Bullets for a Ranger

by Bradford Scott

  “The girl lent a very helping hand,” Slade said. “She made more racket than a dozen. I figured those sheep thieves thought a banshee was after them, especially if there happened to be any of Irish descent in their number.”

  “Is my voice that bad?” Marie asked in shocked tones.

  “Normally it’s as sweet as a nightingale singing on the Tree of Paradise, but when you take a notion to screech, it sounds like a coyote carnival in an owl’s nest,” Slade replied.

  Sheriff Ross shook with laughter. Marie appeared to turn the matter over in her mind.

  “He always leavens any compliment he pays,” she said at length. “One moment he’ll say my hair is as a forest pool brimful of sunset, the next that it reminds him of a scrambled egg. What is a girl supposed to do with such a man?”

  “Well, I could offer a number of suggestions, but I think you’re capable of handling the matter yourself,” the sheriff answered. “But talking of scrambled eggs makes me hungry. Waiter!”

  After the sheriff finished his meal, Marie said, “I’m tired. Mind if I go to bed?”

  “A good notion,” Slade answered. “I’m going to follow your example before long; it’s been a busy week. I’ll walk you to the hotel; I have to register for a room, too. See you in the morning before we head for the ranchhouse, Neale.”

  The hotel desk clerk, who knew Marie well, called her by name.

  “I’ll give you Number Twelve, the room you usually have, Miss Waring,” he said. “Mr. Slade, you can have Thirteen, if you’re not superstitious.”

  “I’ve always considered thirteen my lucky number,” Slade replied. Marie smiled.

  After breakfast the following morning, Slade said, “I want to see Ross a few minutes before we ride.”

  “All right, dear, I’ll wait for you in the hotel lobby,” Marie answered. “Take your time.”

  When he reached the office, Slade found the sheriff just leaving.

  “I’m going over to the packing house and see if I can locate Parr,” he explained. “Yesterday one of Garcia’s hands rode in with a message about a flock Garcia is getting ready to trail. Parr was off somewhere, so I offered to relay the message. Like to come along?”

  “Yes, I would,” Slade replied.

  At the packing house they failed to find the owner. “He hasn’t been here since yesterday morning,” the superintendent, an affable person, said. “Glad to know you, Mr. Slade. Would you like to look over the plant while you wait for Mr. Parr?”

  Slade signified that he would, and the super showed them around, explaining the various angles of the business. Finally they came to a small room where men were soldering big sheets of tin into cylinders, one end of which they capped.

  “For canned mutton,” the superintendent said. “Something of a novelty, but it’s going over well. Mr. Parr has progressive ideas.”

  “He certainly has,” Slade conceded, and meant it. There was a glow in his eyes as they returned to the office to await Eldon Parr.

  However, after waiting a while without Parr putting in an appearance, Slade decided to leave.

  “I want to get Marie back home,” he explained. “I’m afraid her brother will be worried. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, I expect.”

  Without delay, he got the rigs on the horses and rejoined Marie. They reached the W Diamond ranchhouse before noon to find Phil Waring puttering about the yard.

  “Hello, have a nice ride?” he greeted them, and immediately started talking about something else.

  “Remember what I told you?” Marie said to Slade, after Phil had headed for the kitchen to tell the cook to rustle his hocks. “He doesn’t even realize that we’ve been gone two nights instead of one. I guess all men are impossible.”

  “I won’t forget either of them,” he protested.

  “I hope not,” she said, with a sigh. “And you’ll think of me sometimes, when you’re riding over the next hilltop?” she added, her eyes suddenly wistful.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Come and get it, or we’ll throw it away!” Phil shouted, appearing from the kitchen before Slade could say more.

  At the table, Marie recounted their adventures for the benefit of her brother, who listened with absorbed interest.

  “Must have been quite a shindig,” he chuckled. “Wish I could have been there with you.”

  “I tried to keep her out of it, but it was no go,” Slade remarked.

