Maverick Showdown

by Bradford Scott

  “What happened?” Slade asked gently. “Why did they shoot you?”

  “I — I talked,” came the gasping reply through lips foamed by bright arterial blood. “I told — ”

  He choked, retched. Blood gushed from his mouth. His chest swelled mightily as he fought for air, sank in. It did not rise again.

  Slade stood up. He gazed at the burning shack, which was now pretty much a ruin. Doubtless it had been occupied by the poor devil who had been done to death, apparently because he talked too much. Slade greatly regretted he had not been able to speak a few more words before taking the Big Jump. He turned his attention to the other dead man, a rather unsavory looking specimen with nothing outstanding about him. His pockets divulged nothing Slade considered of interest save quite a large sum of money, which he replaced.

  The fellow’s horse had not followed the others but stood at a little distance, blowing and snorting. However it proved to be a tractable beast and Slade had no difficulty removing the rig so it could graze in comfort until picked up. With a final glance around, he swung into the saddle.

  “We’ll just leave everything as is for Sheriff Carter to look over tomorrow when he rides out to fetch the bodies,” he told Shadow. “Now let’s get going before we both starve to death. Be late as is when we make it to Amarillo. Here’s hoping we have a quiet amble the rest of the trip; had enough excitement for one evening, from my way of regarding it. Let’s go!”

  Climbing the south wall of the valley, steeper and more rugged than the north, Shadow made it to the crest without too much equine profanity and ambled on across the star-burned prairie. The miles flowed back under his speeding irons and a few hours after sunset, Slade saw the cluster of low-lying “fallen stars” that was Amarillo. Half an hour later found him threading his way through the outskirts.

  3

  Amarillo was now quite different from the period of its inception when it rejoiced in the elegant soubriquet of Ragtown. In those days, its population was made up chiefly of buffalo hunters and buffalo bone gatherers, cowboys, freighters, gamblers, ladies of dubious antecedents and questionable presents, and gentlemen of easy virtue, not bothered by conscience.

  Lumber was expensive and had to be carted great distances, so the “houses” of Ragtown were built of buffalo hides. Even the hotel, so called, had walls, partitions and roof of buffalo hides. When the hides dried, they became quite transparent, and startling scenes, some of them exhilarating, were to be seen from Ragtown’s dusty streets.

  A promoter and land developer named Henry Sanborn, a gentleman with vision, laid out a town site to the southeast of Ragtown, where the railroad tracks curved around a body of water called Amarillo Lake.

  Yes, Mr. Sanborn certainly had vision, but his judgment of the vagaries of Amarillo Lake was not so good. The rains came, the lake overflowed, and Mr. Sanborn found his hotel, railroad station, railroad yards, and other building enterprises resting placidly in four feet of water.

  Mr. Sanborn said things that smelled of sulphur, and moved his town to higher ground. Perhaps in defiance of the pesky lake, he named it Amarillo.

  The town flourished and soon absorbed Ragtown, and was well on its way to becoming the “Queen City of the Texas Panhandle.”

  When Walt Slade rode in, the girls, the gamblers, and the gents of easy virtue were still there, many more of them than formerly, but the buffalo hide huts were now conspicuous by their absence and had been replaced by substantial structures of various sorts and sizes, the most imposing, of course, housing saloons.

  Slade knew the location of a good stable run by a truculent old gent who knew his business and had a six-gauge sawed-off double-barreled shotgun with which to back up his opinions. Knowing that there Shadow would get the best of care, he headed for the stable first.

  The old proprietor, crustily answering his knocks on the door, put in an appearance, the shotgun accompanying him, as usual. He recognized both horse and rider and boomed an uproarious welcome.

  “Plumb glad to see you again,” Mr. Slade,” he said. “And the cayuse, too. Ha, critter remembers me. Can’t forget how you had to introduce me the first time, so’s he wouldn’t take my arm off when I reached for him. I sure cotton to a one-man horse. Don’t worry about him, he’ll get the best. And that room up over the stalls is vacant right now if you care to pound your ear there. Hotels are crowded, and it’s late. Plenty of nice cold water in the trough in back for a sluice. Guess you rec’lect the bed upstairs is okay.”

