Maverick Showdown

by Bradford Scott

  “At this rate, I’ll start growing fins,” he growled. “I’m spending more time in the water than out of it. Now let’s see.”

  The single-room cabin showed evidence of comfortable tenancy. There were a table, chairs, bunks built along the walls, and a stone fireplace, with fuel ready to hand. As an added precaution, he wedged a chair under the door knob so that nobody could enter without making a heck of a racket. Then he kindled a good fire to dry out by.

  There were provisions on shelves, so he quickly threw together a surrounding, which he washed down with cups of steaming coffee. Then he sat before the fire to smoke and review the debacle that thwarted his hope of corralling the outlaw bunch. With their hands in the air and their backs to him, he believed he could have kept the situation under control. But that loco backward step that dunked him in the reservoir had proved his undoing.

  Oh, well, perhaps it was for the best. Even after downing one of the devils, the odds were three-to-one against him, and those slugs were coming uncomfortably close.

  And after all, the blasted cloud bank was the real culprit, thinning out as it did at the most inopportune moment. And he had at least managed to do for one of the sidewinders, and given another something to remember him by. So why bother too much; things would eventually work out; they always did. He settled himself more comfortably, after replenishing the fire, and proceeded to dry out while the cayuses put away their helpin’ and rested.

  It was well along toward morning when he cinched up and secured the outlaw’s body to the saddle of the horse he had ridden in life. He wasted hardly a glance on the fellow, an average-appearing specimen, for he was positive as to the identity of his man, and his followers, or whom they might have associated with, were of little consequence any more. All he had to do was drop a loop on that elusive hombre.

  “Uh-huh, that’s all,” he told Shadow. “But it still poses something of a chore.”

  As an afterthought, he explored the fellow’s saddle pouch, discovering quite a large sum of money, doubtless a portion of the loot from Lambert’s wagon. He didn’t bother to count it; the sheriff could take care of that.

  With a final cautious look around, although he considered there was scant chance of anything to fear, he left the valley and headed for Amarillo, still in very much of a disgruntled mood. But as the sun rose in a clear sky and the air became warm and pleasant, his temper improved and he managed to chuckle over the whole bizarre affair.

  When he finally reached the sheriff’s office, without misadventure, Carter didn’t chuckle; he swore.

  “Another nice quiet ride, eh?” he snorted. “And see you brought a souvenir along, per usual. You’re the limit! Okay, let’s hear about it.”

  The sheriff did chuckle a little after receiving all the details.

  “Would have been worth a long night’s ride to see you land in that puddle,” he said. “The great El Halcon joinin’ the fish gang! Well, it may have been for the best. Got a notion your pet devil who goes along with you gave you a little shove to keep you from eatin’ lead. Let’s see, now.”

  He counted the money in the saddle pouch and clucked in his throat with satisfaction.

  “Quite a passel of dinero here,” he said. “Reckon they divided it four ways. And here’s some more from his pockets. Uh-huh, quite a nice haul. You didn’t do so bad. And doing for this wind spider was okay, too. You’re sure thinnin’ ’em out. Got any notion yet as to who’s the he-wolf of the pack?”

  “I have,” Slade replied.

  “Who?” the sheriff asked.

  “Erskin Frayne, the Open Door owner,” Slade replied quietly. The sheriff stared.

  • • •

  “Erskin Frayne!” he repeated. “Say, you haven’t been eatin’ loco weed, have you? Do you really mean it?”

  “I do,” Slade answered. “Erskin Frayne is the leader of the outlaw bunch, only he hasn’t much of a bunch left; only a couple, one with a punctured hide, I’d say.”

  “Will you please tell me how you figure it?” Carter begged.

  Slade prefaced his explanation with a résumé of Erskin Frayne’s ruminations anent the geological peculiarities of the Canadian River Valley.

  “And right there is where Frayne made his big slip,” he concluded.

  “How?” the sheriff asked.

