Gunsmoke over Texas

by Bradford Scott

  Back up the slope sped the Walking M hands. They jerked their horses to a halt beside Slade, their eyes wild and staring.

  “What the devil happened?” panted old Tom. “Did the danged thing come down at last?”

  “Looks sort of that way,” Slade replied.

  “Good God!” muttered Mawson. “And we just got through!”

  “Yes, we got through,” Slade said slowly, “but the Bradded R herd didn’t. It was in there when the infernal thing cut loose.”

  “And the boys?” gulped Mawson.

  “I think they all got in the clear,” Slade reassured him. “It looked that way from up here.”

  Gradually the mighty voice of the avalanche thinned and deadened, until the silence was broken only by the occasional ringing crack of a belated boulder bounding down the slope. The dust cloud slowly settled and dissipated, revealing the denuded slope and the canyon choked with debris; the trail had vanished.

  At the far mouth of the gorge appeared dark blobs that were the Bradded R riders. Slade waved his hand to them and they waved back.

  “Well,” he said. “I reckon we might as well be shoving along. We can’t get to them over that mess. Looks like you won’t be able to use this crack as a short cut again. But I expect the railroad will be down your way before you need it again.”

  “I hope so,” Mawson returned gloomily. “I’ve sure had enough of these infernal hills.”

  As they rode down the slope Mawson suddenly turned to Slade. His face wore a strained look. “Walt,” he said, a bit thickly, “it would have been our herd down under those rocks.”

  “Yes, very likely it could,” Slade admitted.

  “And if that had happened, right now I’d be close to being a ruined man,” the ranchowner said heavily.

  “Guess that was the general notion,” Slade replied, and didn’t explain just how he meant it. “But it didn’t happen,” he added cheerfully, “and we should reach McCarney okay in a few hours.”

  Mawson nodded and was silent.

  Walt Slade also rode in silence, for he was thinking deeply. He knew perfectly well that what he had seen and heard was a dynamite explosion set off for the express purpose of bringing down the avalanche. And there was no doubt in his mind but that it had been timed to cut loose to coincide with the entrance of the last herd into the canyon — Tom Mawson’s herd. The dynamiters, more than a thousand feet above, would not have been able to tell that the second herd through the gorge was the Walking M and not the Bradded R. They had followed instructions in line with some preconceived plan and only a freak happening had saved Mawson’s cattle. An act of wanton destruction, nothing less, with the incident of possible mass murder callously disregarded.

  But why? Slade didn’t have the answer, yet, but his hazy theory regarding what was back of the strange happenings in Weirton Valley was beginning to crystallize.

  Without further untoward occurrence they reached McCarney and the railroad a couple of hours before sundown. The cattle were immediately shunted into the loading pens and old Tom heaved a deep sigh of relief when a stock car door closed on the last cow.

  Shortly after the chore was finished, the Bradded R bunch raced their reeking horses into town, having taken the long detour by way of Horsehead Canyon.

  That night the Walking M and Turkey Track hands celebrated the safe arrival of their herds in McCarney. The Bradded R punchers didn’t have much to celebrate aside from their escape from the avalanche, but they did their manful best to make the occasion a success. It was, to which aching heads and bleary eyes attested the following morning when the long ride back to Weirton Valley started. Walt Slade and the ranch-owners celebrated with greater moderation and were in somewhat better shape.

  Old Tom was still puzzling over what started the avalanche. “Reckon it must have been the vibrations set up by our cows passing along the trail,” he hazarded, “but I never heard tell of anything like it before. A thousand herds have gone through that crack and nothing happened.”

  Walt Slade arrived at a decision. “Mr. Mawson,” he said, “I’m going to tell you something, but I want you to keep it under your hat.”

  “I will, whatever it was,” promised the rancher. “Shoot! What you got to tell me?”

  “That the avalanche was not set off by the vibrations created by the passing herd,” Slade replied. “It was deliberately set off by a dynamite explosion on the rimrock. I heard and saw it.”

