“And put on a dance-floor costume,” he added hastily.
“First let’s find out if Mr. Slade approves,” the girl said. She led the way to Slade’s table, the flabbergasted owner trailing after her. When she reached it, she whisked off her hat, veil and all, and tossed it aside, to reveal an elfinly beautiful little heart-shaped face, glossy dark curls, very red lips and astonishingly big and darkly blue eyes!
“Jerry Norman!” Slade exploded. “You’re the limit!”
“Am I?” she replied. “Sounds nice. Joyce Echols told me you were in town. I knew Uncle Keith would ride in tomorrow — he’s visiting a friend tonight — but why wait until tomorrow? And here I am!”
“You are the limit!” Slade repeated. “Taking a ten-mile ride alone across the prairie in the middle of the night.”
“Wasn’t the middle of the night when I started out,” she returned blithely. “And I had my gun, which you know I can use, and my horse didn’t make anything of ten miles. Well, aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Of course I am,” he answered. “How could I be otherwise? But some time you’re going to cause me to suffer a stroke or something by your impish antics.”
Thankful Yates, who knew her well, led the laughter that rocked the room. Slade, trying to look dignified and failing utterly, pulled up a chair and she sat down, smiling at him.
“Her favorite wine for Miss Norman,” Thankful chuckled and hurried to the back room.
“When I reached town, I registered for a room at the hotel on Tyler Street where I always stay and went to the Trail End where Uncle Brian Carter told me you were,” Jerry explained. “So I decided I’d try and have a little fun with you. Happened to have that crazy veil in my saddle pouch; comes in handy when the dust is flying. It worked all right; looked for a minute like Mr. Yates might have one of the strokes you keep talking about. You see, I figured you’d stay in town tonight, but heaven only knows where you might be gallivanting off tomorrow, and I didn’t want to chance missing you.”
“Glad you didn’t, even though you threaten me with heart failure,” Slade replied.
“Do I?” she giggled. “I’ve almost feared it once or twice; but you always survived.”
“Imp!”
“I’m still trying to be a nice one,” she said. “Now tell me about yourself and what you’ve been getting into since last I saw you. Never mind all your women; you can skip them.”
“What women!”
“Oh, as I’ve told you before, I don’t mind,” she replied gaily. “Safety in numbers, you know, and I think I can hold my own against the field.”
“You can,” he said, with emphasis that caused her to blush.
Thankful Yates reappeared, bearing a bottle, and crystal goblets he kept stowed away for special occasions.
“And I’ll have one with you,” he announced. “This is a day! More coffee, Mr. Slade?”
“I still like this place fine,” Jerry said. “Rather more peaceful tonight, though, than the first time you brought me here.”
“I’m glad it is, with you here,” he replied. “Flying lead doesn’t play any favorites.”
“In here wasn’t the first time I heard it flying past,” she reminded him.
“It certainly wasn’t,” he returned with feeling, recalling how her steady nerves and straight shooting had saved him from death at the hands of the outlaws who attacked them in the Canadian Valley. “Imp though you are, you’re a girl to ride the river with.”
“Thanks for that compliment,” she said. “Only one brought up on the rangeland can appreciate that to the full.
“I stabled my horse and shook hands with Shadow before I went looking for you,” she added. “He remembered me and didn’t try to take my arm off when I reached to him.”
“He never forgets,” Slade said. “You were properly introduced to him the first time you met, and he never forgets that, either.”
Thankful Yates chuckled, and poured wine.
“New place opened up the street a little ways,” he observed. “Seems to be a pretty nice place, and doing plenty of business.”
“You don’t mind the competition, Mr. Yates?” Jerry asked.
“Not at all,” Yates replied. “Plenty of business for everybody, and more pouring in all the time. I have my crowd and they’ll stick with me. Drop in at a new place out of curiosity, but always come back to me. Frayne, that’s the feller’s name, he calls his place the Open Door, gets a lot of the young farmers from over to the west, along with cowhands. They ‘pear to be all right, but I’ve a notion they could be plenty salty if need be.”
