Ten minutes later the posse, more than a dozen strong, thundered off across the prairie.
It wanted two hours of sundown when they reached the canyon mouth, but Slade advised caution. “I don’t think they’ll get here this early, but we can’t afford to take chances,” he said. “Everybody keep their eyes skinned and their ears open.”
However, they met nobody in the canyon. They rode up the cleft a ways and left the horses in a thicket with a man to guard them. Careful to make no sound, they covered the rest of the distance on foot, hearing nothing and seeing nothing. Pushing through the last belt of growth they peered into the clearing. It lay silent and deserted. The two bodies were nowhere in sight.
With a muttered oath, Slade strode from concealment and to the spot where he left the dead men. Only a few blood stains on the grass showed where they had lain.
“Maybe Pete and Deputy Hawkins got here first and packed ‘em off,” old Tom hazarded.
“Impossible,” Slade replied. “We would have met them on the way out.”
“Then what the devil does it mean?” sputtered Mawson.
“It means,” Slade said grimly, “that either Pete or the deputy talked where the wrong pair of ears was listening. Somebody hightailed out of town ahead of them and packed the bodies away. Would appear somebody in Weirton was mighty anxious to make sure they wouldn’t be taken to town where they might be recognized.”
“I always said all the thieves in this end of Texas congregated in that town!” fumed Mawson.
“It’s beginning to look like they work out of there, all right,” Slade conceded. “Well, there’s nothing we can do here; we might as well head for home.”
They had covered something less than a mile down the main canyon and were nearing a bend in the brush-flanked trail when Slade abruptly held up his hand.
“Hold it!” he said. “Horses coming. Get set, we’re taking no chances.”
The posse jostled to a halt and sat with guns ready for instant action. The beat of hoofs loudened, approaching at a steady, purposeful pace. Another moment and two horsemen bulged around the bend, each leading a mule. They pulled up looking considerably startled at the array of hardware facing them.
“Oh, tarnation!” snorted Mawson. “It’s just Sid Hawkins and Pete. Turn around and go back where you come from, you terrapins, you’re too slow to catch cold!”
Questions and explanations followed. The deputy swore in weary disgust. “Those danged sidewinders always outsmart everybody,” he declared. “I don’t know what this section’s coming to!”
“Anyhow you can both thank whatever looks after you that there’s somebody in the section with brains,” Mawson told them. “If it wasn’t for Slade you’d be using those mules to pack your own carcasses back to town.”
Pete and the deputy were thankful and said so. Slade queried the cowhand.
“Where were you when you relayed the information to Hawkins?” he asked.
“In the Black Gold — that’s where I found him,” Pete replied. “Nobody told me to keep it quiet and I reckon everybody around heard what I said.”
“And what did you do after you spoke to Hawkins?”
“We had a couple of drinks and Sid had something to eat,” Pete replied. “Then we rustled up the mules and started out. Figured we could make it before dark. I’m sorry, feller, but I didn’t know you wanted it kept quiet.”
“Just one of those things,” Slade told him. “And the way it worked out nothing bad happened, which was more than I’d expected for a while. Lucky you decided to eat first and take your time, otherwise things might have turned out differently.”
“You’re dang right,” growled Tom Mawson. “Now everybody might as well go home.”
It was late when they finally got back to the ranchhouse and Slade went to bed without delay, too tired to even think.
He did plenty of thinking the following morning, however, as he placed the greasy cap and the ripped-out pocket side by side and gazed at them through the haze of his cigarette smoke. Undoubtedly the wearer of the cap and the dead owner of the pocket had spent considerable time around the oil wells. And the spiriting away of the two bodies was plenty significant. Somebody was extremely anxious that they should not be put on exhibition in Weirton and that their association with somebody would not come to light. Did it tie up with the attempt on his life in the Black Gold? Slade felt that indirectly it did.