  Old Tom stared at him in bewilderment. “But what the devil!” he exploded. “Why in tarnation would anybody do a thing like that? What did they have in mind?”

  “In my opinion, what they had in mind was to ruin you financially if possible,” Slade answered grimly.

  Mawson grew even more bewildered. “You mean those danged oilmen?” he sputtered.

  “Definitely not,” Slade told him. “I’m willing to wager that as a whole the oil operators and their employees are too busy with their own affairs to give you more than a passing thought. To think that they poisoned your waterholes and tried to destroy your shipping herd is as ridiculous as their accusing you and your hands of setting fire to their wells. Even more so, in fact. It might be maintained that you have a grievance against them because of your spoiled pastures, while their assumption that the cattlemen fired their wells is mere conjecture, as they would be forced to admit.”

  “Then who the devil did blow those rocks down?” Mawson demanded.

  “I haven’t the answer, but I hope eventually to have it, possibly with your help,” Slade told him.

  “You’ll get any I can give you, though I don’t know what the devil it could be,” Mawson growled. “Poisoning waterholes and burying cows under rocks! Why that’s worse than murder!”

  “I can hardly agree with you there,” Slade smiled, adding without a smile, “but if the Bradded R riders had been just a little farther up the canyon when the blast was set off, it would have been murder.”

  “You’re right about that,” Mawson agreed. “The snake-blooded hellions!” He eyed his range boss curiously and repeated Bob Kent’s remark, “Walt, you’re a funny feller for a wandering cowpoke,” he said.

  “Possibly,” Slade replied with another smile, “for a wandering cowpoke.”

  THIRTEEN

  MAWSON WAS STILL A BIT DUBIOUS about the waterholes on the south pasture, so the next day he and Slade rode down to give the holes a once-over. They found cattle grazing contentedly in the vicinity and there were no casualties.

  “I don’t think they’ll try it again,” Slade said, “but just the same I have one of the boys scouting around here every night so as not to take any chances.”

  “But why the devil did they do it in the first place?” Mawson wanted to know. “All they could do was knock off a few head of stock, not enough to do any real damage.”

  “To heighten the tension between the ranchers and the oilmen,” Slade replied. “It’s an old outlaw trick, sir; set two outfits on the prod against each other, then each blames the other for anything that happens. Which makes a nice cover-up for smooth and salty gents operating in the section. Remember the old fable about the two families of ducks that were fighting over which should have the eel head they’d found? Well, while they were busy fighting one another, along came a cat and carried off the eel head.”

  Old Tom tugged his mustache and ‘lowed it sort of made sense.

  They rode on south and paused on the edge of the wide area of withered grass. Mawson scowled at his ruined pastures and rumbled oaths. “No doubt as to what did that, though,” he growled. “The cussed oil is responsible for that and there’s no getting away from it.”

  “Yes, the oil is responsible for that,” Slade conceded, his eyes thoughtful. As had become a habit with him, he raised his gaze to the rugged hill crests.

  “And it’s sure raised the devil,” Mawson continued. “All this section no good for cows any more. I’ve a notion to take Wade Ballard up on his offer to buy it.”

  Slade’s
glance dropped quickly to the rancher’s face. “How’s that?” he asked. “You say Ballard wants to buy down here?”

  “That’s right,” Mawson replied. “He made me an offer when he was at the ranchhouse for Jess Rader’s burying.”

  “What reason did he give for wanting to buy?” Slade asked.

  “Oh, he was open and above board with his reason, all right,” Mawson answered. “He said it’s just about sure for certain that the railroad is coming down this way and that they’ll plan to build shops and supply stores and a big assembling yard here, or so he figures. He says if that happens it will be a good section to open up a couple more saloons and other places of entertainment and he’d like to get in on the ground floor. He pointed out that if the railroad really wanted and needed the land, they could invoke Eminent Domain and force me to sell to them even if I didn’t want to. Reckon he has something there, all right.”

  “And what did you tell him?” Slade asked curiously.

