Maverick Showdown

by Bradford Scott

  “Inquest at two o’clock,” he said after the pie was out of the way of conversation. Slade nodded and gave a waiter his order.

  The inquest turned out to be a replica of those that preceded it. Everybody concerned was praised, Clifton Hart congratulated on the recovery of his stock. Court adjourned for refreshment.

  “What next?” the sheriff asked Slade when they were alone.

  “A little ride,” the Ranger replied.

  “Where to?”

  “Over to the Valley; I wish to have a talk with some people I know, who live there. Just a quiet little ride.”

  “Quiet!” snorted the sheriff. “You and quiet don’t tie in together. Ain’t got another caper like you pulled on the Tascosa trail in mind, have you?”

  “Nope,” Slade replied. “Wish I did have; might sort of ease things. I’m just on a prospecting trip, in the hope I might possibly turn up pay dirt.”

  “Don’t you think I’d better go along, just in case?” suggested Carter. Slade shook his head.

  “I think I can handle this one better by myself,” he said. “The folks I intend to visit will talk more freely if I’m alone. As I said, I don’t figure on getting mixed up in anything, so don’t worry.”

  The sheriff looked skeptical, but asked no more questions.

  The sky was deeply blue, the sun still shining brightly as Slade rode across the rangeland, but in the southwest dark clouds were rising slowly up the long slant of the sky. It looked like there might be falling weather before the night was over.

  Slade didn’t bother his head about that. He had his slicker and his broad-brimmed rainshed to protect him against the elements, and a stormy night might well work to his advantage.

  Also, he had to admit that he liked such weather, when the prairie was lashed by the blue fury of the storm. He found the beat of the rain and the buffeting of the wind invigorating.

  The sun was well down in the west, the rising cloud bank almost veiling it, when Slade reached the lip of the Canadian Valley. For some minutes he sat scanning his surroundings. Satisfied with what he saw or, rather what. he did not see, he put Shadow to the slope and without mischance they made their way to the Valley floor.

  “Yes, feller,” he remarked to the big black, apropos of the elusive outlaw leader, “I believe the gentleman made a little slip, through overeagerness and curiosity, perhaps. Yes, I believe I know my man, which should make dropping a loop on him less difficult. When you just make a random cast at a herd, there’s no telling what you’ll haul in, but with a certain critter as your target, the luck can be better. Well, we’ll see what old Estaban, up the valley a piece, may have to tell us. He doesn’t miss much that goes on in the valley and may be in a position to hand out some valuable information. June along, horse, if you want to get under cover before the storm breaks. Getting dark before long, too, with the sun behind the clouds. June along!”

  Shadow, sensing oats in the offing, snorted cheerfully and stepped out. They jogged on at a steady pace for several miles. Now the great gorge was becoming quite gloomy, but when rounding where the trail circled a bristle of growth, they saw a white-haired old fellow working a garden patch that surrounded a tight cabin. He raised his head at the sound of hoofs, stared, shading his eyes with his hand, and let out a joyous whoop:

  “Capitan! Again you have returned! Care for the caballo before the storm breaks we will, then the supper that will be a feast indeed. The meat I have and the fresh vegetables from my very own garden, and the wine from my own grapes! Greeting, Capitan! A truly welcome sight for my old eyes you are. Dismount!”

  “How are you, Estaban?” Slade asked as he swung from the saddle. “Good to see you again. I swear you get younger looking with each passing day.”

  “Ha!” chuckled the old Mexican as they shook hands warmly, “the years creep up on one, and at times I can hear the Old Hound baying on my tracks. His sonorous bell notes seem to say, ‘Here is a poor old worn out critter I’ll be wanting soon!’ Well, I am ready, and I do not fear.”

  To Slade’s lips, unbidden, came that most divine of the Beatitudes:

  “ ‘Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.’”

  • • •

  Shadow was domiciled in a comfortable stall, alongside a pensive mule. Slade and Estaban repaired to the cabin as the first drops begin pattering on the leaves. Estaban got busy in the kitchen.