“Folks who pull up stakes and emigrate a couple of thousand miles in the hope of bettering their condition usually aren’t the sort it’s easy to push around,” Slade commented. “I gather most of those people are from the Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee hill country, and those sections are a mite turbulent, too, at times.”
“So I’ve been told,” conceded Thankful.
Jerry glanced at the clock. “Really, it’s late,” she said. “The girls have left the floor. You’ll escort me to my hotel, Mr. Slade?”
“Well, seeing as we’re both going in the same direction, I suppose I might as well,” Slade agreed. Jerry turned to Thankful.
“That doesn’t sound very romantic, does it, Mr. Yates?” she said.
“Wait,” Thankful replied sententiously, “wait!”
Terry giggled. “Guess I’ll have to,” she said. “But they say all things come to one who waits — long enough!”
Old Thankful chuckled delightedly as they left the saloon together.
They took their time on their way uptown, walking slowly under the bloom of the stars. There were not many people on the streets now, but music, talk, and laughter still blared over the swinging doors; Amarillo never really slept.
With nothing happening, they reached the hotel, entered the lobby. The old desk clerk usually on duty was not present. Behind the desk was a rather swarthy individual with quick dark eyes. He nodded a greeting.
“Where’s old Tally?” Slade asked, his glance flickering over the register and the ink stand. He noted the man behind the desk had one hand under the counter.
“I’m spellin’ him while he’s gettin’ a bite to eat,” the fellow replied. “Got your keys?”
“Yes, we have them,” Slade replied. He and Jerry turned to the stairs, El Halcon’s head slanting a little to one side, his eyes glinting over his shoulder.
Suddenly he spun around, hurling Jerry away from him in the same ripple of movement. Two guns blazed almost as one.
Almost, but not quite. Slade’s Colt gushed fire a split second before the man behind the desk squeezed the trigger of the iron he had jerked from under the counter. His slug whizzed over Slade’s shoulder and thudded into the wall. The gun dropped from his hand as he reeled sideways and fell, a blue hole between his eyes.
Jerry gave a choking cry, but just the same she had her own gun in her hand as she ran to Slade whose eyes were fixed on the closed door of the room behind the desk.
“Hold it,” he told her. “I think everything’s under control.”
Despite the tenseness of the moment, he could hardly suppress a chuckle, for she had her cocked gun trained on the form half hidden by the desk.
“Don’t have to bother about him,” he said. “And I don’t think there’s anybody holed up in the back room. Wait a minute.”
He glided forward, rounded the desk, and reached a cautious hand to the door knob. Jerry was right beside him, the muzzle of her gun jutting forward. Slade slipped in front of her and flung the door open with a quick jerk. Nothing happened.
But on the floor of the room, outlined in a beam of light streaming through the door, was another body, its grizzled head lying in a pool of blood that had flowed from an ugly gash just above the right temple. Slade instantly recognized old Tally, the room clerk.
“Is — is he dead?” gasped Jerry.
“Don’t think so, but he
may be badly hurt,” Slade replied and knelt beside the unconscious clerk finding his heartbeat fairly strong. He probed the vicinity of the wound with sensitive fingertips.
“No indications of fracture, so far as I can ascertain,” he reported. “But he received a hard blow.”
Upstairs was a thumping of boots, a gabble of voices. Cautious heads peered at the stair landing, the owners of the heads in all stages of half dress. Several dance-floor girls who lived in the hotel also appeared, in something less than half-dress.
“Why, it’s Mr. Slade,” somebody called. “What hapened, Mr. Slade?”
“Fellow there on the floor knocked out the room clerk and took over,” Slade replied. “Looks like we arrived in time to thwart a robbery.
“That will do for them,” he whispered to Jerry and stood up.
“Somebody try and locate the doctor,” he directed. “And see if you can find Sheriff Carter. Very likely he’s at the Trail End.”
Several men darted out to take care of the errands.
“Did that hellion try to shoot you, Mr. Slade?” a voice asked.