  “As I remarked to myself at the time, it was a case of the guilty ‘fleeing when no man pursueth,’” Slade answered. “What he spouted was sheer nonsense, but it displayed a technical knowledge of such matters that was unusual, to put it mildly. The knowledge one would expect from an engineer or scientist, certainly not from a saloonkeeper or cowman.”

  “And why did he do it?”

  “Because he was worried about the map of the Tascosa Trail, which he deduced we must have found when we searched the body of his follower,” Slade replied. “He was endeavoring to learn if I was able to read the map aright, which the frustration of the attempted robbery of the Tascosa stage appeared to indicate. In my opinion, he believed if I did have such knowledge, I would be inclined to challenge his statements comparing the valley to the Grand Canyon of the Colorado. I didn’t, and I think I fooled him, although I’m not positive. Further developments appeared to indicate that I did.”

  “And he was scairt that if you did have such knowledge, the map might tie him up with the robbery try,” the sheriff shrewdly guessed.

  “Exactly,” Slade agreed. “He would know that I would be endeavoring to learn who drew the map and by a process of elimination might pin it on him. If he’d kept his mouth shut, it is probable I would not have. At the time, I was merely a mite curious about him, but as I said, by talking too much he gave the whole thing away. I was already puzzled a little over his knowledge of the Tucumcari Desert and its peculiarities, hardly to be expected from an Arizonian who gave the impression he had never before been in this section. I was pretty well convinced that he had been in the section, but preferred not to admit it. Chances are he was here looking over possible prospects, considered them good and decided to settle here and ply his trade, which is not the saloon business, an excellent cover-up, by the way, that puts him in a position to learn things not given out for general consumption, such as the shipment by wagon of the money from Tascosa to the Amarillo bank, with the stage going ahead of the wagon as a decoy.”

  “Is there anything you don’t notice?” grunted the sheriff. Slade neither affirmed nor denied.

  “And then little things to which I hadn’t given much thought began tying up,” he resumed. “Frayne was always absent from town when something off-color was pulled, but very much in evidence when an attempt was made to rub me out of the picture. And his method of operating, unusual, to say the least — evincing unexpected ingenuity and imagination, like establishing his men in the valley as honest farmers, and turning the body of the murdered valley dweller into a detonation bomb; and, yesterday, blowing down a cliff overhang to distract the attention of Lambert’s wagon guards. Things that would never occur to a brush-popping owlhoot, whose methods would be direct. Set me combing the town for somebody who would be likely to possess such attributes, with Frayne as the most likely suspect.

  “So there you have it, all purest conjecture on my part, although I’m personally convinced I am right. Not a thing against amigo Frayne that would stand up in court. I have never gotten a look at his face in the course of the commission of an unlawful act, and it seems nobody else has, either. So it looks like we’ll have to catch him dead to rights.”

  The sheriff indulged in another of his favorite remarks:

  “Just a matter of time, just a matter of time. But it looks like, with nearly all his bunch cleaned out, he’s not in much of a position to pull something.”

  “Three desperate men can do plenty,” Slade differed. “Some of the worst almost always worked alone. John Wesley Hardin did, for example, with more than twenty murdered men to his discredit. Sam Bass was another, and I could name more. Of course a leader like Frayne can a
lways get replacements, especially in such a section as this, if he is of a mind to. But somehow I feel he won’t. I expect the bunch he brought here with him were associates of long standing, upon whom he felt he could depend. So he may hesitate to bring in others of whom he is not sure. There’s always the chance he may decide to pull out, but with his kind there is a matter of pride involved. He would feel he was being run out, which wouldn’t set well with him. Our most important chore right now is to try and anticipate what he is planning. To do so may prevent some more killings. The mass slaughter of Lambert and his men shows what he’s capable of.”

  “A snake-blooded devil for fair,” growled Carter.

  “Yes, the intelligent, educated, and cultured are ofttimes the worst,” Slade agreed. “Hardin was a school teacher, Doc Holliday a dentist and a college man, John Ringo outstanding and a scholar. Well, I’m going to care for my critters and then go to bed; was a rather busy night. Be seeing you later.”

