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  DEATH’S

  CORRAL

  BRADFORD SCOTT

  WILDSIDE PRESS

  This book is fiction. No resemblance is intended between any character herein and any person, living or dead; any such resemblance is purely coincidental.

  Copyright, © 1963, by Pyramid Publications, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved

  1

  ECHO CANYON—the old-timers who had first passed that way named it. The name fitted. The acoustics of the narrow gorge walled by cracked and broken and fissured cliffs were remarkable, even frightening. A spoken word was tossed to and fro like a tennis ball as precipice called to precipice. A shout evoked a veritable witches’ carnival of howls and wails and bellows in every conceivable tone. A laugh was answered by shrieks of fiendish merriment. Even a whisper ran up the rocks in mysterious murmurs till at last it died away in long-drawn sighs of sound. While the beat of a horse’s speeding irons set up a nerve-shattering drumroll that vibrated the ears like the diapason of hammered steel. And a gunshot aroused a spiralling thunderclap that soared to the startled sky.

  The Mexicans had another name for the ghastly hole. In their laconic patois they said, cementerio—graveyard.

  That name also fitted. For the canyon was a narrow gateway from the north to the sinister trail that slithered through Persimmon Gap on its way to the Rio Grande and Mexico. Through Echo Canyon the Plains Indians raided into Mexico by way of Comanche Crossing. Wideloopers used it as a short cut for stolen herds. Under the frown of its crags, smugglers bartered with buyers. Outlaws, sometimes with peace officers hot on their trail, found it a convenience. Its stones were blackened with dried blood, its floor sown blue with bones. Echo Canyon had known much evil, and would know more.

  So Ranger Walt Slade, sitting on his tall black horse on the lip of the east wall, who had heard of Echo Canyon and wondered if its echoes were really as remarkable as they were claimed to be, gazed into the gloomy depths of the gorge with interest.

  “Shadow,” he said to the horse, “I slipped. We should have taken the north fork of the trail back there to the east; that would doubtless have led us right to the canyon mouth. Why this snake track ran up to the cliff summit, I’m not sure. However, very likely the Indians used this spot as a sort of lookout post—you can see to the north for miles. Then when something promising came into sight, they’d slide down the north slope, which doesn’t look very difficult, and be all set for business. So we’ll follow their example and hope we don’t collect too many scratches.”

  Shadow snorted equine disgust but did not otherwise comment. Slade chuckled, and continued to gaze into the dark depths of the canyon where the trail which wound through it, nearly three hundred feet below, was but a grayish trace in the gloom.

  He was still a bit puzzled about the trail that led to the cliff top. As he said, it had very likely been originally used by Indians, but it showed indubitable indications that a horse or horses had used it quite recently, and frequently. Which was the reason he had turned from the more beaten track which, of course, led to the various ranches to the north, the trail by way of which he had entered the section from the north and east. Well, he had so far been unable to gratify his curiosity. Later he would, in a somewhat startling manner. At the moment he decided the chances were it meant nothing, anyhow. He dismissed the matter from his mind and concentrated on his more immediate surroundings.

  Slade made an eye-filling picture as he sat on his magnificent horse in the deep glow of the afternoon sun. Very tall, more than six feet, his wide shoulders and broad chest slimmed down to a lean, sinewy waist, and his face was in keeping with his splendid form. His rather wide mouth, grin-quirked at the corners, relieved somewhat the tinge of fierceness evinced by the prominent hawk nose above and the powerful jaw and chin beneath. His pushed-back “J.B.”, the broad-brimmed Stetson favored by cowhands, revealed a wide forehead surmounted by crisp thick black hair. The sternly handsome countenance was dominated by black-lashed eyes of a very pale gray, the kind of eyes associated with the intrepid gunfighters of the Old West. They were cold, reckless eyes that nevertheless always seemed to have little devils of laughter lurking in their clear depths, devils that could surge to the front, did occasion warrant, and be anything but laughing.

  Thus the man the Mexican peones of the Rio Grande villages named El Halcón—The Hawk—“the singingest man in the whole Southwest, with the fastest gunhand,” sat and gazed into the murky depths of Echo Canyon, Cementerio.