But there was a perplexing loose thread banging about that refused to take its proper place in the pattern. Look for the motive, say the rangers. Men seldom do anything without a motive. Learn the motive and the trail to the quarry is wide open. Slade could not conceive of what the motive back of the attempt was.
Assuming for the sake of the argument that somebody had recognized him as a ranger, was it logical to believe that an outlaw band would seek to kill him just because he might be a potential threat to their rustling activities? Slade did not think so. Killing a ranger was a serious matter and usually fraught with dire consequences. The hunt for the killers would go on relentlessly and never cease until they were brought to justice. Would the proceeds from the theft of a few cattle, or even a great many cattle, warrant such a risk? Definitely not. No! Somebody with brains, cold courage and a callous disregard for human life was playing for high stakes.
The stakes? Walt Slade had not the slightest notion what they could be. But he did have a hunch that in some way they were connected with the Walking M spread.
NINE
AFTER THEY FINISHED EATING, Slade and old Tom sat on the veranda and smoked. Finally Mawson asked a question, “Well, son, are you going to stay on for a while and help me run the dang place?”
“Yes, on a condition,” Slade replied.
“What’s the condition?” Mawson asked curiously.
“That I be allowed to handle things as I see fit with no interference from anybody,” Slade explained.
“Done!” old Tom said. “That’s the kind of talk I like to hear. You’re in charge from now on.”
“Okay,” Slade smiled, rising to his feet, “and now I’m going to take a little ride and look things over.”
Getting the rig on Shadow he rode south by a little east. He quickly decided the spread was a comparatively easy one to work. It was roughly a twenty by fifteen mile rectangle. Chaparral growth was sparse and the only real combing necessary would be in the canyons and gorges slashing the eastern hills that walled the Bradded R, the other holding that ran down to the creek. Being open range, the stock of the outfits would mingle. He observed several small streams that flowed south to join the creek that Curly Nevins said flowed from under a cliff of the western range to cross the valley and enter one of the canyons cutting through the hills to the east. Riding steadily, he finally reached the first of the fenced waterholes. He pulled up and studied the water. It was crystal clear with no scum on the surface. Evidently the hole was fed by a spring.
Slade dismounted and climbed the barbed wire fence. With the greatest care he examined the stones at the water’s edge. Finding nothing of an ominous nature, he dipped a handful of the water and tasted it; it was pure and sweet, no taint, no acidity, and no bitterness. Dipping another handful he drank a little, not much, and climbed out of the enclosure.
“No, you don’t get any,” he told Shadow. “You’d be sure to drink too darn much. If I happen to be wrong, and I don’t think I am, what I swallowed won’t give me any worse than a few belly cramps but I’ll bet you my hat against your next nosebag that I won’t feel a single pain.”
Shadow snorted and refused to take the bet. With a chuckle, Slade forked him and rode south. When he reached the oil scummed creek he again dismounted. The creek at this point flowed in a shallow gorge, down the slightly sloping wall of which it was possible to climb. Slade scrambled down and squatted at the water’s edge. The reek arising from the stream was very strong; no wonder cows refused to drink it. He turned his attention to the jagged stone that formed the bank. It was c
racked and seamed and fissured. Slade instantly recognized it as shale and typical of an oil producing region. For some time, he examined the stone, his black brows drawing together. Finally he climbed back to the prairie and stood gazing north. The valley undoubtedly sloped from north to south, which lent credence to Bob Kent’s theory that the oil pool would be found underlying the mesa. Well, in Kent’s case, practice had overshadowed precept: Kent did strike oil. Slade’s eyes followed the contours of the hills from north to south and he shook his head in a puzzled fashion. Next he studied the almost barren wide band of rangeland extending north from the creek, and again he shook his head. To all appearances, oil seepage was killing the grass roots, but he still couldn’t understand how the seepage continued for such a distance. Mounting Shadow he rode west till he reached the Chihuahua Trail. Fording the stream he headed for Weirton.
It was pretty well on in the afternoon and he decided a bite to eat wouldn’t go bad. He entered the Black Gold and saw Bob Kent eating a meal at a table. The oilman waved a greeting.