  18

  The evening was well along when Slade awakened. He bathed and shaved, and, congratulating himself on having his change of clothes washed and ironed, dressed and sallied forth in search of something to eat. At the Trail End he found Carter awaiting him.

  “Figured you’d be along most any minute,” the sheriff said. “I wired Dalhart that you had finished off one of the bunch and recovered some of the money. They wired back congratulations; got the message just a little while ago. I handed the money to the Amarillo bank people; they’ll credit it to the account Lambert had with them.”

  “A good way to handle it,” Slade agreed, giving his order to a waiter.

  “Folks are buzzin’ over the way you handled the business,” the sheriff went on. “Of course I had to explain how I got hold of the carcass.” He chuckled.

  “But I didn’t tell ’em about you getting dunked in the drink. Figured it wasn’t necessary. Just told ’em you managed to down one of the devils and the others hightailed.”

  “Thanks,” Slade said smilingly. “The less I hear of that bobble, the better pleased I’ll be. I still can’t get over it — like something out a comic paper.”

  “Reckon there wasn’t anything much comical about it when it happened,” observed Carter. “Guess you were fit to be hogtied.”

  “One has to be a bystander to really appreciate the humor of such an incident,” Slade conceded.

  “I’ll just have another snort to celebrate it,” Carter chuckled. “By the way, we did find the horse that Open Door drygulcher rode. A good critter, slick-iron burned. Got it in my stable. What with money from the devils’ pockets and the sale of cayuses, the county’s getting rich.”

  Slade’s food arrived, and for a while conversation lanquished. Relaxing comfortably with a cigarette, over a final cup of coffee, he asked:

  “Anybody recognize that body?”

  “Oh, you know how they are,” Carter snorted. “Think this, think that, think the other thing, never sure about anything. Only the head barkeep at the Open Door had anything to say worth saying. He said he was sure he’d served the feller several times; said he used to stand at the far end of the bar, said Frayne spoke to him, as he does to everybody. Guess he didn’t hear what was said.”

  “Another advantage of the saloon business for such as Frayne,” Slade remarked. “Can contact his men there, give them instructions, with nobody thinking anything about it, and nobody the wiser. Oh, he’s one shrewd article, all right; never misses a bet.”

  “He’ll miss one, his last one, sooner or later,” growled the sheriff. I hope I get the chance to line sights with the hyderphobia skunk. Can’t think of anything I’d like better.”

  “Here’s hoping you get the chance, and soon,” Slade said. “Nothing could please me better.”

  Carter growled again, under his mustache, and ordered another snort.

  “Wouldn’t be surprised if Keith Norman and Jerry show up tomorrow,” he predicted. “She’ll devil him into it. Hope she does; she’s a good luck piece. Nearly every time she’s along, you knock off an owlhoot.”

  “And I hope I don’t have to knock off any more in her company,” Slade said. “Gives me the shivers when I think of what might have happened.”

  “Oh, you take care of her, and as for that, she’s pretty good at taking care of herself,” Carter replied cheerfully. “Now what?”

  “Now I’m going down to the Open Door to see if Frayne has gotten back,” Slade replied. “Figure he’s had plenty of time to make it to town if he was of a mind to.”

  “And I’m tagging right along,” the sheriff declared. “Not taking any chances with you.”

  “Okay,” Slade said, “only if he is there, keep your face straight and don’t give anything away. I’m still not sure he suspects I have the lowdown on him, and if he doesn’t, I’d like to keep him that way.”

  “Don’t worry, he won’t learn anything from me,” Carter promised.

  When they arrived at the Open Door, Erskin Frayne was there, impeccably garbed as usual, debonair, and assured. He greeted them cordially.

  “Just got back from another long ride,” he announced. “Was up in Oklahoma, looking over some prospects.”

  “Prospects?” Slade prompted.

  Frayne smiled slightly. “Spreads,” he replied. “I’ll have to admit I’m getting a yen for the cattle business again. As I said, saloons make money, but that’s about all one can say for them. Nothing else very attractive. I’m beginning to hanker for the outside.”