  “Well, Shadow—” he began. “What in blazes?”

  The canyon had suddenly eructed a booming rumble that got louder and louder, and which Slade identified as the magnified beat of a speeding horse’s irons on the rock floor.

  “Well!” he exclaimed, “that hole is all that’s claimed for it when it comes to kicking up a racket!” He leaned forward, peering.

  “Say, that fellow is sure sifting sand,” he added.

  Another moment and the rider flashed past, to the accompaniment of an outrageous tumult, a vanishing shadow amid the shadows.

  But the tumult didn’t lessen. It doubled, trebled, quadrupled. Abruptly the canyon exploded a volcanic roar that vibrated the cliff top. Gunfire!

  Five more horsemen flickered past. The tense watcher on the cliff could see the reddish flashes. The echoes bawled and bellowed.

  Abruptly the shooting stopped. “Got him!” shouted a voice and this was followed by a wild laugh.

  “Got him! Got him! Got him!” howled the echoes, with screaming bursts of demoniac mirth.

  The uproar ceased as suddenly as it began and there was comparative silence broken only by mysterious mutterings and hissings. Then again the amplified rumbling of hoofs that soon died away to nothingness.

  “Let’s go, horse,” Slade said quietly. “Could be only a sheriff’s posse chasing an owlhoot, but somehow I don’t think so. I think a snake-blooded killing took place in that hole. Well, we’ll try and find out.”

  It took time to negotiate the slope, for it was grown with thorny chaparral. Shadow collected a few scratches and Slade got a welt on one bronzed cheek where a trailing branch whipped him.

  Finally, however, they made it to the level rangeland. A few score yards westerly and the canyon mouth yawned before them. Slade sent his mount into it and the devilish chorus of echoes began afresh. Shadow didn’t like the looks of the blasted hole and signified his displeasure by snorting, rolling his eyes, and flattening his ears.

  “That row won’t hurt you, even though it is hard on the eardrums,” Slade reassured him. “Just take it easy and keep your eyes peeled; no telling what we are liable to run into.”

  He used his own eyes continually, for here, amid the constant uproar of the echoes, his keen hearing was of little use.

  But those eyes were the eyes of El Halcón, which folks maintained could see around corners and through chunks of mountain.

  For perhaps a quarter of a mile he rode slowly, then abruptly reined in.

  The dead man lay in the middle of the trail, his arms wide-flung, his glazed eyes staring stonily at the sky. His horse was nowhere in sight. Apparently it had followed the others, or had been led away.

  After a quick but all embracing glance at his surroundings, Slade dismounted and approached the body. One look told him the man had been shot to pieces.

  “That was no sheriff’s posse,” he told Shadow. “A posse doesn’t gun a man like this and leave him lying. Looks like we barged into something the moment we hit the section. Well, it’s in line with the reports that have been coming into Ranger headquarters.”

  He started to squat beside the body, then abruptly straightened up; the echoes had begun muttering again.

  Directly ahead the canyon curved sharply. Slade s
tood perfectly still beside the body, waiting.

  Around the bend bulged two riders. They jerked their mounts to a slithering halt, peering. One let out a shout, “Get him!” Hands flashed to gun butts.

  Slade, weaving and ducking, drew and shot, left and right. One of the riders spun from the saddle and thudded on the rock floor. His companion gave a yell, his left arm flapping grotesquely, and lurched to the right. His answering bullet ripped Slade’s shirt sleeve. Slade fired again, aiming to cripple, not kill, for he ardently wished to take the fellow alive. But just as he pulled trigger, the other lurched back and caught the slug dead center. He toppled from the hull and lay motionless beside the first. The riderless horses, snorting and blowing, dashed past Slade and up the canyon, setting the wild echoes flying in sober earnest.

  Ejecting the spent shells from his guns and replacing them with fresh cartridges, Slade walked forward and gazed down at hardlined countenances blotched and spotted by dissipation. Border scum of the worst sort.