“Come on and partake of a surrounding,” he invited.
Slade accepted and sat down on the opposite side of the table. Kent beckoned a waiter and Slade gave his order.
“Blaine Richardson has started drilling a well out on the desert,” Kent announced. “He says he’s going to bring in a gusher that will make things up here look picayune. Darn it, maybe he will!”
“How about the well he drilled down on the south end of the mesa, was that a gusher?” Slade asked.
Kent shook his head. “Nope, it’s a pumper like the rest of them,” he replied. “The only gusher brought in here was my first strike, but the pressure eased off fast. One of the funniest manifestations I ever ran up against. Almost overnight the pressure decreased to only a slight flow and we had to start pumping. Most unusual, so far as my experience goes. The same holds good for every other well, practically no pressure at all.”
Slade nodded, his eyes thoughtful.
“Richardson says,” Kent continued, “that the reason is that the real oil pool is somewhere down to the south of here and that what we’re getting is just the back-flow under pressure from the big reservoir beneath the desert. He says I’m wrong about this section and that the only part ever under water was the desert.”
Walt Slade gazed curiously at the oilman, apparently started to speak and then changed his mind and commented only with a nod. A moment later he asked a question. “Kent,” he said, “I understand you had a year in college, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Kent replied.
“And didn’t you get any geology and petrology, the science of rocks?”
“I got some geology, but not much,” Kent admitted. “Enough to give me my notion about this valley, but that’s about all.”
Again Slade’s only comment was a nod.
“Everybody’s talking about how you downed those two cow thieves and saved Tom Mawson’s herd,” Kent commented. “Arch Caldwell says if there were more cattlemen like you in the section there wouldn’t be any trouble.”
“Perhaps,” Slade smiled, “but right now I wouldn’t want to bet on it.”
Kent glanced at him questioningly, but the ranger did not see fit to amplify his remark.
With a sigh of contentment, Kent pushed back his empty plate. “Well, got to be getting back on the job,” he observed. “They’re putting the finishing touches on a new storage tank over by my Number Three well.”
Wade Ballard, the owner, smiling pleasantly, came over bringing drinks on the house. “You did a fine chore the other night, Mr. Slade,” he congratulated the ranger. “I’ve a notion the loss of that herd would have hit Tom Mawson pretty hard right now.”
“I suppose the loss of five hundred head of prime stock would hit any cattleman pretty hard,” Slade replied. “At the current prices it would amount to around ten thousand dollars.”
“And that’s a lot of pesos,” Ballard said and went back to the bar.
“Wade’s inclined to think Richardson may have the right idea about drilling down on the desert,” Kent observed. “He told me an experienced oilman, an engineer, who came down from the Spindletop field last month to look things over agreed that Richardson was correct when he said the desert was the only part of this section ever under water, that down there was the inland sea and not up here, as I figured.”
Slade glanced up quickly. “Did you talk with that engineer?”
“Nope, I was up at Proctor that day and didn’t meet him,” Kent answered. “Well, I’ll have to be going; see you soon.”
For some time after the oilman departed, Walt Slade sat smoking. Now and then he glanced toward where Wade Ballard stood at the end of the bar, and his eyes were thoughtful. Finally he pinched out his cigarette, nodded good-bye to Ballard and headed back for the Walking M.
It was late when Slade reached the ranchhouse, the front of which was dark save for a single lamp turned low in the living room, doubtless left for his convenience. After stabling Shadow he sat in the living room for some time, smoking and thinking. After a while he blew out the lamp and groped his way up the dark stairway. Reaching the upper hall he located the doorknob, turned it and stepped into the room, and halted, staring.
The room, with the window shades drawn, was brightly lighted. On the bed sat a girl clad in a revealing silk nightgown. She was a rather small girl with big blue eyes and curly brown hair through which she was, at the moment, running a comb. The comb stopped moving and she stared, looking quite a bit startled, but not at all frightened.
