Bullets for a Ranger_A Walt Slade Western

by Bradford Scott

  “And they’ll pack a lot of woollies, or quite a few cows,” Slade told himself.

  Now the modus operandi of the wide-loopers was perfectly plain. When the tide reached flood stage and began to ebb, the boats would be shoved into the water and the gentle current would take them through the west cave and well out to sea, where a ship would be waiting to receive their cargo. Then the in-shore current, running swiftly and directly through its deep channel scoured out between the ledges in the course of the ages, would return them to the cave, where they would be caught and moored. The ship would proceed with the sheep and unload them at Eldon Paar’s packing plant.

  Yes, very simple, but the hellion who conceived the scheme and put it into operation was a crooked genius if there ever was one, Slade told himself. Why the devil couldn’t such ingenuity be directed into legitimate channels! It was a question that more than once had plagued the Ranger when he had uncovered the amazingly clever but devious manipulations of one who had somehow taken the wrong fork of the trail.

  Of course the stakes in this particular instance were large. Every stolen flock represented thousands of dollars, clear profit for Parr and his associates. The same applied to the improved cows of the section, for which there were plenty of ready markets.

  Greed! The root of much evil.

  With a last look around, Slade returned to Shadow. Not far inside the cave mouth he saw evidence that horses had frequently occupied a space near the wall, evidently left there by the rustlers when they entered the tunnel.

  “All set to drop our loop, horse,” he told the black. “Well, I noticed a little creek a couple of miles on the back trail. We’ll stop off there, and I’ll cook something to eat and you can have a good drink. We’re in no particular hurry, and I’m hungry. Pity I’m not a grass burner like you—would save a lot of work and lost time. But an ordinary mortal like myself can’t live on grass, like Nebuchadnezzar. That requires a special dispensation of Providence and peculiar digestive organs. Let’s go!”

  Slade let Shadow take his time on the return trip, and it was late when he reached the W Diamond ranchhouse. When he entered the living room he found Marie waiting up for him.

  “You’re a sight!” she exclaimed. “What have you been doing, swimming with your clothes on? Never mind, now. I imagine you’re starved, and I’ve kept something warm for you and plenty of hot coffee. Do you want to change before you eat?”

  “I have a clean shirt and overalls in my pouch that should feel better than this wrinkled mess,” he admitted.

  “Go ahead, I’ll have everything ready when you come down.”

  As he ate, Slade recounted his experiences in the cave. She listened in silence until he finished, then, “I suppose you plan to set a trap for those men.”

  “Naturally,” he replied. “I feel pretty sure they may try something the first stormy night. They haven’t had much luck with their ventures of late, and an outlaw leader has to keep the money coming in if he hopes to hold his men in line; I don’t think Parr likes to part with any of his own. Tomorrow I’ll ride down and have a little talk with Lopez and Garcia and the other flock owners; perhaps we can arrange something.”

  “Tomorrow, we will ride,” she corrected.

  “All right,” he agreed. “I don’t see any reason for getting into a ruckus this trip. We’ll cut across the prairie and bypass the town.”

  They rode together the following morning. It was a long ride but a pleasant one. A hearty welcome was accorded them at all the haciendas visited. Lopez, Garcia and Telo agreed to go along with Slade’s plan and were confident they could swing the other owners into line.

  “We’re all glad to lend a hand in an effort to get rid of those pests,” said Lopez. “I believe what you’ve figured out will work. Sure worth giving it a whirl, anyhow.”

  “Yes, I believe it will work,” Slade agreed. “I’m pretty sure they’re keeping a watch on your holdings, and when they see the flocks are unguarded they will be tempted to make a try for one. They figure, I think, that the recent setbacks they have suffered will lull the flock owners into a false sense of security; that’s the way the outlaw mind works. In my opinion, the first stormy night they’ll make a move. Anyhow, I can’t see that anything will be lost, and if it doesn’t work, we’ll have to try something else.”

  “How does the ship know when a flock is coming out to be loaded?” Lopez wondered.