  “And I’ll be glad of both,” Slade said, accepting a key that wasn’t often given out. “Tomorrow I’ll move over to the Cattleman’s Hotel, for, the chances are that, as usual, I’ll be going and coming at all hours. But upstairs will be fine for tonight.”

  “I’ll put your pouches in the room,” said old Clint, the keeper. “Reckon you’re headed for the nosebag. Okay, sleep as long as you want to in the morning; I’ll be quiet and not disturb you.”

  Although the night was walking along, Slade had a very good notion where he would find Sheriff Brian Carter. The sheriff usually ate his dinner quite late and topped it off with several snorts of redeye to hold it down. So he headed for the Trail End Saloon, run by one Swivel-eye Sanders.

  The Trail End was a typical cowtown saloon of the better sort. It was big, well lighted, noisy, and crowded. It boasted a long and shining bar, a back bar pyramid with bottles of all shapes and colors, a large dance floor, a spotlessly clean lunch counter, tables for leisurely diners, others for card players, a couple of roulette wheels, and a faro bank. The waiters and the bartenders were affable and efficient, the dance floor girls young and pretty.

  As he anticipated, Slade at once spotted Sheriff Carter comfortably ensconced at a table with a glass in front of him. He shook hands warmly.

  “Made it, eh?” he said. “Squat and have a snort and feed your tapeworm. Have a good trip?”

  “So-so,” Slade replied as he accepted the invitation.

  “Something happen on the way?” the sheriff asked. “Reckon there did, I know that smug look you’re wearing. How many did you do for?”

  First, Slade recounted his run-in with the three cowhands on the posted trail.

  “Who’s Griswold?” he concluded. “I don’t recall any spread owner of that name in the section when I was here last?”

  “He’s a rangey old shorthorn,” the sheriff answered. “Showed up here a few months back. Bought the old Skaggs place. It was sorta run down but he soon got it in good shape. A cowman, all right, from over in the Brazos River country, but he’s always got his bristles up over something. Has a feud going with the farmers over to the west, among other things. Has always behaved himself pretty well, aside from having a chip on his shoulder all the time. But that business of posting an open trail goes a mite too far. He’ll hear from me about that. Wonder why he did such a loco thing?”

  “I haven’t been able to exactly understand it myself,” Slade admitted. “You say he’s been having trouble with the farmers?”

  “Oh, nothing too bad, so far, but he’s got no use for ’em,” Carter replied. “Says either them or some of the hellions that followed them here are to blame for his losing cows. Guess he could have something there; the section is sure filling up, and with some we could do without. But I still can’t see what he’d figured to gain by posting that sign.”

  “One answer could be that he figures it would keep chuck-line riders and other drifters off that stretch of trail and make it easier to patrol his holding,” Slade said. “Most folks, thinking it marks a private road, which the sign intimated, using the word road instead of trail — road being applied to a private passage over owned land will turn aside, especially when there is another fork handy, like there is in this instance. And from along that stretch of trail is a straight shoot, easy going, both to Oklahoma and the Canadian River Valley. That’s purest conjecture on my part, of course, but it could possibly be what he had in mind.”

  “Yes, could be,” the sheriff ag
reed, adding inconsequentially, “He’s got a salty bunch riding for him.”

  “Not too salty,” Slade smiled. “Mostly big medicine, I’d say, with not too much with which to back it up.”

  “Expect you’re right again,” Carter nodded. “That range boss of his, Si Lerner, is a blabbermouth for fair. They’ve mostly acted peaceful enough here in town. Had a ruckus with some fellers down at the Washout, Thankful Yates’ rumhole, but that sort of thing is common there; always some kind of heck raising. Was just an argument during a card game, I gather. Thankful quickly quieted down both bunches; going up against that big jigger is bad business.”

  He paused to stuff some tobacco in his pipe, then resumed.

  “Funny,” he said, looking contemplative, “but soon after Griswold and his hellions showed up, the heck raising hereabouts started. Couple of stages robbed, a driver killed, the bank at Dumas burgled, a bunch of sheep run off over around Romero, and everybody losing cows.”