Walt Slade was usually very much at ease in the presence of women, but at the moment he was anything but at ease. He actually stammered. “I — I beg your pardon!” he gulped. “I must have opened the wrong door.” He started to beat a hurried retreat, but the girl stayed him with a gesture of her little hand.
“Wait,” she said in a low, musical voice. “You must be Mr. Walt Slade who saved my brother’s life.”
“Yes, I’m Slade,” he admitted, “and I’m sorry that — ”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she interrupted. “It was a perfectly natural mistake. I’ve done it myself a couple of times; the knobs are close together. Shut the door, it’s drafty. There’s no harm been done so far as I can see. I’ll slip on a robe and some slippers and then I want to talk to you,” she said. “Sit down, won’t you?”
A moment later she was snugged in a robe of some clinging stuff that molded itself nicely to the sweet curves of her figure. She thrust her feet into little beaded moccasins and sat down.
“Now, that’s better,” she said.
“I’m not so sure,” Slade disagreed.
She laughed again. “Perhaps not,” she admitted, “but we have to accord some respect to the sacred proprieties, don’t we? But I want to thank you for what you did for my brother. Clate and I have always been very close to one another, especially after our mother died.”
“I didn’t do much,” he deprecated.
“Only saved his life,” she answered. “And I understand you saved Dad’s herd from being stolen and saved an oil well from burning up and perhaps destroying a town. Mr. Slade, do you always go about doing good?”
Walt Slade’s eyes were suddenly very serious. “Thank you,” he said. “I think that is about the nicest compliment I ever received. I only hope I’ll be worthy of it.”
“I think you are and always will be,” she said gravely. “And I hear you’ve gone to work for Dad. I’m glad; he needs somebody to help him, with Clate flat on his back and Curly Nevins often barely able to walk because of his rheumatism. But it’s late and I won’t keep you from your rest; you must have had a hard day. I’ll see you again in the morning. I suppose I’m a little late in introducing myself, but I’m Mary Mawson, as doubtless you’ve already guessed.”
In the privacy of his own room, Walt Slade thought, Gosh! she’s a regular little doll. Slade was tired, but just the same it took him quite a while to get to sleep.
HE SAW HER AGAIN the next morning at the breakfast table. Old Tom performed the introductions which Slade acknowledged gravely, Mary with something very like a grin tugging at her red lips.
“The poor dear would be shocked if he knew about last night,” she whispered as they left the dining room. “I’ll have to leave you now and give the cook a hand. Here come the Bradded R boys already; there’ll be a big crowd here today for the funeral. Poor old Jess!” she added, her wide eyes suddenly misting. “He was with us when I was a little girl.”
• • •
They buried Jess Rader that afternoon under the whispering pines on the hill, where slept Tom Mawson’s wife and others of his relations and workers. Most of the cattlemen of the valley were present and many a curious and interested glance rested on the tall man with the black hair and level gray eyes who stood beside Mary Mawson at the open grave.
Slade was surprised to see Wade Ballard, the Black Gold saloon owner, among those present, but he recalled Curly Nevins saying that Tom Mawson had met him in Proctor and thought pretty well of him. So he thought nothing of it when after the funeral Mawson and Ballard walked away together, conversing earnestly. Ballard appeared to be urging something about which old Tom was dubious.
For a while the Walking M cowboys went about their chores in a subdued manner, but death sudden and sharp is too common an occurrence on the rangeland to leave any lasting impression. Before long things had about gotten back to normal.
The following morning Slade rounded up half a dozen of the hands and told them to get ready to ride and to bring wire nippers with them. He led the way to the first of the fenced waterholes on the south range.
“All right,” he told the hands, “cut the wire and get those fences down.”
The cowboys stared at him. “But, boss,” one protested, “we lost nearly fifty cows around this hole.”
“You won’t lose any more if you keep an eye on the holes,” Slade replied. “Get busy!”
Gunsmoke over Texas Page 7