  “I told him I’d think it over,” Mawson replied. “He said he knew that of course I wouldn’t want to sell just a little chunk down here so he made me an offer for the whole strip this side of the creek. A pretty good offer, too, conditions being what they are, and I reckon I’m a fool not to take him up on it. But somehow I hate to let go of any of my holding; sort of a sentimental reason or some such foolishness, I reckon. I was born and brought up on the Walking M and it’s got to be a part of me, as it were. If I’d lost the shipping herd the other day, I reckon I wouldn’t have had much choice in the matter if I wanted to stay in business. I’d been forced to scrape up money somewhere to meet that bank payment, but because you saved my herd from those thieving hellions and then got it and the other five hundred head safe to the pens, things ain’t quite so tight as they were. What do you think about it, Walt?”

  “I think,” Slade replied slowly, “that while Ballard is right about the railroad building down this way — I heard in McCarney that they’re already rushing plans for construction — he is mistaken when he figures they’ll build shops and a yard down here. The C. & P. already have extensive repair shops, supply depots and a large assembling yard at McCarney, so why should they duplicate down here? If they choose this valley for their route to Mexico, their next great division point will be south of the Rio Grande for sound business reasons, to promote good feeling, stimulate trade from the south, and so forth. If they just build a spur to tap the oil transportation from here, all they’ll need is a turntable and a few side tracks. Understand, sir?”

  “Yes, I think I do,” Mawson nodded. “I’d never thought of it in that light. So it would appear to be good business to unload a worthless holding on Ballard, eh?”

  “Are you asking my advice, sir?” Slade countered.

  “Yes, I am,” Mawson stated definitely.

  Slade’s answer was obliquely in the form of a question. “Ever play a hunch?” he asked.

  “Yep,” old Tom chuckled. “I’ve filled an inside straight more than once on a hunch.”

  “Well,” Slade smiled, “right now I’m playing a hunch, a hunch that if you sell to Ballard, no matter what he offers, that you will be disposing of an immensely valuable property for a mere fraction of its worth. I have as yet nothing that could be called definite on which to base my hunch, but it’s working mighty strong, and I hope to before long have something that will solidly foundation it. So if you are willing to take the chance of filling another inside straight, my advice is not to sell.”

  Old Tom chuckled again. “Son,” he said, “I’ve a notion if you really set your head to it, you could talk a sidewinder out of fangin’. I’d just about decided to take Ballard up on his offer, but now I won’t, at least not yet. I’ll give you a chance to play your hunch, whatever it is. After all, if things don’t seem to work out right I can always reconsider and if Ballard figures he’s right about the railroad building here, I’ve a notion his offer will stand.”

  “Yes, I think you can rely on its standing,” Slade replied, a trifle grimly. “And now suppose we ride down to Weirton for a drink and a bite to eat?”

  Old Tom stared. “To that stinkin’ hole!” he exploded.

  “Yes, and I’ve a notion you’ll decide it doesn’t smell as bad as you think it does,” Slade replied with a grin. “Fact is, I think it’s a real good notion.”

  Mawson threw out his hands in a resigned gesture. “What I said about the sidewinder goes for a whole nest of ‘em,” he declared. “Oh, all right, only I hope I don’t get pizened!”

  Walt Slade rode south in a complacent frame of mind. What had formerly been but hazy supposition was now concrete. The act of seemingly malicious mischief in Hanging Rock Canyon had achieved definite purpose. He at last had pinned down the elusive motive. Wade Ballard and perhaps others associated with him, doubtless including Blaine Richardson, wanted Tom Mawson’s land and were prepared to go to any lengths to acquire it.

  Why? The answer to that was fairly obvious, but the reasoning upon which Ballard evidently based his conclusions was not so obvious. Slade knew that the experienced oilmen were convinced that the only oil in Weirton Valley was under the mesa south of the creek. As Arch Caldwell pointed out, if the deposit extended north of the creek for any appreciable distance, with the slope of the valley definitely from north to south, the pressure would be much greater. Bob Kent’s initial gusher would have continued to gush for an extended period. The speedy easing of the pressure, Caldwell and others maintained, was due to the fact that the pool, comparatively speaking, a small one, was concentrated under the mesa. If Ballard believed there was oil under Mawson’s land, his opinion was certainly at variance with that held by men who should know what they were talking about, apparently as senseless, indeed, as the dry hole Blaine Richardson was drilling out on the desert.

