteen

  But now the plucky guard, a former card dealer, was in action. His right hand darted forward, a stubby little double-barreled derringer spatted into his palm and boomed like thunder. One of the outlaws went down, the other glanced toward the report and the second barrel of the derringer tore half his face off.

  Slade heard a sound outside the car and went sideways in a convulsive leap as a gun blazed from the darkness. His Colts let go twice. Thumbs hooked over the hammers, he held his fire an instant, heard a clatter of hoofs on the nearby street, fading into the distance, and began replacing the spent shells with fresh cartridges.

  “The blankety-blank got away!” the guard bawled indignantly.

  “Yes, and I’ve a notion he was the he-wolf of the pack,” Slade replied. “Well, anyhow we did a pretty good chore of mopping up,” he added, glancing at the still forms sprawled on the floor.

  “I was hoping and praying I’d get a chance to use my sleeve gun,” said the guard. “They cleaned my holster, of course, but I guess they never thought of my derringer. Anyway, they overlooked it.”

  “And you sure got a chance to use it at just the right time,” Slade replied. “The odds were a mite lopsided. Now suppose you hustle across town and locate the sheriff. Chances are he’ll be at the Trail End, awaiting me. If he isn’t, look in his office.”

  “Okay,” said the guard and hurried out. Slade turned to the elderly paymaster, who still sat rigid in his chair, white to the lips. Evidently he was not used to such bloody doings. Slade’s quiet, musical voice seemed to relax him.

  “Now suppose you tell me just what happened,” he suggested. “How did those horned toads get the drop on you?”

  “I was working on the payroll,” the other replied. “The guard was sitting beside me. All of a sudden we heard what seemed to be somebody tapping on the window over there. Naturally we both looked in that direction. Those four devils crashed in the door and, as you cowboys say, caught us settin’; we couldn’t do a thing.”

  “Fortunate that you didn’t try to,” Slade said. He glanced at the safe and the bulging sack on the floor.

  “Would have made a pretty nice haul, eh?” he remarked.

  “Yes, they sure would have,” replied the paymaster. “Not only are we paying off here tomorrow but there’s money, too, for Tucumcari. You saved my company a lot, sir; they’ll have something to say to you. Yes, there’ll be a nice reward coming your way.”

  “The chance to be of service was reward enough,” Slade answered.

  “And I’ve a strong notion, sir, that you saved Potter, the guard, and myself from being murdered,” the paymaster added, with a shudder. “Those devils struck me as the sort not to leave witnesses.”

  “You could be right,” Slade conceded. In fact, he thought it quite likely, especially if Shaw had used some of his cowhands for the chore; he’d find out about that later.

  “Listen!” the paymaster suddenly exclaimed. “Somebody’s coming.” He glanced nervously at the door.

  “The boys from the other end of the yard, the chances are,” Slade said as he sat down and began manufacturing a cigarette. “They must have heard the shooting and are coming to investigate.”

  Shouts were sounding outside, and the pad of hurrying feet. Another moment and the car was filled with excited trainmen volleying questions.

  The paymaster answered, stressing the part Slade had played. Somebody suddenly shouted—

  “Why, it’s Mr. Slade, Sheriff Carter’s new deputy! Been hearing plenty about him. You sure did a good chore here, Mr. Slade. If the hellions had got away wit
h what’s in the safe, we’d have all died of thirst tomorrow.”

  A general laugh followed the sally. Appreciative glances were cast at Slade.

  “Don’t forget the part the guard played,” Slade reminded them. “He sure got into action at just the right time.”

  “Uh-huh, John Potter is okay, and a salty hombre,” observed a conductor.

  “Don’t touch the bodies,” Slade warned. “I want the sheriff to see them as they are. He should be along shortly. By the way, take a good look, though, and see if you’ve ever seen them before.”

  The trainmen peered at the dead faces and one and all shook their heads.

  “Nope, never clapped eyes on the sidewinders before,” said the conductor. “Ornery looking hellions. Well, they got just what was coming to them. Here’s the sheriff.”

  Potter, the guard, and the old peace officer strode in, two deputies trailing after them. Carter bent over and scanned the bodies, glanced at Slade and shook his head.