“He missed,” was the laconic answer. Chuckles ran through the crowd that was constantly augmented by new arrivals.
“And I guess you didn’t miss, eh?” said the former speaker.
“Had the luck not to,” Slade replied. “Stay here,” he told Jerry. “I want to take care of that head just in case they have trouble locating old Doc, although he’s usually up and in his office reading at all hours.”
With which he hurried up the stairs to his room and secured medications from his saddle pouches.
Very quickly he had the wound smeared with antiseptic ointment, padded and bandaged.
“That should hold him till the doctor gets here,” he said. “I’ve a notion he’ll be coming out of it before long; Doc will give him a stimulant if necessary.”
He drew Jerry aside from the chattering crowd. “A very nice try, and strictly original,” he told her.
“How in the world did you catch on?” she asked.
“Fellow made a few of the little slips that kind is prone to,” Slade replied. “The register was turned around to the front, the pen was in the inkstand, but there was no name written under yours, the last on the register, just a small blot. As Tally bent over the register, handing him the pen, the fellow hit him. He slumped forward into the register, leaving a couple of little blood stains on the paper, which the devil neglected to wipe away.
“Also, I noticed that while I was facing him, the fellow had his hand under the counter, holding, of course, the gun he had hidden there. That was enough to make me a mite suspicious of the whole business.”
“Is there anything you don’t notice?” Jerry sighed.
“All that was quite obvious,” Slade deprecated his amazingly instantaneous grasp of details and their meaning.
“Here comes the doctor!” somebody shouted.
Old Doc Beard strolled in, satchel in hand. He and Slade were friends of long standing. He took in the situation, at a glance.
“So,” he remarked. “Somebody clipped him, eh? See everything is taken care of. Why’d you have to bother me?”
He knelt beside the injured clerk and also explored the wound.
“Nope, no fracture,” he agreed with Slade’s diagnosis. “Got a skull like a hunk of granite; couldn’t dent it with anything less than dynamite. Yes, I’ll give him a needle that’ll bring him out of it.”
He proceeded to do so. Snapping his satchel shut, he glanced expectantly at El Halcon.
In low tones, Slade told him exactly what happened. Doc nodded his white head.
“Won’t the sidewinders ever learn not to try such shenanigans on El Halcon,” he commented. “Look, he’s beginning to roll his head and mumble. Leave him right where he is for the present. When he really clears up, we’ll put him in a chair and he can tell us just how the horned toad worked it. Figure your notion is about right.” He raised his voice.
“One of you or your loafers fetch some hot coffee,” he ordered. The chore was quickly taken care of.
A few minutes later, Tally was sitting in a chair, a cup of hot coffee in one hand, a cigarette Slade had rolled for him in the other, declaring that he felt fine aside from a headache. His explanation of what happened tallied with Slade’s surmise.
“Yes, I was bending over the register, after handing the devil the pen when he walloped me,” he said. “Don’t remember anything after that.”
“Okay,” said Doc Beard. “To bed with you, or go get drunk if you’re of a mind to. Chances are it’ll do you good.”
“I always obey the doctor’s orders,” Tally replied cheerfully. “I’ll do just that.”
At that moment, Sheriff Carter entered, old Josh Griswold accompanying him. He glowered at Slade. “Never a minute’s peace with you around,” he growled. “Just what happened?”
Slade told him. Carter nodded and turned to the crowd that filled the lobby.
“Take a look and see if you can remember anything about that wind spider,” he directed. A moment later one of the dance-floor girls volunteered:
“I’m sure he was in the Washout tonight. Yes, I danced with him. He left right after the dance. Seemed to be all right and very nice while we danced.”
“He would be there,” snorted the sheriff. “That rumhole attracts ’em like sugar does flies. Okay, some of you coots, fetch a shutter or something and pack the carcass to my office and put it alongside the other one there.”
Slade gazed thoughtfully at the dead face. It would appear the fellow had spotted him in the Washout and apparently knew he would head for the hotel. He wondered had he acted on his own initiative or had somebody a lot shrewder than he appeared to be planned the move. Slade was inclined to believe the latter.