  “They are constantly in touch with one,” Slade replied. “The captain will know approximately when to expect cargo and will stand off-shore waiting. They’ll signal him with a fire, a fire that would lure another vessel to its doom, as in the case of the “Compostella.” No trouble to charter a ship for such a chore. Smuggling is rampant all the way from here to Port Isabel, and unscrupulous skippers are not averse to making a dishonest dollar in any manner that presents itself. Parr has contacts and puts them to use. Well, now all we can do is wait and see if they’ll come to our lure. Keep an eye on the weather and be ready to move at the first sign of a bad night.”

  A tedious wait followed. Although it was the season of Gulf storms, day after day of fine weather prevailed. The salvage crew arrived, and the “Compostella” was pried loose from the reefs and patched up sufficiently to limp to port. The agents at Galveston repeated their disavowal of any explanation as to why she had been in Matagorda Bay.

  “If they know, they sure ain’t talking,” Sheriff Ross told Slade. “I’ve a notion they’re telling the truth. Those Gulf skippers in coastwise trade are a tricky lot and pull things the owners don’t know about.”

  Eldon Parr’s sheep continued to graze on the open range land, and the cattlemen, sticking to their promise, ignored them.

  “I’ve a notion Parr’s beginning to feel that he sort of missed fire, as it were,” Slade chuckled to Ross. “I expect he’s in quite an irritable mood. I hope so, for if he really loses his temper, his judgment will go by the board.”

  “Uh-huh, you mentioned that the night he had the run-in with Al Hodson,” Ross replied. “I believe you’re right.”

  And then one evening clouds began banking up in the southeast. By morning the sky was overcast and a damp wind was blowing in from the bay.

  Slade had a good look at the weather and said, “If they really intend to make a try, I think this is it. Looks like a real storm will be booming in by nightfall. Made to order for them. They can hole up the critters in the cave if the weather is too stormy and wait until it quiets down a bit before shoving them out to the ship. Yes, this should be it.”

  In the late evening, Miguel Lopez, Garcia and Telo arrived at the W Diamond ranchhouse, the decided gathering point. Sebastian Hernandez, Lopez’ range boss, accompanied his patrón. As darkness fell, Sheriff Ross and his three dupties showed up, one at a time. The W Diamond punchers, who were rarin’ to go, completed the posse.

  “Parr hasn’t been seen for two days,” the sheriff announced. “The boys have been keeping a lookout, and they haven’t spotted hair nor hide of him.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Slade commented. “Evidently he’s out rounding up his bunch and preparing to direct operations. I was afraid he might keep in the clear and perhaps give us the slip. It would be like him to have a getaway plan—he’s a crafty devil. Well, I guess we’d better start—we’ve got a long ride ahead of us, and I figure that if they do try something tonight, they’ll be shoving the flock to the cave somewhere around the dark hour before daylight, which will be late with the sky overcast the way it is.”

  “Wind’s getting stronger by the minute,” Lopez observed. “It’s going to be a wild night.”

  “In more ways than one, the chance are,” Slade said. “So long, Marie, be seeing you.”

  Ten minutes later the posse was riding south by west through a night of wind and rain and darkness.

  They rode at a steady pace, with little conversation. Al Hodson carried a bulky bundle across the pommel of his saddle, a quantity of oil-soaked cotton waste wrapped in a wat
er-proof poncho. Others packed a couple of lanterns that Slade thought might prove useful.

  Midnight came and went; an hour passed, and another. The wind still blew, but the rain had ceased and the cloud wrack was thinning. Now large objects could be dimly seen.

  “All to the good,” Slade said, apropos of the weather. “Now we’ll be able to see them approach. With the wind and the rain like they were a while ago, we’d have had to largely depend on guesswork.”

  With unerring accuracy he led the way to the limestone ridge. Finally it loomed darkly against the southern sky, where an occasional star peeped through the clouds. He turned slightly to the east.

  “Over there is an overhang with a hollow in the cliff that’s almost a shallow cave,” he explained. “It will be perfect to hole up the cayuses.”

  Without difficulty they found the hollow in the rock face. Here they dismounted.

  “Bring along the bundle of waste and the lanterns,” Slade said in low tones.

