Gunsmoke over Texas

by Bradford Scott

  “I’ll agree with you on all counts,” Slade said, “but how about proof? A theory as to why Wade Ballard wants Mr. Mawson’s land? He tried to buy it open and above board, didn’t he? And gave his reason for wanting to do so. ‘No bill’ says the grand jury. An oil-soaked cap Clate Mawson shot off the head of one of the bunch who tried to kill him on the rimrock trail, a cow thief’s pocket with oily grit caked in the lining, and I haven’t even got a cow thief to go with it. Try and sell that kind of a bill of goods to a jury! I’m convinced in my own mind that Nate Persinger, Richardson’s driller, tried to kill me that night in the Black Gold, but fifty people who were there will swear that Persinger shot at Bill Ayers, not at me. I thought I saw a chance to tangle Richardson’s twine for him when those two hellions tried to drygulch me on the Chihuahua Trail, but he was too damn smart. No way to connect the two drygulchers with him. Not even by association. Nobody ever saw them in Richardson’s company, nor in Ballard’s either, for that matter. Oh, it’s a shrewd bunch, all right, shrewd and deadly, but an organization like that always has a weak spot which is very often its undoing, as I hope it may be in this case. It takes money to hold such a bunch together and the head of the gang has to plan and pull jobs to get it if he wants to keep his men in hand. I’ll take up that angle a little later, but right now I come to what I have in mind.”

  He paused, eyed his listeners for a moment, and resumed, “Mr. Mawson, I want you and Bob to drill a well on your land.”

  Old Tom looked considerably startled. Bob Kent gave a whistle.

  “As I told Mr. Mawson, it’s something in the nature of a gamble,” Slade continued. “If you win, Mr. Mawson, you’ll have plenty of money to take care of your debts and enable you to keep on lending a helping hand to others, as I’ve learned you’ve been doing all your life. If I’m right in my conclusions, when Bob’s wells down on the mesa start petering out, he’ll be in on the ground floor of a new and bigger strike. If I’m all wrong and you lose, well you can figure that out for yourself, consider it, and act accordingly.”

  Old Tom tugged his mustache and chuckled. “As I told you last night, son, I always did like a gamble,” he said. “I reckon it’ll just about empty my poke but I’m with you till the last brand’s run. What do you say, Kent?”

  “Sure I’ll go along,” the oilman declared heartily. “I risked my last cent down on the mesa and I’m ready to risk it again. I reckon I’ll be doing that all my life,” he added with a grin, “and quite probably end up like my dad did — busted; but I’ll have had a lot of fun.”

  “And if we hit the jackpot we’ll split three ways,” said Mawson. “I figure Walt will have earned his share.”

  Walt Slade smiled and shook his head. “I’m much obliged,” he said, “but I’ve got a few pesos stashed away and a man in my line of work doesn’t need much money. All I ask is a chance to drop a loop on the sidewinders who have been raising the devil in this section. That’s my chore and I’ll get plenty of satisfaction out of completing it. Now I’ll tell you how to work things.

  “Mr. Mawson, you spread the news around, especially in Weirton, that Kent has convinced you there is oil under your land and that you’ve decided to gamble a certain amount on the possibility. Kent can estimate the cost pretty closely and let you know how much to say. Make it clear that you are prepared to go just so far and no farther, that if he can’t get results with what you put up the deal is off and the project will be abandoned; you should be able to make it sound convincing. It’s pretty well-known that you can use some extra money and it won’t seem illogical that you’re willing to risk a certain investment on the hope of getting it. I believe that when Ballard and Richardson hear about it, they’ll get panicky and possibly tip their hand, even if I don’t figure a way to make them do it before.”

  “I’m with you,” old Tom repeated. “What’s the other angle you mentioned?”

  “My expectation that they’ll try and pull something shortly to replenish their exchequer,” Slade replied. “Losing that herd of yours they thought they had must have made the rank and file members a bit disgruntled. Ballard will have to plan something to keep them quiet, even though the chances are that right now he’d rather not. If I can only anticipate what they have in mind I may be able to lay a trap for them. You’re familiar with conditions in the section, Mr. Mawson, can you think of anything that might look like easy pickings to an outlaw bunch?”