  “Now what is this all about?” he asked Shadow. “Did the hellions recognize me as El Halcón? Looks sort of that way, unless they were just a pair of mad-dog killers. Well, perhaps we’ll get the answer at Sanderson. Hope we find Sheriff Tom Crane in his office; he may know something. We’ll pack that poor devil over there to town with us—less than fifteen miles to go and you’ve packed bodies that way before, so don’t start fussing. Fellow looks like a Mexican, doesn’t he? A Mexican of all or nearly all Spanish blood. Not a bad-appearing jigger, quite different from these two devils. They’ll have to wait till the sheriff sends for them; three carcasses would be a mite too much for you, I’m afraid.”

  “One’s bad enough,” Shadow’s snort seemed to say. “Let’s get going, I’m hungry.”

  “Take it easy,” Slade replied. “I’m not quite finished yet.”

  He turned out the two dead killers’ pockets, discovering nothing he considered significant, just the various trinkets usually carried by range riders, which the pair appeared to be. Had been, rather, for their hands showed no recent marks of rope or branding iron. Each divulged quite a bit of money, which he replaced.

  “More than they ever saved from following a cow’s tail,” was his comment. “I’ve a notion we did a pretty good chore, here. Well, we’ll find out, perhaps in Sanderson. I hope so.”

  He draped the body of the killers’ victim back of the cantle, securing it with his piggin string or short tie rope. Then with a last look at the two owlhoots, for he was very much of the opinion that they were owlhoots, he mounted and continued on his way through the eerily resounding gorge.

  As he rode, Slade studied the canyon, endeavoring to ascertain the source of the really remarkable echo. Gradually he became convinced that most, if not all of the echoes, were thrown back by the west wall. This was interesting, for the two walls seemed identical in formation.

  And as he drew nearer the south mouth of the gorge, the echoes dimmed, became muffled, then ceased altogether. Which was also interesting, he thought, seeing that the configuration of the walls was apparently no different from farther up the canyon.

  “Very peculiar,” he observed to Shadow. “Now just what is the explanation, I wonder.”

  Shadow either didn’t know or if he did he preferred to keep the knowledge to himself, seeing as the only reply he vouchsafed was a derisive snort.

  “Just the same,” his rider insisted, “when I get the chance I’m going to do a little investigating.”

  He rode on, his eyes thoughtful, puzzling over the unusual phenomenon. After a while he put the matter into the back of his mind for future reference and turned his thoughts to more immediate matters.

  2

  THE SUN was low in the west when, without suffering mishap, Slade reached the south mouth of the canyon. A mile farther on, he knew, was the east-west trail that led to Sanderson, the railroad town and his destination.

  Striking the trail in due time, he rode west at a steady gait, Shadow making light of the double burden he was packing. Slade figured he had something less than a dozen miles still to go. He did not push the horse and it was well past dark when he saw the lights of Sanderson twinkling in the distance.

  Sanderson is located in a deep canyon, one wall of which rises over the main street. It had been, and still was, a wild frontier town when Walt Slade rode toward it under the bonfire stars of Texas that seemed to almost brush the cliff tops. It was a repair and division point on the Southern Pacific, with large railroad shops and yards.

  Sanderson, founded by “Uncle” Charlie Wilson in the 1880’s, had always been wild and wooly, but the arrival of the railroad brought more citizens, some of them not exactly desirable, more saloons, and more trouble. Outlaws roamed the mountains and canyons of the Big Bend country to the southwest and, among other dubious things, trafficked in “wet” herds stolen in Mexico and driven across the Rio Grande, often at the old Comanche Crossing. Nor were they reluctant when it came to rolling Texas cows across into mañana land, where there were buyers awaiting them. Stagecoaches and railroad trains were not exempt, nor were banks or other depositories for cash.

  “Judge Roy Bean, Law West of the Pecos,” owned a saloon there for a time where, as in Langtry, his “own” town, he was wont to dispense justice with a law book in one hand and a six-shooter in the other.

  Many of Sanderson’s citizens were as colorful as the town’s history. The Regan brothers, principals in the story of the “Lost Negro Mine,” perhaps the most famous of all the “lost” mines of Texas, had dwelt here for a while. A Negro who worked for them had been sent to round up some stray horses. He returned, not with the horses, but with his pockets full of rocks. The brothers cuffed him for disobedience and fired him, chasing him out of their camp, not realizing until he was gone that the rocks he had found were rich in gold ore. It was said that the Regans spent a fortune trying unsuccessfully to find the missing colored man.