  “Try and keep her out of anything!” Waring snorted. “I gave up years ago. She’s stubborn as a blue-nosed mule when she takes a notion to be, and twice as contrary. And you figure it was the same bunch that was gallivanting around in tin shirts?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Slade said. “They have changed their dress, but not their mode of operation; leave no witnesses alive appears to be their motto. Killers of the worst sort.”

  “Uh-huh, all of that,” Waring nodded. “But I’ve a notion they’re going to get their comeuppance, and soon,” he predicted.

  Later, when they were alone, Marie gave the Ranger a bit of a start with an unexpected remark.

  “Walt,” she said, “I purposely refrained from mentioning those cave mouths in the rocks to Phil and Neale Ross. I have a feeling you prefer not to have them talked about.”

  “I do, for the time being at least,” he admitted. “Don’t miss much, do you?”

  “A woman must develop a certain sympathetic understanding where a man is concerned, if she hopes to hold his regard,” she replied.

  He nodded sober agreement. “You’re right,” he conceded. “Unfortunately, many do not.”

  At that moment, Waring entered. “What say, Walt, like to take a little ride with me and look things over?” he suggested.

  “Not a bad notion,” the Ranger replied. “Let’s go. See you later, Marie.”

  As they rode away from the ranchhouse, Waring made a sweeping gesture to the northeast.

  “Over there’s the open range,” he said. “A lot of it—runs way up north.”

  Slade nodded. “I still think,” he said, “that it would be a good notion for you folks to get title to that land; may save you a lot of trouble some time.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it ever since we had our talk,” Waring admitted. “In fact, I think I will make a try for a section. We have a little spare cash on hand right now, and I reckon there couldn’t be a better investment. I’m sure Marie will go along with the notion. Especially if you sort of suggest it,” he added with a grin. “She seems to think anything you do must be okay. How about talking to her?”

  “I will, if you wish it,” Slade agreed.

  As they rode, Slade was favorably impressed with the W Diamond. The grass was good, there were plenty of groves and thickets, and sufficient water. Most of the land was level or rolling prairie easy to work.

  “A good holding,” he summed up. “This has always been excellent country, and always will be, although I’ve a notion some of it will be turned into farming land in the future.”

  “I hope not,” Waring said. “I hate to see the range spoiled.”

  “It will be to your advantage in the end,” Slade pointed out. “You will be able to purchase fruit and vegetables and grain at a much lower cost. The land down by the bay will be excellent for farming, but not overly good for cows, and there is no sense in adopting a dog-in-the-manger attitude toward it. And meanwhile you might as well reconcile yourself to the inevitable. Farming is coming to Texas, and there is no stopping it. That’s one reason why I advised you to get title to that state land if you really wish to hold it, before somebody beats you to the draw.”

  “Sounds like good advice, and if Marie is agreeable, I’m prepared to act on it,” Waring said. “Much obliged for the tip.”

  When they returned to the ranchhouse, in the late evening, they received some disquieting news. Al Hodson was waiting for them, bursting with excitement.

  “Boss!” he called, as soon as Waring was within earshot, “there’s sheep on the rang
e over to the east, a thundering big flock, with half a dozen salty looking hellions herding them. I started to ride to the flock, but they waved me around. I figured the next thing to wave wouldn’t be a hat but a rifle barrel, so I headed for home.”

  17

  WARING FAIRLY exploded with anger.

  “So the blankety-blank did it!” he bawled. “I’ll get the boys together and ride over there and clean out that nest of snakes!”

  “Hold it!” Slade said. “You’ll do nothing of the kind; you’ll stay right here. If you tried that, you’d be in the wrong from the start and Parr would have the law on his side.”

  “Don’t take up for the blankety-blank!” Waring shouted. “You—” His voice trailed off, for the look in Slade’s cold eyes boring into his struck him to silence.