  Old Tom pulled his mustache and thought. “By gosh, I believe I’ve got it!” he exclaimed. “Tol Releford of the Bradded R is getting a shipping herd together. He has a contract with the packers and they want cows in place of the two hundred that he lost in Hanging Rock Canyon and they didn’t get. Need ‘em to fill their orders, and more, too. Tol figures to get about five hundred together. That might be just the thing the hellions will make a try for. Everybody knows Tol is careless as the devil about money matters and everything else. He’ll hold that herd in a corral he has built on his east pasture and won’t even go to the trouble to post a night guard. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s something else worth gambling on,” Slade said slowly. “Do you think Releford will work with us?”

  “Sure he will, if he thinks there’s a chance to get into a fight,” Mawson replied. “That hunk of tallow would rather fight than eat. You can count on Tol. I’ll ride up there first thing in the morning and have a talk with him. Shall I tell him you’re a ranger?”

  “Yes, I think you’d better, but tell him to keep it under his hat,” Slade replied. “I’m still figuring that maybe those hellions don’t know for sure that I am. I hope they don’t, anyhow.”

  “Okay, I’ll put a flea in Tol’s ear,” Mawson promised. “You can depend on him to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Fine!” Slade applauded. “Well, I guess that about takes care of everything.”

  “We’ll have a couple of drinks on it,” said Mawson, producing a bottle, “and then I reckon a little shut-eye is in order. Bob, you can sleep in the room across from mine at the far end of the hall. Poor Jess Rader used to squat there but he’s sleeping under the pines up on the hill, now. I sure hope I get a chance to even up for Jess.”

  After the drinks were downed, Kent and old Tom headed for bed. Slade sat smoking and thinking for some time. Presently he blew out the light and also went upstairs.

  SEVENTEEN

  EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Mawson rode up to the Bradded R. He was back before noon.

  “Tol will go along with us,” he announced. “I knew he would. Let’s have something to eat and then Bob and me’ll ride to town and spread the news around.”

  There was plenty of excitement and plenty of arguing when it was learned that Tom Mawson planned to drill a well on his property. The general consensus of opinion among the oilmen was that Mawson was loco and Bob Kent, who ought to know better, was more so. Again and again it was pointed out that the slope of the valley was from north to south, proof positive that the only deposit was under the mesa. Unless, as some were inclined to agree, Blaine Richardson had the right idea and the larger pool was beneath the desert, the elevation of which, it was also pointed out, was greatly less than that of the mesa.

  Richardson himself bellowed with laughter when he heard the news and declared that Kent and Mawson were as shy of brains as a terrapin of feathers.

  That was Richardson’s public face. It was quite different in the course of another meeting in the back room of the Black Gold saloon.

  “Either Kent or that dang Slade figured the thing out and sold Mawson the notion,” he declared. “And where does it leave us — holding the bag!”

  Growls ran around the table. Only Wade Ballard, smiling as usual and toying with a cigarette, did not appear particularly perturbed. “Stop worrying about it,” he said. “Let them go ahead and drill. Everything will be taken care of at the right time. Mawson will never strike oil.”

  “And meanwhile we’re just about busted and the boys need money,” Richardson
growled.

  “They’ll get it,” Ballard replied. “I’m taking care of that, too, and without delay.”

  “What you got in mind?” Richardson asked.

  “Tol Releford’s shipping herd is what I’m thinking about,” Ballard answered. “Five hundred head of first-class beefs almost ready to take the trail, and the old fool doesn’t even post a night guard at the corral.”

  Richardson stared at him, his face working. “Tol Releford’s shipping herd!” he repeated incredulously. “And do you figure for a minute that Slade hasn’t thought of that?”

  “Doubtless he has,” Ballard returned composedly.

  “Uh-huh, and anybody trying to lift that herd will end up blown from under his hat!” Richardson snorted. “What’s the matter with you, anyhow?”

  “My dear Richardson,” Ballard replied smoothly, “don’t think that because you were behind the door when they were handing out brains that everybody was. If everything goes off per schedule, and I see no reason why it won’t, what I have in mind will be easy as rolling off a slick log. Of course, Slade will have figured out that we are likely to make a try for that herd — it’s the only thing worthwhile lying around loose at the moment. Of course he’ll be waiting there with a bunch. Let him wait. It won’t get him anything except perhaps a bad cold from staying out at night.”