  Outside, the wind was soon roaring, the rain descending in sheets, the tree branches tossing wildly. But inside the cabin was snug and warm. Soon they sat down to a truly sumptuous feast.

  “Capitan,” said Estaban, “do you still seek the ladrones?”

  “Yes, Estaban, I still seek them,” Slade replied. “Have you anything to tell me?”

  “Si, perhaps that which will interest Capitan,” the Mexican answered. “You wil recall the old plaza — miles three perhaps to the west. Those who built the village and lived therein found that the soil there did not mix with the irrigated water from the river or the nearby creek. The water caked the soil, causing it to bake like cement about the plants. So they abandoned the plaza and moved farther west, leaving their adobe cabins. Those old adobes are still stanch, though long deserted.”

  Estaban paused to ply his fork and knife, then resumed.

  “Capitan,” he said, “recently men have been living in one of those adobes at times. Not villagers, Americanos. I am confident they are evil men.”

  “What makes you think so?” Slade asked.

  “You will recall the murder of the man, and the burning of his cabin. He lived not far from the crossing. We, of course, heard of it, and of the attempt to kill you and the sheriff with dynamite, which happened the next day — one of those ladrones Capitan killed, praise be to El Dios, but when you came to remove the body, it was gone.

  “The night after the shooting and the burning of the cabin, an amigo of mine who is much afflicted by the vice of curiosity rode down to where the cabin was burned to for himself see. While he was there, he heard horsemen approaching and prudently concealed himself, and watched. The riders appeared, five in number, leading a spare horse. They lit torches, loaded the body of the dead ladrone onto the spare horse and rode back west. They rode slowly. My amigo, an hombre most curious, followed at a discreet distance. They took the body to the old plaza, and there they buried it, leveling the grave, covering it with brush. They entered the adobe and remained for a while. Later they reappeared and again rode west.”

  Estaban, with the true instinct of the born storyteller, saved his denouement for the last.

  “My amigo,” he continued, “my amigo said that before riding from the burned cabin with the body, they did some strange things. They dug a hole in the ground, did something that the watcher could not see, filled the hole and placed the body over it. What they did, Capitan of course knows well.”

  Slade leaned forward eagerly. “Estaban,” he asked, “did your friend get a good look at those men?”

  “Assuredly he must have,” the Mexican replied. “He said him who gave the orders and directed what was done was a man not tall but broad of shoulder. Of his face he noted little except his eyes. He said they were eyes most bright and piercing, eyes not good to look upon.”

  “Estaban,” Slade asked quickly, “did your amigo tell others of what he saw?”

  The old Mexican shook his head.” He came straight to me with the story. I warned him to speak to no one else concerning it. He promised he would not.”

  “He’d better not,” Slade said grimly. “That is if he wishes to stay alive.” He thought a moment, then said:

  “Estaban, you have been a big help, yes, a very big help. Anything more?”

  “Si,” the Mexican returned. “Something that to my mind is strange, unusual, and contrary to experience.” He paused to take a bite, then said, sententiously:

  “Capitan, those men who live in the adobe have been breaking ground as if to grow crops. They have been digging a reservoir in which
to catch and store needed rainwater, such as falls tonight. So they have told some who have spoken with them.”

  Slade stared at him. “And to all appearances they are honest and industrious farmers trying to make a go ot it,” he said. “Well, I’ve contacted some shrewd outfits in my time, but never one the equal of this one. And a man who can make such a bunch as that actually do some honest work is a genius of the highest order.”

  “Capitan, it is so,” agreed Estaban.

  Slade whistled under his breath. “Talk about a perfect cover-up!” he marveled. “Pull a robbery or a wide-looping and then, after caching the loot in some safe place, amble home to their picks and shovels, snickering up their sleeves at peace officers combing the hills trying to find their hidden hangout. Gentlemen, hush!”

  “I thought Capitan would wish to know,” said Estaban.

  “I’m certainly glad you told me,” Slade returned. “But what to do about it, I don’t know.”

  “Capitan will find a way,” Estaban predicted confidently.

  “Hope you’re right,” Slade said. “At least, it gives me something to keep an eye on, which is more than I had before.”