  “I imagine being cooped up does grow monotonous,” Slade ventured.

  “It does,” Frayne maintained vigorously. “And it’s essential that one like one’s work, take an interest in it, and pleasure with what is accomplished. If you’re not satisfied with it, no matter what the financial rewards, you’re not content. I guess you can understand that, Mr. Slade.”

  “Yes, I can understand it,” Slade agreed. “One doesn’t need to set the courthouse on fire to find happiness and peace. No matter how lowly one’s calling is, if one is absorbed in it and is exultant over an accomplishment, small though it may be, there is ample recompense waiting.”

  As he spoke, although he did not seem to do so, Slade watched Frayne’s expression closely. It seemed to him that the habitual glitter of his pale eyes intensified, and was accompanied by a marked speculation, as if he was trying to read the speaker’s mind, to arrive at a certain conclusion. However, he merely nodded agreement and turned the conversation into other channels.

  After a casual discussion of various matters pertaining to the saloon business and ranching, Slade and the sheriff said so long to the owner and departed.

  “Well, think he’s planning to pull out?” he latter asked.

  “It’s beginning to look a little that way,” Slade replied. “Although I don’t think he will just yet. I’d say he’d like to try another chore or two first. He made a good haul from Lambert’s wagon and at the moment, I’d say, is well heeled with money; but he’s greedy for more.

  “Very cleverly, he’s doing the spade work, preparing folks for his pulling out of the section when he’s a mind to. When and if he does, nobody will think anything of it, there will be no surprise, for it will be recalled that for some time he has been complaining of dissatisfaction with the business and expressing a desire to turn to something else. Oh, he’s a shrewd one, all right, and we’ll have to step pretty lively or he will slip through our fingers. There’s enough against him to hang him a dozen times over, if we can prove it. So far we can’t.

  “I think he’s worried a trifle,” Slade added thoughtfully. “He’s trying hard to draw me out, to make up his mind to just what I am and why I am here. I’ve a notion he’s beginning to suspect that my working with you is a cover-up and that I may have a personal axe of some sort to grind.”

  “Your El Halcon reputation paying off, eh?”

  “It is possible,” Slade conceded. “Well, we’ll see.”

  The sheriff swore gloomily and they headed for the
Washout and the jovial company of Thankful Yates, who was calculated to raise spirits and banish pessimism.

  “Strange that such a man should take the wrong fork in the trail,” Slade mused. “Wonder what set him off in the first place? Resentment because of a real or fancied wrong, perhaps, as in the case of John Ringo, gradually developing into a hatred for all mankind. He is utterly ruthless, devoid of mercy. Kills a man with no more compunction than he would a poisonous insect. Perhaps the blood lust is the same as any other vice, intensifies as it is put to use. The poet Alexander Pope expresses it very well.”

  “How’s that?” the sheriff asked. Slade quoted:

  “Vice is a monster of so frightful mien

  As to be hated needs but to be seen;

  Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,

  We first endure, then pity, then embrace.”

  “Don’t exactly understand it all, but I gather it means that after a while a feller gets to liking bad habits, if he ties onto them too long.”

  “I’ve a notion that although Mr. Pope might be slightly staggered by the phrasing of your interpretation, that you very nearly hit the nail on the head,” Slade smiled.

  “I’m getting better all the time, a little more of your company and I’ll be plumb smart,” the sheriff said cheerfully. “Well, here we are; maybe a snort or two of Thank-ful’s cactus juice may help.”

  It did. Soon the sheriff was quite chipper.

  “Ol Thankful sure knows how to pick ’em,” he remarked with an appreciative glance at the dance floor. “Just the same, though, there ain’t one there that can hold a candle to your little Jerry gal. She’s a looker, and besides, she’s got plenty underneath that curly hair. Smart as a treeful of owls. Right there with bells on, too, if a ruckus busts loose; don’t give a hoot for anything.”