“I’ll walk to the office with you,” he told Carter.
“And I’m tagging right along,” Jerry declared. “You’re not getting out of my sight.”
“Good gal, he ain’t to be trusted alone,” chuckled the sheriff.
“Mr. Slade, do you always live this way?” Griswold asked as they followed the somber cortege to the office.
“Not always, I’m thankful to say,” El Halcon replied. “Has been an unusual thirty-six hours or so.”
“Don’t you believe it,” snorted the sheriff. “Has been plumb peaceful, for him.”
At the office, Carter shooed out some stragglers and closed and locked the door. He and Slade gave the body a careful once over. The pockets divulged a surprisingly large sum of money, but nothing else of significance until, from a shirt pocket, Slade drew a crumpled bit of paper, which he glanced at and deftly palmed while the sheriff was counting the money, not wishing to discuss it with the others.
“Hellion has been doing all right by himself,” Carter said, stowing the dinero in the safe. “Will pay for planting him, and more. Guess Doc will be wanting to hold an inquest tomorrow. Find out what time later. Well, guess that’s all we can do tonight.”
“Looks that way,” Slade agreed. “Come on, Jerry, time you were in bed.”
“Uh-huh, it sure is,” Jerry replied, her big eyes slanting him a sideways glance.
7
Doc Beard, the coroner, held an inquest on the two bodies the following afternoon at five o’clock. It didn’t take long. The jury allowed the valley dweller met his death at the hands of parties unknown. The sheriff was advised to run down the varmints as quickly as possible. The man who tried to kill Slade in the hotel lobby got just what was coming to him.
When he and Carter were alone, Slade produced the slip of paper he found in the dead killer’s shirt pocket and spread it on the desk between them.
“What is it?” the sheriff asked.
“It is a very neatly drawn map of a portion of the trail between here and Tascosa,” Slade replied. “I recognize several landmarks that are noted.”
“And what does it mean?”
“Frankly, I can’t say for sure,” the Range
r answered. “Here you will notice a little X has been inscribed.”
“What could that be for?” Carter wondered.
“In my opinion, it is meant to mark a certain spot for somebody’s guidance,” Slade said.
“Looks plumb loco to me,” Carter declared. “Like some sort of a fool puzzle.”
“Yes, it looks a little that way, but I venture to say it isn’t,” Slade replied. “And I’ve a hunch we’d better find the key to the puzzle. By the way, when does the stage for Amarillo leave Tascosa?”
“Day after tomorrow,” Carter said, after a moment of thought. “No, that’s wrong. The next day or the day after tomorrow. Say! you don’t think — ”
“I don’t know just what to think, at the moment,” Slade interrupted. “I’ll have to mull over it a bit. Well, I’m going to take a little walk. We’ll meet Jerry and old Keith Norman at the Trail End for dinner. See you there not long after dark?”
“I’ll be there,” Carter promised. “Watch your step, now, the devils are sure after you hot and heavy.”
“Haven’t had any luck catching up so far,” Slade replied cheerfully. “Be seeing you.”
For some time he wandered about the town, dropping in at various places, chatting with businessmen and others of his acquaintance. He stood at the outskirts of the lower town and watched the flaming colors of the sunset soften and fade, then turned his steps to the Washout, where he found Thankful Yates preparing for the night’s business.
As they sat together over cups of coffee, Thankful remarked:
“What say we amble up to the Open Door and have a word with Frayne, the owner? He strikes me as a purty nice sort; got a notion you’ll like him.”
“Guess we could do worse,” Slade agreed.
When they reached the Open Door, big, well lighted, excellently appointed in every way, Slade noted that the majority of the patrons were of the younger farmer element. There was a sprinkling of cowhands who appeared to be getting along all right with the farmers.
“They’d better,” Thankful replied to his comment on the fact. “Frayne don’t stand for no foolishness, and he sure knows how to handle himself. And those two floor, men of his ain’t no snides, either. That’s Frayne down at the other end of the bar.”
Maverick Showdown Page 4