  Slade shot him a quick glance, but Carter went off on another angle.

  “Yes, quite a few new faces around here of late. Your old amigo, Keith Norman has new neighbors on each side of him. You remember Norman, of course, and his niece Jerry.”

  “I do,” Slade replied. “Couldn’t forget them; they’re fine.”

  “Don’t come any better, and they’ll both be plumb glad to see you.”

  “Hope so,” Slade said. “And you say Keith has a new neighbor to the east?”

  “Uh-huh, that’s right,” answered Carter. “That spread to the east and south of his holding. It was in the hands of a receiver, you know. Feller by the name of Clifton Hart bought it at about the same time Griswold settled here. His brand is Boojer H. Funny, but him and Griswold seem to get along all right. Drink and talk together when they’re in town. Feller ‘pears to be okay, talks pleasant and seems to want to be friendly with everybody.

  “Oh, we’re getting quite a few new faces. Spreads changing hands, more business establishments going up. Feller who calls himself Erskin Frayne opened up a big saloon down on Fourteenth Avenue, not too far from the Washout. Calls it the Open Door, and it’s plumb wide open, all right; I got my eye on it. No serious trouble there, so far, but I got my notions. Anything else happen to you on your way here?”

  “Yes,” Slade replied. “Something much more serious than my brush with the G-Square bunch.”

  He proceeded to give the sheriff a résumé of the corpse and cartridge session he held with the three men who killed the valley dweller and burned his hut.

  “I don’t know what it is all about, but it was without a doubt snake-blooded murder,” he concluded. “If the poor devil had just lived a moment or two longer I feel he would have told me something of value. I gather he talked too much, when the wrong pair of ears was listening.”

  “Expect you have the right of it,” agreed Carter. “Not much doubt in my mind but that the hellions who have been raising hell hereabouts hang out in the Valley. Maybe the feller saw ’em up to something off-color and told somebody else about it, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Looks sort of that way,” Slade conceded. “No other explanation I can think of at present.”

  “And you did for one of the skunks, eh?” Carter remarked. “And nicked the other two. A pity you didn’t get all three dead center. Okay. I’ll round up the boys in the morning and we’ll ride over there and fetch the carcasses, if you’ll show us how to get down into the blankety-blank valley; you ‘pear to know about crossings nobody else does.”

  “I’ll go along to show the way,” Slade promised. “Mouth of the down trail is pretty well hid by growth, but not hard to find if you know just where to look.”

  “Oh, sure,” snorted the sheriff. “Just like picking a particular tick off a sheep’s back. Plumb easy when you know where to look. Well, here comes your chuck. About time, too, you must be feeling lank. Always worth waiting for, though, when the cook, who’s a Mexican, knows he’s throwing together a surrounding for El Halcon.”

  While Slade was eating, Swivel-eye Sanders, the owner, joined them for a few minutes. He shook hands with Slade, expressed pleasure at his return.

  No doubt but that Sanders came rightly by his peculiar nickname. His eyes did appear to swivel in every direction. One eyelid hung continually lower than the other and, viewed from a certain angle, lent his otherwise rather saturnine countenance an air of droll and unexpected waggery. One profile appeared jovial, the other sinister. A viewer who looked him squarely in the face was bewildered and didn’t know just what conclusion to draw. However, he enjoyed the reputation of being a square shooter, dependable, and efficient. Slade liked him.

  “Now things will really start hoppin’, with Mr. Slade on the job,” he said.

  “Uh-huh,” snorted the sheriff. “They’ll hop, all right. Trouble just nacherly follows him around.”

  “But he always takes care of it plumb proper,” Swivel-eye said cheerfully. “Eat hearty, Mr. Slade. Waiter! Everything on the house!”

  After a bit, Slade pushed back his empty plate and ordered a final cup of steaming coffee.

  “And after this, I’m heading for bed,” he announced. “It’s been quite a busy day, and a long one. I’ll meet you at the office around nine o’clock. I’m sleeping in the room over the stalls of Clint’s livery stable, if you’d happen to wish to get in touch.”