  One deputy was left to watch the horses and make sure they kept quiet. The rest of the posse, with Slade leading, stole west along the face of the ridge. A dozen paces from the cave mouth, Slade called a halt.

  “I’m going ahead and look things over,” he whispered. “Don’t want to walk into a trap or something. “I want to be sure of the lay of the land. No, I don’t want anybody with me; one can go quieter than two.”

  Hugging the rock wall, he reached the cave mouth, glided into it, pressing against the east wall, careful to make no sound. But as he neared where the cave widened, he halted abruptly. Ahead was a faint, flickering glow. Things weren’t working out so well. Without a doubt somebody was in the cave and had a fire going.

  After a long moment of hesitation, he resumed his forward creep. He reached the point where the east wall of the tunnel ended, peered cautiously around it.

  Just beyond where the boats were drawn against the end wall, above where the water turned as it rushed from the east cave, a fire burned briskly. Standing on the far side of the blaze, warming his back, was a man, his form vaguely seen and distorted by the flames.

  20

  SLADE HALTED AGAIN. Now what the devil was he to do? He could shoot the fellow, but that would be in the nature of a cold-blooded killing, beyond the pale for a Ranger. Besides, he earnestly desired to take him alive if possible. From him, he might glean some valuable information.

  Cover him and order him to elevate? Too risky, under the circumstances. He could barely make out his form from where he stood. With one leap the hellion would be in darkness, the advantage all on his side. Slade knew he couldn’t tell whether he was raising his hands as ordered or going for his gun. He had to get to where he could see around the fire, which also was unpleasantly risky.

  Gambling that the fellow would not turn, he stole forward, brushing against the boats, which provided a little shadow from the reflection of the fire on the rock wall. Half a dozen paces he covered, three more, another three. Now he was opposite the edge of the fire and only a couple of yards from where the outlaw lounged, absorbing the comforting warmth. And the unexpected happened. As Slade took one more stride, reaching for his gun, his foot came down on a dry and crooked branch that had rolled from a nearby heap. It broke with a crack like a gunshot in the stillness.

  The man whirled, reaching for his gun. Slade leaped at the same instant. He caught the descending wrist, pinned it against the other’s side. They grappled fiercely, half in the fire, half out, scattering glowing embers in every direction.

  With a yell, the outlaw threw a blow with his free hand. His whizzing fist grazed the Ranger’s jaw. Then Slade’s right hand shot out in turn, landed solidly. The fellow gasped, sagging. Slade struck again, and his fist thudded against the side of the other’s head. He went limp and fell, his wrist jerking out of El Halcón’s grasp.

  But even as he hit the ground, Slade was on top of him, plucking the gun from his holster. He cast it aside, straightened up, poised for instant action. However, the fellow was still dazed by the Ranger’s blows. He mumbled, groaned, his limbs flopped.

  Satisfied that there was no further threat from him, Slade waited a few minutes until he had somewhat collected his scattered faculties. Then he thrust his hands under his shoulders and jerked him to a sitting position to the accompaniment of gabbled oaths.

  “All right,” he said, “seeing as you’re able to swear so well, try standing up. Up, I said!”

  The prod of a gun muzzle in the ribs emphasized the command. The fellow lurched erect and stood weaving, still a bit groggy. Slade waited until he was firm on his feet.

  “All right, head for the outside,” he ordered. “Careful, now, I’ve got an itchy trigger finger.”

  Still mumbling curses, the captive obeyed. With Slade’s gun muzzle against his back, he weaved and stumbled up the slant of the cave to the outer air.

  “What in blazes!” Sheriff Ross sputtered as they emerged from the cave. “Did you grab ’em all by yourself?”

  “Nope, just this one,” Slade replied.

  “Fine!” exclaimed Al Hodson. “Let’s hang him right now–no sense in waiting.”

  “We’ll give him a chance to talk, first,” Slade said. “Light one of the lanterns.”

  “A-a-aw!” said Hodson, in disappointed tones.

  The lantern was lighted. Slade regarded the prisoner. He was a husky, hard-looking individual, his eyes sparkling with resentment.

  “Your bunch is grabbing off a flock tonight?” Slade asked.