  “I’m not taking up for him, and I’m not taking up for you,” Slade told him. “I am taking up for law and order and the integrity of the state of Texas. By your own admission, that is open range over there, state land, and Parr has as much right, under the law, to run sheep onto it as the cattlemen have to run cows. Do what you threatened to do, and the law as embodied in Sheriff Ross will be against you. You’ll be playing right into Parr’s hands. You can’t bull this thing through, Phil, so don’t try it. Besides, if you went sashaying over there looking for trouble, it’s very likely that you’d ride into a trap. If Parr has run in sheep, you can rest assured that he has made provisions to keep them in. The chances are you’d just get mowed down by hellions holed up in the brush, and the law would be on their side. You wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, if any of you happened to be in a condition to stand at all, which is unlikely. Al only saw half a dozen herders, he said, but you can bet a hatful of pesos that there were more than half a dozen somewhere around. The half-dozen may have been set out as bait. I’ve a notion that would be Parr’s way of doing things. Do you understand, now?”

  Under the lash of the Ranger’s voice, Waring had cooled considerably.

  “Yes, I guess so,” he said. “But what the devil are we going to do? If those infernal woollies are allowed to remain, they’ll ruin all that range, you can depend on that. Parr won’t give a hang, and he won’t do anything to prevent it.”

  “Right now we’re doing nothing,” Slade replied. “But I think I can guarantee that Parr’s sheep won’t spoil the range. Right now, sit tight and wait.”

  “Walt is right, Phil,” Marie, who had joined them, broke in. “You listen to him and do what he tells you to do. I’m half-owner, and I’m backing him to the limit.”

  “All right! All right!” growled Waring. “With the two of you lined up against me, what the devil can I do but knuckle under.”

  “You won’t regret it,” she said. “Walt knows what he’s about.”

  “I hope so,” Waring replied. “Oh, the devil, let’s eat. Getting mad always makes me hungry.”

  After his third cup of coffee, Waring brightened considerably and achieved a more equable frame of mind.

  “Neale Ross says you’re never wrong,” he observed to Slade. “So I reckon I’m doing the right thing by stringing along with you.”

  “You certainly are in this instance,” Slade agreed. “First thing in the morning I’m riding to town to have a confab with Ross, and to learn what steps he’s contemplating to combat possible trouble.”

  “May I ride with you?” Marie asked quickly.

  “Well, you being a cattle spread owner, your presence should tend to enhance my status,” he admitted. “Okay with you, Phil?”

  “Go ahead,” replied Waring. “I’ll promise to be good while you’re away.”

  When Slade lay down that night, it was not to sleep for some time. He pondered recent disturbing developments. His problems were multiplying fast. In addition to a murderous outlaw bunch to capture or exterminate, he now had an incipient range war crawling up his pants leg. Swift and strenuous measures were required to prevent that from exploding all over the section. When the word got around, and it wouldn’t be long, the cattlemen would be up in arms and a clash between the two factions inevitable if nature were allowed to take its course.

  On the surface, Eldon Parr’s action appeared to be a deliberate invitation to trouble, but if he read the man aright, and he was convinced he did, Parr would be prepared against trouble. Also, he believed he knew Parr’s objective in bringing in the sheep. Well, that objective would not be achieved. The sheep angle must be taken care of, but it was only incidental to the main problem that confronted him.

  With Marie accompanying him, Slade set out for town early the following morning. When they pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office, Slade drew something from his saddle pouch that glinted in the sunlight. He tucked it under his arm, where it was not conspicuous. Entering, they found Sheriff Ross in his office and in a bad temper.

  “Yes, I heard about it,” he said without preamble. “The devil’s to pay, and no pitch hot! Why in blazes did Parr do it? He must have known he was going to stir up trouble.”

  “Neale,” Slade said, “did you ever hear of a red herring?”

  “A red herring!”

  “Yes. A red herring has a very strong and pungent odor, an odor that for some reason known to themselves is very attractive to dogs. A pack will carry the trail of a red herring breast-high without a fault for hours.

  “And in the course of rival deer hunts, an unscrupulous contender would drag a red herring across the trail of a deer. The dogs would leave the deer scent and follow the trail of the herring. Finally got to be a saying applied to any distracting practice—’trail of a red herring.’