  “Oh, tarnation, stop putting the spurs to me and let’s hear what you’ve got to say!” demanded Richardson.

  But as Ballard’s low voice unfolded his plan, scowls were replaced by grins of anticipation. Even Richardson’s glowering features relaxed.

  “Feller, you’re smart!” he admitted grudgingly. “I got to hand it to you, you’re smart, darn smart!”

  After the others had departed, Richardson remarked, “If something goes haywire with that scheme of yours it’s danged likely to be curtains for the boys.”

  Ballard shrugged his shoulders. “What of it!” he replied callously, “plenty more of that sort to be had if we should happen to need them. The way things are going,” he added, “soon only you and I and Nate Persinger will know what we have in mind.”

  “And that might be one too many,” Richardson observed significantly.

  “Exactly,” Ballard agreed. “I’ll consider that at the proper time.”

  The way he said it seemed to have a disquieting effect on Richardson. His eyes slid away from Ballard’s and he moved uneasily in his chair.

  • • •

  Two days later the last cow that made up the Bradded R shipping herd was safe in the corral. The following morning the herd would take the trail.

  “And do you really think those hellions will make a try for it tonight?” Mawson asked Slade.

  “Yes, I’m pretty sure of it now,” Slade replied. “All day somebody way up in the hills over there has been keeping tabs on us. I spotted him twice where the brush was a bit thin. He did a good chore of keeping under cover, but not quite good enough. Nobody on any legitimate business would be riding around up there.”

  Night came with a slice of moon casting a wan light over the rangeland. Slade and the Bradded R outfit, all except Stiffy Cole, the cook, lay concealed in a grove near the corral. With them were Mawson and Bob Kent, who had insisted on coming along. The night was very still, with only the contented grunting and grumbling of the cattle to break the silence.

  The hours passed slowly and tediously until it was nearing midnight. Tol Releford grew pessimistic.

  “I’m scairt your hunch ain’t a straight one, son,” he said to Slade. “If they figured on anything they’d oughta been here before now. A little more and they wouldn’t have time to get into the hills before daylight.”

  “I still think it will work out,” Slade replied.

  A little later Mawson cocked his head in an attitude of listening. “Don’t I hear horses coming this way?” he whispered.

  “You hear one horse, coming from the north and coming darned fast,” Slade corrected. “Now what the devil does this mean?”

  Tensely alert, the posse waited, while the beat of fast hoofs grew louder and louder until suddenly from behind a thicket bulged a single horseman, a hatless long and lanky individual who rode with his elbows flopping grotesquely and his disordered hair gleaming white in the moonlight.

  “It’s Stiffy Cole!” Releford bellowed. “You loco pelican, what the devil’s the matter with you?”

  “They got it!” bawled Stiffy, jerking his horse to a halt. “They busted open the safe and got the money!”

  Tol Releford let out a roar of rage and a mouthful of profanity.

  “What money?” Slade demanded. “What’s he talking about?”

  “The money for the cows!” Releford sputtered. “The buyer rode down from Proctor and paid for ‘em, like he always does. It was in the living room safe.”

  “Why in blazes didn’t you tell me?” Slade demanded.

  “Why, I didn’t think of it,” Releford replied. “I always handle the business that way. Have for years. Everybody knows it.”

  “I never thought of it, either,” broke in Tom Mawson. Slade turned to the cook. “Stiffy, tell us what happened,” he said.

  “I was in the kitchen working around the stove when five buzzards wearing masks busted in and grabbed me before I could do a dang thing. They tied me up and went into the living room and hammered open that old tin box Tol keeps his money in. Then they hightailed. They didn’t do a very good job of tieing and I managed to wiggle loose in four or five minutes after they left.

  “But I know where they headed for,” Stiffy shouted above the storm of profanity. “They were heading for Yardley over west of the hills. They’ve got a hole-up over there and aimed to make for it after they stopped in the town a bit.”

  Tol Releford let out an exultant bellow. “We’ll get the hellions!” he said. “We’ve got good horses and we’ll ride ‘em down before they get there. Come on!”