  On his way to the stable, Slade walked warily, as was his habit, but arrived there without misadventure. He cleaned and oiled his guns, tumbled into the comfortable bed, and slept soundly, to awaken feeling none the worse for the hectic activities of the preceding day.

  After a sluice in the icy waters of the big trough, and a shave, he headed to the Trail End and breakfast. Then he joined Carter and his three deputies at the sheriff’s office.

  A little past nine, the small posse set out for the valley, a deputy leading a couple of mules that would pack the bodies to town.

  4

  Across the open prairie, Slade rode carelessly, there being nothing to fear with the view extending for miles in every direction. But as they neared the valley he became vigilant; no telling what might await them amid the growth that fringed its lips. Reassured by the silence and the undisturbed activities of birds, he led the way down the precipitous slope to the valley floor.

  His vigilance increased as they neared the spot where he had left the bodies the night before. They reached the little cleared space not far from the river, and Slade abruptly pulled to a halt.

  The body of the murdered valley dweller lay where he recalled it lying, but the body of the killer was nowhere in sight.

  “Now what the devil!” exclaimed Carter. “You sure the hellion was dead and didn’t walk away?”

  “He was dead all right, and he didn’t leave without help,” Slade answered. “Look like somebody didn’t desire that he be taken to town and placed on exhibition. Hold it, there’s something funny about all this. When I left here last night, the body of that poor devil over there was lying on its back; now it’s on its face, and he sure didn’t turn over by himself. Why was he turned over, I wonder.”

  While the others watched him expectantly, he scanned the vicinity with eyes that missed nothing. Abruptly he uttered an exclamation.

  “Come on, but don’t touch the body,” he warned. “Look there beside it, a sprinkling of freshly turned earth on the grass. Somebody has been doing a mite of digging hereabouts.”

  “Don’t see any hole,” remarked Carter.

  “Naturally,” Slade answered. “It’s under the body.”

  “But why in blazes would anybody dig a hole under the body?” demanded the sheriff.

  “The reason for that we’d better learn before we touch the body,” Slade said as he dismounted, the others trailing behind him.

  He knelt beside the dead man, his gaze traveling up and down the stark form. He exclaimed again.

  His keen eyes had detected, almost hidden by the fellow’s leather waist belt, a thin wire that e
ncircled the body. For a long moment he studied it without touching it. He stood up.

  “All right, all of you, get back,” he ordered. “Get way back; I’ve a notion as to what this could mean. Get the horses in the clear.”

  The deputies obeyed, but Sheriff Carter stayed right where he was.

  “Don’t know what it’s all about,” he growled, “but if you’re taking some kind of a chance, guess I can, too.”

  Slade twinkled his eyes at the sturdy old peace officer.

  “Okay,” he said, “if we all of a sudden take a little trip into nowhere, we’ll make company for each other. Hold it a minute, and,” he repeated his former warning, “don’t touch that body.”

  He secured his sixty-foot throwing rope of hard-twist Manila and returned to the body, kneeling beside it.

  Working slowly and with the greatest care, he depressed the wall of the abdomen until he could ease the end of the rope under the wire without touching it. Still careful not to disturb the wire, he knotted the rope securely and stood up, holding the slack rope.

  “All right,” he told the sheriff, “away from here.”

  Walking backward, he trailed the rope after him, leaving plenty of slack. By the time he had reached the noosed end, both he and Carter were in the encroaching growth and pretty well screened by it.

  “Farther back,” he called to the deputies, who obeyed with alacrity.

  Drawing up the slack, Slade eased back a couple of steps, and paused, the rope taut. He gave it a hard jerk.

  A thundering roar! The body soared high into the air, enveloped by a volcano-burst of flying earth and rolling smoke clouds. It thudded back to the ground beside a yawning crater from which smoke was still wisping.

  The deputies yelped with astonishment and alarm, the sheriff swore. Slade scanned the scene of the explosion, his keen eyes instantly spotting a smoke discolored gun that lay beside the body, the end of the wire still wrapped around the trigger.

  “What the blankety-blank-blank!” bawled the sheriff.