  “All right, boys,” the conductor said to his companions, “back on the job. Work to do if we hope to take it easy tomorrow night. Much obliged again, Mr. Slade, you’re a real hombre.”

  They strode out, waving their adios. The sheriff began turning out the outlaws’ pockets, revealing nothing of importance save plenty of money, which he confiscated for the county treasury. Slade examined the seams.

  “More alkali dust,” he announced. “They’ve all been out on the desert; part of the widelooping bunch, all right.”

  “They’d have done better by themselves to have stayed there,” grunted Carter. His gaze fixed on Slade, who was sopping up the blood that trickled down onto his hand from his bullet-creased arm.

  “And you for a visit to Doc Beard,” he said as he inspected the outlaws’ guns.

  “Reg’lation artillery,” he reported. “Wonder how about their horses? Should be around somewhere close.”

  “I think they followed the hellion who got away,” Slade replied. “Not sure, though.”

  “Take a look, Hartley,” the sheriff ordered his saturnine chief deputy. “We’ll have these carcasses moved out of your way, pronto,” he told the paymaster. “I’m going to leave one of my deputies with you, just in case. Right, Walt?”

  “I doubt if there will be an encore, but best not to take chances,” the Ranger concurred. “It’s an unpredictable bunch, and we don’t know how many more might be waiting around somewhere.”

  “And I’m taking up my post outside, where I can see in all directions,” declared Potter. “I craves peace and quiet for the rest of the night.”

  The chief deputy returned to report no trace of the horses, which did not surprise Slade.

  “Take a look at the rumholes while you’re here,” Carter told him. “Cal, you stay in the car.”

  As they headed for Doc Beard’s office, Slade remarked, “Thought it just possible you might recognize the devils as some of Shaw’s cowhands.”

  “I didn’t,” Carter replied. “Ain’t over surprising, though, seems they never come to Amarillo, except a couple that sometimes accompanies him when he visits town, always the same two. I’ve gathered the rest of them do their drinking at Tascosa, can’t even say for sure about that. Seems nobody knows anything much about them, not even Keith Norman, their neighbor to the east. Oh, he’s a shrewd one, no doubt about that. Say, how in blazes did you catch on to what was in the wind tonight?”

  “I didn’t,” Slade admitted. “I just played a hunch. You know we’ve been beating our brains out trying to figure what Shaw might pull next. All of a sudden it came to me that the paycar would make a nice haul. And Thankful Yates had mentioned four questionable looking characters visiting his place and appearing to be watching for somebody. So, as I said, I played a hunch.”

  “And, as usual, the hunch, as you call it, was just another case of going over all the angles and adding ’em up correctly. Well, here’s Doc’s office and there’s a light burning; the old coot never seems to sleep. Come on, I want him to look you over.”

  Personally, Slade paid the light wound no mind, but went along with Carter, to relieve his anxiety.

  Doc Beard thought little of it, too. He cleansed the slight cut and applied a couple of strips of plaster, to the accompaniment of a running fire of caustic remarks.

  “Out!” he concluded. “I crave shuteye. Yes, I’ll hold an inquest tomorrow, two o’clock; just a waste of time. Out!”

  “And now what’s next?” asked the sheriff, when they were on the street.

  “I figure the Trail End and a cup of coffee won’t go bad,” Slade decided.

  “And I can stand a snort or two before going to bed,” said Carter. “Things were quieting down when I left. Guess the boys have got rid of most of their spare change and are feeling a mite tuckered. They’ll be there with bells on tomorrow night, though. Heard forty or fifty more will roll in before morning. The Division Superintendent was in and told me he doesn’t figure on anything much tomorrow except getting the camp cars in shape, and they’ll be rarin’ to go.”

  The Trail End crowd had pretty well dispersed, the dance-floor girls and the orchestra were gone, and Swivel-eye was getting ready to politely request the diehards to get the blankety-blank hell outa there. Slade had his coffee, the sheriff his drinks and both headed for bed, the Ranger quite pleased with the day’s work. With the able assistance of John Potter, the paycar guard, he had managed to eliminate four more of the outlaw band and felt that Shaw might be running out of hired hands.