  Walt Slade had his own theory, based on a much more than average knowledge of geological phenomena and an exhaustive study of the contours of the terrain, but he was forced to admit that it was only a theory that could be proven or disproven only by a very expensive test. He wondered if he could talk Mawson and Bob Kent into making the test with no guarantee of positive results.

  He wondered, too, if Ballard had hit on the same idea. It was not beyond the realm of possibility. He felt assured that Wade Ballard was something quite different from what he professed to be and wished he had time to dig into his past a bit and learn something of his background. That, at the moment, however, was out of the question.

  Meanwhile, his primary chore was to try and drop a loop on whoever it was responsible for the depredations committed in Weirton Valley, which loomed as considerable of a chore. For no matter what he might think, at present he had not one iota of proof against anybody.

  The Black Gold was used to sensations of one sort or another, but when Slade and Tom Mawson walked in and sat down at a table, the stares were almost audible.

  Old Tom glared about suspiciously, sniffing for all the world like an animal that scents danger. Slade stifled a grin and ordered drinks.

  “Excuse me a minute, sir,” he said to the rancher. “I see a fellow at the bar I want to speak to.”

  He walked to the bar and accosted old Arch Caldwell who greeted him warmly. A moment later from the tail of his eye he saw Wade Ballard saunter across the room and sit down opposite Mawson. They talked together earnestly for several minutes, then Ballard got up and returned to the end of the bar. And for once he wasn’t smiling and there was a hard glitter in the depths of his clear eyes.

  “Come over and say hello to Mr. Mawson,” Slade suggested to Caldwell. “I’ve a notion you’ll like him.”

  “Scared I won’t be welcome,” Caldwell hesitated.

  “We’ll risk it,” Slade replied cheerfully. “Come along.”

  He led the oilman to the table and performed the introductions. Old Tom grunted acknowledgment gruffly, but didn’t look as gruff as he sounded. Caldwell sat down diffidently. Slade ordered another round of drinks and gradually edged o
ut of the conversation.

  It developed that Caldwell had once been in the cattle business and that his two sons still were. He and Mawson began discussing range matters, cautiously at first, but with increasing animation. A few minutes later Slade left the table and returned to the bar to greet Bob Kent who had just entered. And when he went back to the table he took Kent with him.

  “Guess you know Bob, Mr. Mawson,” he remarked as they sat down.

  “Sure I know him!” Mawson admitted, sounding gruff again and again not looking as gruff as he sounded. “He’s the young squirt responsible for all my troubles. He started it!”

  Slade winked at Kent and they began talking to one another, leaving the two oldsters to their discussion of the cattle business.

  • • •

  As they rode home under the stars, old Tom suddenly remarked to Slade, “That Caldwell ‘pears to be considerable of a feller when you get to know him.”

  “Yes, I think he is,” Slade replied. “And I think that applies to most people, when we get to know them we learn they’re not much different from ourselves.”

  Old Tom regarded him curiously. “Walt,” he said, “in years you’re just a young feller, but sometimes I get the feeling that you’ve lived longer than I have.”

  “Perhaps I have lived more,” Walt Slade answered.

  • • •

  Meanwhile there was a stormy session in the back room of Wade Ballard’s saloon. The doors were locked, the shutters closed. Blaine Richardson, scowling and muttering under his breath, paced the floor with jerky steps. Ballard, seated at a table and smoking a cigarette, appeared to find Richardson’s gyrations amusing. Half a dozen hard-looking individuals seated at the table with him appeared to find nothing amusing.

  “So it would seem you bungled things again,” Ballard observed to the glowering Richardson.

  “How the devil could I figure out that a danged cook’s stove would blow up?” Richardson countered angrily. “Everything was planned right and handled right.”