  The prisoner scowled and remained sullenly silent.

  “All right, Al, get your rope,” Slade said.

  “Whe-e-e!” chortled Hodson. “I just love a necktie party.” He turned to go.

  “Wait, wait,” yammered the captive. “I’ll talk!”

  “All right, talk,” Slade said. “Answer my question.”

  “Yes, they figure to run a bunch of Telo’s woollies that ain’t got anybody watching them.”

  Slade nodded. Telo swore.

  “And why were you left here? What are you supposed to do?” Slade asked.

  The outlaw hesitated. Looking cheerful, Hodson again turned to go.

  “All right, keep that big hellion off me and I’ll come clean,” the rustler said. “When I hear the woollies coming I’m supposed to wave a lantern to let the boys know everything is okay.”

  “One more question,” Slade said. “Is Eldon Parr with the bunch tonight?” The prisoner nodded.

  “Take him over with the horses, tie him up and gag him,” Slade directed. “The rest of you come along with me. Here, Al, hang onto this lantern. Stay here, and if you see or hear anything, wave it. Then hightail down the cave. I’ll be back as soon as I get the boys set. Somebody light that other lantern, and don’t forget the bundle of waste.”

  As they proceeded down the bore, Slade jerked his thumb to the left.

  “Over there is where they leave the horses, but they drive the sheep on to the big cave,” he said.

  When they reached the main cave, Slade deployed his men with care—in the darkness beyond the fire and a little distance down the cave, making sure they knew their positions.

  “You don’t have to stay there, but be all set to dive back when I come with the word,” he directed. “And keep the fire going. That way, their eyes will be dazzled by it. Plenty of wood stacked over there. A branch that slid from the heap nearly caused me to get my comeuppance. All right, everything understood? I’m going back to keep Al company.”

  When he reached the outside, he found Hodson leaning against the rock, smoking a cigarette.

  “Everything quiet out here,” he said. “Now what?”

  “Now there’s nothing to do but wait,” Slade replied.

  It proved to be a long and tedious wait, and Slade began to grow anxious. Perhaps something had miscarried. Perhaps the canny Parr had smelled a mouse and abandoned the try for one of the flocks. It was with relief that he finally heard, thin with distance, the bleating of the t
ired and disgusted sheep. A few minutes later his keen eyes spotted the crawling whitish mass that was the advancing woollies. He waited a few minutes more, then waved the lantern.

  A moment later an answering light swayed and bobbed in the distance. He waved the lantern again.

  “Let’s go,” he told his companion. They hurried down the bore.

  The men of the posse were lounging about the fire when they reached the main cave, smoking and talking.

  “Get set,” Slade told them. “They should be here in another twenty minutes. Neale, you are the peace officer and in charge; you do the talking. Perhaps they’ll surrender, but I doubt it—they’re salty. You have to give them the chance, but if they don’t take it, shoot fast and shoot straight. Okay, everything understood?”

  He gathered up the unrolled bundle of oily waste and stood ready to toss it on the fire.

  Another tedious wait followed. Then, abruptly, the bleating of the sheep filled the cave. A few more minutes and, complaining querulously, they streamed into the range of the firelight, a goodly number. Following them came eight or nine men, shoving them along.

  Slade waited another moment, then with an underhand pitch he tossed the waste onto the fire.

  With a roar, a sheet of flame shot up to the rock roof, making the scene bright as day, revealing the rigid forms of the astounded outlaws, Eldon Parr looming in the rear. Sheriff Ross’s voice rang out.

  “Elevate! You’re covered. In the name of the law!”

  “Caught settin’,” as it were, it looked like the bunch would be taken without the firing of a shot. Then Eldon Parr’s right hand streaked to his left armpit. Instantly the air rocked and quivered to the thunder of the guns.

  Unprepared, dazed, the outlaws never had a chance. Half their number went down under that first bellowing volley. Slade shot with both hands, and two more fell. The two remaining on their feet flung down their weapons and howled for mercy.

  Slade saw Eldon Parr whirl and dash madly across the cave. He swerved to the left and raced down the steep incline. Slade bounded after him, Ross and Miguel Lopez pounding along in his rear.