  He was heading for his horse when Slade’s voice stopped him. “Hold it!” the ranger ordered peremptorily. “There’s something funny about this. Stiffy, how do you know they are heading for Yardley?”

  “I heard ‘em say so,” Stiffy explained. “I could hear ‘em talking in the living room and I heard them say it.”

  “They talked loud enough for you to hear all the way to the kitchen?”

  “That’s right,” Stiffy answered.

  “And they did a mighty poor job of hog-tieing you?” Slade persisted.

  “Reckon they did,” Stiffy admitted. “I didn’t have no trouble getting loose in a hurry.”

  “Well, what the devil are we waiting for?” bawled Releford. “Come on, we’ll catch ‘em before they get to Yardley.”

  “They’re not headed for Yardley,” Slade stated positively.

  “What?” exclaimed Releford.

  “Can’t you see it’s a plant?” Slade explained impatiently. “Stiffy heard just what they intended him to hear. They tied him so he would be able to free himself in a few minutes, knowing he’d hightail here to tell us what happened. Then off we’d go to Yardley, following a cold trail, while they, I’m willing to bet money, would amble comfortably down the Chihuahua to Weirton.”

  “Darned if I don’t believe you’re right,” said Mawson.

  “I’m sure I am,” Slade replied. “Listen, they outsmarted us, all right. They evidently knew about the money for the cows being delivered today. Releford intimated it’s pretty common knowledge that he does business that way. But maybe they outsmarted themselves. By heading straight south across the prairie I believe we’ve got a good chance to get ahead of them, hole up and wait for them to come along. By heading south across the range we’ll bypass the big bends in the trail and lop off a lot of miles. Come on, let’s go!”

  “I’m going, too,” declared Stiffy. “Slade, let me have your saddle gun. I ain’t much good with a Colt, but with a long gun I can dot a lizard’s eye at twenty paces.”

  Within minutes the posse was headed south by slight
ly west. Slade set the pace, holding Shadow back in deference to the mounts of the others. Given free rein, the great black would have quickly left the posse standing still.

  Mile after mile flowed past under the speeding hoofs. Slade steadily veered the troop westward after they passed where the trail over the hills joined the Chihuahua.

  “I think after they pass the forks they’ll take it easier, figuring they’re safe,” he told his companions. “We should be ahead of them now, or very soon.”

  But not until they were almost within sight of Weirton did he head directly west to the Chihuahua. They located a thicket close to the broad white ribbon of the trail and pulled up in its shadow.

  “Now all we can do is wait,” Slade said. “If my hunch is a straight one we should hear them coming before long.”

  The minutes dragged past tediously, with nerves strained to the breaking point. Slade was not altogether easy in his mind about what was to come. The outlaws were desperate men and doubtless skilled in the use of hardware, whereas he knew that most cowboys were anything but good shots. However, there was usually one or two in every outfit who could handle a gun and Mawson and Kent both knew one end of a Colt from the other.

  The moon was almost down to the crest of the western hills, and still the trail lay silent and deserted. The occasional jingle of a bit iron sounded loud in the utter silence. Then suddenly a faint clicking sound drifted from the north to louden quickly to the rhythmic beat of hoofs.

  “It’s them!” whispered Releford.

  “We’ve got to be sure,” Slade told him. “We can’t go throwing lead at just anybody who happens along. But if the ball opens, make it good. I don’t think they’ll be taken without a fight. Steady now and let me do the talking.”

  On came the unseen horses. Another moment and they bulged into view. Slade rode forward. His voice rang out, “Halt! In the name of the State of Texas!”

  The answer was a wild yell and the gleam of the moonlight on gun barrels. Slade’s hands flashed down and up. His first shot boomed before the outlaws could open fire. Followed a horrific outburst of noise and flame and smoke. On either side of Slade the possemen fired as fast as they could pull trigger. Slade saw two of the outlaws fall, heard a cry of pain on his right, a choking grunt on his left. His big Colts bucked in his hands and a third saddle was emptied. Then a fourth man went down. The fifth, bending low in his saddle, flashed down the trail, bullets whining all about him. He was almost out of sixgun range when old Stiffy clamped the butt of Slade’s Winchester to his shoulder. His eyes glanced along the sights. A riderless horse went careening across the prairie.