  “And that,” he concluded impressively, “is the explanation of the bringing in of sheep by Eldon Parr. He knew well it would kick up a grand hullabaloo, and people in general would for the time being pay little attention to anything else. Which would include yourself. With sheep troubles on your hands, you’d have little time to devote toward the apprehension of the outlaw bunch that masqueraded as men of steel to frighten the superstitious herders and peons and therefore simplify their wide-looping operations. Begin to understand?”

  “Why—why, in a way,” the bewildered peace officer replied. “But why should Parr want to do something that would work to the advantage of an outlaw bunch?”

  “Because,” Slade replied, “Eldon Parr is the leader of the men of steel.”

  Marie gasped. Ross nearly jumped out of his chair.

  “Walt, have you gone plumb loco?” he sputtered.

  “No,” Slade answered. “I mean just what I said, and when the proper time comes I’ll prove it to your satisfaction and that of everybody else. Straighten this out and take a good look at it.”

  As he spoke, he laid a folded sheet of metal on the sheriff s desk.

  Muttering under his breath, Ross did straighten it out, smoothing the creases.

  “Why, it’s one of those blasted tin shirts!” he exclaimed.

  “Right,” Slade nodded. “Now look at the lettering down in the left-hand corner.”

  With puckered brows, Ross leaned close. H—A—S—J—no, K—I—” he hesitated. “Yes, that’s it, Haski.” He glanced up expectantly.

  “When we looked over the packing plant yesterday” Slade said, “you’ll recall we watched some workmen solder rolled sheets of tin to make cans. Well, I got a close look at one of those sheets. Not only was the metal identical with this, but in one corner was the name of the fabricator—‘Haskins Mills.’ That was where a bad slip was made when the ‘suits of armor’ for the men of steel were fashioned. It’s quite logical to believe that the tin shirts, as you call them, were made in Parr’s packing plant. Don’t you think so?”

  “Why—why, I’ll be hanged if it don’t look that way,” Ross admitted.

  “Of course, it’s not proof positive that Parr had anything to do with the manufacturing of the phony armor,” Slade added. “If questioned, he could say that it was done by somebody in the plant without his knowledge, and without some corroborat
ing evidence, it would be hard to contradict him and make it stick. So let’s see what else we’ve got.

  “First, remember the slug Al Hodson stopped on the trail the other day, the slug that was undoubtedly meant for me? Well, aside from you and Doc Price, Eldon Parr was the only person who knew I planned to take that ride. But somebody had a dry-gulcher planted up on the ridge all set to mow me down when I rode past.

  “Next. Somebody started a whispering campaign against Phil Waring, insinuating that he was the leader of the outlaw bunch, the men of steel. Another case of a red herring. For Phil is about as capable of originating such a fantastic scheme to play on the superstition of the herders as he is to fly to the moon. Once more, it’s logical to think Parr started the whispers. So we come to the wide-looped sheep.

  Those stolen sheep were loaded onto a ship and brought to Parr’s packing plant, supposedly from a sheep ranch Parr owns somewhere over east. How? I am positive that I know how it was done, and I plan to put it to the test very soon. And only a man with a more than superficial knowledge of tides and currents and geological formations could have figured that one out. And if there is anyone else in the section who fits into that category, I certainly haven’t contacted him.”

  “Darned if you ain’t making out a case against the hellion,” growled Ross. “What else?”

  “One little thing in particular,” Slade replied. “Really a very small thing, but with everything else considered, significant. You’ll recall telling me that Parr claimed to have been born and brought up in east Texas. Well, the other night he used a word that no true Texan would be likely to use.”

  “And that was—” prompted Ross.

  “ ‘Deestrict,’ “ Slade answered. “A Texan says ‘section,’ or if for some reason or other he happens to say district, that’s how he will pronounce the word—district not deestrict. The pronunciation deestrict is strictly Down East colloquialism. So I was at once convinced that Parr originated someplace other than Texas. And if a man endeavors to cover up his place of origin, he’ll bear watching, or so has been my experience.”