  After helping Estaban clean up the kitchen, Slade sat smoking, and pondering what he had learned. Yes, he could keep an eye on the plaza, but he failed to see how it would do him much good. The bunch would be highly unlikely to have anything incriminating on their persons or in the adobe.

  They had made a slip in removing the body of the slain outlaw without taking precautions to make sure they were not observed. That could possibly be construed as a breach of the law, although a minor one, could it be proven against them, which he doubted. The unseen watcher’s description of the men was so vague that it could not be counted on to stand up in a court of law. Besides, Slade had no intention of haling the robbers and murderers into court on a dubious misdemeanor charge. The problem confronting him was basically as it had been; he must apprehend the devils in the commission of a criminal act. What he had learned might ultimately prove important, providing an opportunity, to use it arose, but at the present he couldn’t see it being much help.

  The important angle, so far, was that the watcher’s description, vague though it was, of the man who appeared to be the leader of the bunch tallied fairly well with that of the individual he was becoming more and more convinced was the leader of the outfit. This was something gained.

  And there was always the chance the hellions might make another and more serious slip. That, however, was rather too much to hope for; he certainly could not afford to depend on it.

  Estaban came in from the kitchen bearing cups of fragrant steaming coffee. He spiked his own with something from a bottle, but Slade preferred his straight.

  “Better that way to think on,” he told his host.

  “Si,” Estaban agreed politely, and tipped the bottle again.

  For some time they sat smoking and chatting, until Slade began to grow drowsy.

  “The bed in the other room, on which Capitan has before slept is ready,” Estaban suggested.

  “Best thing you’ve said yet,” Slade smiled. “I think I’ll go for a little ear pounding. A nice night for sleeping, at least.”

  He arose, stretched and entered the inner room. Lulled by the beat of the rain and the booming of the wind, he was soon fast asleep, not to awaken until after daylight.

  12

  When Slade went to sleep, the contrary Canadian was little more than a trickle past Estaban’s garden. When he awoke, it was a raging torrent, far up on its banks, which here were quite high, its surface dotted by floating debris.

  “Must have been heavy rains up around the head waters,” he observed to Estaban. “What we got here was the tail end of the storm, I imagine.”

  “Si,” agreed Estaban, “but now it is fine.”

  It was, the sun shining brightly in a sky of clearest blue, the wind but a gentle breeze. Birds sang in the thickets, little animals went about their various businesses. All was peace and quiet, the restful quiet of nature.

  After a hearty breakfast, Slade said goodbye to his host and continued his ride up the valley, following the bank of the brawling stream. After covering about three miles, he knew he must be drawing near the old plaza of which Estaban spoke — now, according to the old Mexican, occupied by the questionable “farmers.”

  He approached the site of the village warily, slowing Shadow’s gait, peering and listening. At the edge of a final bristle of growth, quite some distance from the plaza, from where he had a view of the cluster of adobes, he drew rein and studied the old structures and their environs.

  Nowhere could he note any signs of occupancy at the moment. No smoke rose from a chimney, no sound other than that of the river broke the silence. He saw that some ground had indeed been broken, as if making ready for the sowing of crops, and nearby was a not too large excavation, now filled to the brim with rainwater, the res-reservoir of which Estaban spoke. Slade saw at once that the reservoir had been started long before, presumably by the builders of the plaza. The present occupants were but deepening and widening it.

  “Well, looks like the hellions are off somewhere,” he re-marked to Shadow. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re up to some devilment. Well, nothing we can do about it, so we’ll just mosey along till we come to one of the villages where folks live. With good luck, we might learn something.”

  He had covered perhaps four miles more when again, and abruptly, he pulled to a halt. From no great distance ahead had come the clang of a shot.

  For several minutes he sat silent, motionless, scanning the terrain ahead. Then again a report sounded, another and still another, from apparently just about the same distance as the first.

  “What in blazes!” he wondered aloud to his mount. “Corpse and cartridge session? Sounds a bit like it. We’ll just wait a bit and see what happens.”