  Of course a leader of his proven ability could enlist replacements, but not likely of the same calibre as the members of his original outfit whom Slade believed to have been chosen for ruthlessness and intelligence. Well, things weren’t going so bad, although his main objective would not be achieved until he eliminated, one way or another, the shadowy head of the bunch.

  Yes, Tobar Shaw was a shadow. As elusive a hellion as El Halcon had ever locked horns with. Oh, well, he had gone up against somewhat similar rapscallions, to their disadvantage. He went to bed and slept soundly.

  The inquest was much the same as the former one. Slade and John Potter were warmly praised for doing an excellent chore. The four vinegaroons got exactly what was coming to them. Plant ’em and forget ’em!

  Thankful Yates, who had attended the inquest, drew Slade aside. “They were the four hellions I told you about,” said the Washout owner. “The ones I said I didn’t like the looks of.”

  “So I judged,” Slade replied. “And you say they didn’t talk to anybody while in the Washout?”

  “That’s right,” answered Thankful. “Though, as I said, they ’peared to be sorta on the lookout for somebody. Maybe you?”

  “Could have been, though I rather doubt it,” Slade conceded. “Well, your estimate of them was confirmed.”

  “In the likker business you sorta get so you can pick ’em,” said Thankful. “Be seeing you. Hope you bring Miss Jerry Norman in soon; I like her.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised if I do,” Slade said. “In fact, I’ve got a feeling she might show up in town today. Young Joyce Echols was in the Trail End for a little while last night, Sheriff Carter said, and he’d tell about the bust due for tonight. That is quite likely to bring in old Keith and Jerry; they sort of take to payday busts.”

  “Be seeing you,” Thankful repeated and headed back to his place.

  Once again Slade spent some hours sauntering about town in the hope of learning something significant, and did not.

  Meanwhile in the railroad yards, gold was flowing from the paycar in a Pactolian stream, be it permitted to compare that prosaic conveyance to the fabled river whose sands were reputed to consist of the precious metal. Anyhow, plenty of dinero was being handed out and the saloons and other entertainment spots were preparing to reap the harvest.

  And very likely, Slade feared, there would be trouble before the night was over. Such establishments as the Trail End and the Washout were run strictly on the up-and-up and man
aged to keep order or something resembling it. But there were other places of dubious reputation, to put it mildly, where anything could happen and usually did.

  Which gave the Ranger food for thought. Such conditions might well provide opportunity for gentlemen of the Tobar Shaw brand.

  Sheriff Carter was of a like opinion, and worried. “I’ve got five specials swore in, but there’s a lot of territory to cover,” he said. Slade nodded in sober agreement.

  The day jogged along in green and gold and sunwashed air. Already the streets and the drinking places were crowded. Cowhands who had heard about the bust were riding in to take part in the celebration. The business people were also in a holiday mood, knowing that the payday bust for the railroaders was just a forerunner to the added prosperity the big job of expanding the yards would bring. Amarillo was all set to stand up on her hind legs and howl.

  At present it was a jovial howl of excitement, pleasure and good fellowship. Later, after the dark closed down it would very likely take on a sinister note, a lethal whine rising to a screech, raucous and deadly. Such was usually the case in any frontier town when quick-tempered young men fared forth with weapons at their belts.

  And far to the west, four men rode purposefully as they headed for the Cowboy Capital on a mission of vengeance.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The object of said mission, had he been aware of what they had in mind, would not have been particularly perturbed, being confident of his ability to cope with any such attempt. Slade enjoyed a leisurely dinner in the crowded Trail End and conferred with Sheriff Carter. His prediction to Thankful Yates proved correct and while they were talking, old Keith Norman rolled in with Jerry in tow.

  “Heard about the doin’s here tonight and she pestered me into bringing her in,” he said to Slade. “I told her you’d be too busy to be cluttered up with females, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “I expect I’ll be able to spare her a minute or two,” El Halcon smiled as he pulled out a chair. “Peaceful enough here, so far, save for a lot of noise.”