  This story and others passed through Walt Slade’s mind as he drew near the town. He was familiar with Sanderson and knew where to find the sheriff’s office. When he drew rein beside the building, he saw a light burning in the office. He dismounted and entered.

  Grizzled old Sheriff Tom Crane glanced up from his desk, inquiringly, stared and jumped to his feet.

  “Slade!” he exclaimed. “So McNelty sent me El Halcón, the notorious outlaw too smart to get caught! Well, this is better luck than I’d hoped for. How are you, Walt? Man! Am I glad to see you! Sit down, sit down. I’ve got a pot of coffee steaming. Imagine you’re hungry, but we’ll have a cup together before hunting something to eat.”

  “Just a minute, Tom,” Slade replied as they shook hands. “I want to show you something my horse is packing.”

  With the puzzled sheriff following, he led the way to where Shadow stood patiently waiting.

  “For the love of Pete!” Crane exploded. “It’s a dead man, ain’t it?”

  “He looks sort of that way to me,” Slade returned composedly. “Perhaps you know him.”

  He raised the dead man’s head so Crane could peer at his face. The sheriff did so and uttered a startled exclamation.

  “Heck and blazes! He is, was, rather, Rafael Vergara, Don Pancho Arista’s cart train manager, a sort of field man who contacted the buyers and shippers to the north and east. Walt, this is bad. It’s liable to mean big trouble, as if we didn’t have trouble enough already. He—”

  “Wait,” Slade interrupted. “Let’s pack him into the office and then, after I’ve stabled my horse, you can tell me about it. Stable around the corner is still there, I imagine?”

  “That’s right,” said the sheriff. “Old Tomas Cano still runs it; he’ll remember you. I’ll give you a hand with the carcass.”

  “No need,” Slade replied. Deftly unroping the body, he lifted it with no apparent effort, carried it into the office, and laid it on the floor, straightening the limbs and folding the hands peacefully on the breast.

  “Now for my cayuse,” he sai
d.

  “Okay,” replied the sheriff. “Coffee will be ready when you get back.’”

  It was but a short walk to the livery stable. The door was opened by an elderly Mexican who peered at his late visitor, then cried out with delight, “Capitán! Is it really you?”

  “Guess it is,” Slade replied smilingly, extending his hand, which the old fellow took diffidently, bowing his white head.

  “El Halcón! The good, the just, the compassionate, the friend of the lowly,” he murmured. “Capitán, I am honored. And the beautiful caballo! Doubtless he remembers me.” Shadow, who allowed no one to touch him without his master’s permission, thrust his muzzle into the fearlessly extended hand and blew softly through his nose.

  “Sí, he remembers,” chuckled Tomás. “The stall, the rub-down, and the oats for him. It is the pleasure to care for such a one.”

  Knowing that all Shadow’s wants would be provided for, Slade said goodnight to Tomás and returned to the office, where cups of steaming coffee waited.

  For a while he and the sheriff sipped in silence, then Slade rolled a cigarette with the slim fingers of his left hand and suggested, “Now suppose you finish what you started to tell me about Don Pancho Arista.”

  “Well,” answered the sheriff, “it’s like this. Arista owns a string of carts that ply back and forth between the Rio Grande and here and on to the north and east. Has always had just about a monopoly of the business; been in it for years. But about six months back, John Webb, who owns the Cross W ranch to the north of here, decided to start a line in competition with Arista. I figure Arista didn’t pay the competition much mind. But Webb found he had most of the folks tied up in contract and hasn’t been doing nearly as well as he’d hoped to, and doesn’t like it. He’s an old shorthorn type, and Arista is sorta fiery, so they had words. Webb has been making big medicine. Swears he’ll run Arista out of business before he’s finished with him. Up to tonight, nothing really bad happened. A couple of Arista’s carts were burned here in town, and, of course, he blames Webb. I have my doubts that Webb had anything to do with it, but some of his hands who are wild young hellions might have. Anyhow, it didn’t serve to ease the tension. Arista growled and grumbled and asked me to try and run down the hellions responsible; didn’t ask very nice. I’ve a notion, though, that he would have forgotten all about it before long.