  He was totally unprepared for what did happen.

  Around a bend in the river, a couple of hundred yards ahead, something appeared, rolling over and over in the fierce current. At first he thought it but a log that had been washed into the stream and was about to shift his gaze back to the trail. Then suddenly his keen eyes noted something. It was not a tree limb thrashing the water, but a human arm. The “log” was a man!

  “What in blazes!” repeated the astonished Ranger. Before he could say more, the man swept past him, one arm still stroking feebly.

  Slade whirled his horse, his voice rang out:

  “Trail, Shadow, trail! We’ve got to get ahead of him! Trail!”

  The great black bounded forward, spurning the ground with his clashing irons. The current was swift, but not so swift as Shadow. Quickly he overtook the near-exhausted swimmer, who hadn’t enough strength to make it to the bank. He forged ahead while Slade scanned the water, endeavoring to spot a point less liable to be the abiding place of quicksands. He whirled Shadow to face the stream.

  “Take it!” he shouted.

  Shadow took it, with a squeal and snort of protest. He plunged into the water, and almost instantly was swimming.

  Slade glanced upstream. The man in the water was being swept toward him at race-horse speed.

  “A little farther, feller, a little farther,” he urged.

  Shadow extended himself, reached the middle of the stream. Straight at him rushed the swimmer. Slade leaned far out in the saddle and made a frantic grab. His hand closed on the still feebly flailing arm and he was nearly torn from the saddle. He stayed in the hull, still clinging to his quarry and with a mighty heave hauled him across the horse’s withers.

  But the added weight was too much for Shadow. His head went under, broke surface, went under again. Still clinging to his helpless burden, Slade flipped from the saddle, gripping the bit iron. Freed of the weight, Shadow broke surface still again, facing the bank from which he had entered the stream. Another quick grab and Slade had shifted his hold to a stirrup strap. Shadow plunged forward, the current hurling him downstream. F
or a moment Slade thought they were all three done for. Were the horse rolled over, they’d very likely never make it to the shore.

  But just as disaster seemed inevitable, Shadow’s irons hit bottom. Another moment and he was splashing through the shallows of the shoaling river. Slade let go the stirrup strap, shifted his grip to the shirt collar of the man he had rescued and sloshed after the horse and up the bank. He was breathing hard, but he had swallowed no water and was little the worse for the hectic experience. Shadow gave a snort of utter disgust and glared at his master.

  “Feller, you did yourself proud,” Slade told him. Shadow did not appear impressed by the compliment.

  “Two-legs!” his answering snorts seemed to say. “Two-legs! They’re plumb loco!” He gave a last explosive snort and reached for a mouthful of grass.

  Slade was about to turn when he heard a sound, the clash of hoofs coming from the west. Another moment and a horseman dashed around a nearby stand of growth. With a startled yelp, he jerked his mount to a halt and went for the gun hung butt-to-the-front on his left side, a cross-pull.

  He was fast, lightning fast, but not quite fast enough. Even with the handles of his guns wet, Slade beat the draw. He shot with both hands, and again. He was taking no chances for there was no telling how many more of the devils might be following. The fellow was fairly hurled to the ground by the slugs smashing his breast.

  “Guess that one is all,” he remarked to Shadow.

  “Capitan, there was but one,” a voice gasped behind him. He turned to the man he had rescued from the river, perceived he was a young Mexican, little more than a boy. He saw, too, something that was not river water staining the left sleeve of his shirt as he propped himself weakly on his right elbow.

  “Lie down again, and don’t move your arm,” El Halcon warned. “We’ll talk later.”

  He slit the shirt sleeve to reveal a bullet hole through the fleshy part of the upper arm. It was bleeding, but not copiously.

  Some staple provisions and other articles in his saddle pouches were pretty well soaked, but his medication, wrapped in waterproofing, were okay. Very quickly he had the wound smeared with salve, padded and bandaged. He also had waterproofed tobacco, and matches in the cowboy’s waterproof container, a tightly corked bottle. Rolling a cigarette, he set it between the young fellow’s lips, waited until he had taken several deep drags.