The Hate Trail

  Copyright, © 1963, by Pyramid Publications, Inc. All Rights Reserved

  ONE

  FLYING LEAD plays no favorites.

  Ranger Walt Slade, he whom the peons of the Rio Grande River villages named El Halcón—The Hawk—ducked instinctively as the slug sang past overhead.

  The second one came closer, fanning his face with its lethal breath. A third twitched at the sleeve of his shirt like an urgent hand.

  That was enough! He whirled Shadow, his tall black horse on a dime and skalleyhooted into a convenient alley. He was turning his mount to face the main street when half a dozen riders stormed past, shooting back over their shoulders.

  A shotgun let go with a thundering roar. One of the riders yelped a curse. Evidently a pellet from the double load of buckshot had nicked him. But he stayed in the hull and kept going.

  The shotgun cut loose with another blast. A couple of six-guns chimed in blithely. Down the street charged a gray-mustached old jigger with a big nickel badge pinned to his shirt front and the still smoking sawed-off in his hand.

  “And don’t come back!” he bawled after the retreating horsemen as they whisked around a corner and out of sight.

  Glancing about, he saw Slade sitting his horse in the alley mouth.

  “And where the devil did you come from?” he barked.

  “I don’t ask you where you come from, though I think I’d have a right to after you singeing my whiskers with your blue whistlers,” Slade retorted. “What’s the idea, anyhow? Can’t a peaceable stranger ride into town without having to dodge hot lead?”

  “You may be peaceable, but this blankety-blank-blank town sure ain’t,” the sheriff growled.

  Glancing up the street, Slade felt that the remark was something in the nature of an understatement. Two men, cursing and limping, were being helped along the board sidewalk. A third was swabbing his bullet gashed cheek with a bloody handkerchief. A fourth cherished a blood-dripping hand.

  The sheriff continued to regard Slade with scant favor, a scowl on his bad-tempered old face. Slade smiled, the flashing white smile of El Halcón, that men, and women, found irresistible. The sheriff tried to glower, but instead he grinned, a trifle crustily, perhaps, but he grinned.

  “What you want here, son?” he asked in somewhat mollified tones.

  “First,” Slade answered, “a place for my horse to put on the nosebag and take it easy for a spell.”

  “Turn him around and you’ll come to a livery stable a hop and a skip down the alley,” the sheriff replied.

  “Then a place where I can tie onto a surrounding, and somewhere to sleep,” Slade added.

  “The Trail End saloon right across the street puts out a good surrounding of chuck, that is, if the kitchen ain’t shot up too much—a notion it ain’t.”

  “What started the corpse-and-cartridge session?” Slade asked.

  “Hanged if I know for sure,” the sheriff answered. “Those hellions who sifted sand out of town started it, I think. I ain’t got the lowdown from anybody yet. And in such rukuses, everybody always blames everybody else—‘I was plumb innocent, Sheriff. Was just mindin’ my own business when that sidewinder cut down on me. Why? Hanged if I know.’ That’s what I’ll get when I start asking questions. Did you get a good look at the hellions?” Slade shook his head.

  “I’d just dived into the alley and hadn’t got my cayuse turned around yet,” he replied. “Didn’t see their faces at all except a sideways glimpse as they turned in their hulls to shoot back.”

  “ ’Bout the same with me,” grunted the sheriff. “Well, they’re gone and I expect they won’t come back. Nobody cashed in, I gather, just a few punctures Doc Beard will take care of.”

  He hesitated, studied Slade a moment. “You asked about a place to pound your ear, I believe,” he remarked. “Well, I won’t rec’mend the fleabags they call hotels or rooming houses, but I’ve a notion Clint Adams—he runs the livery stable—will have a vacant room over his stalls right now; he sleeps there. Tell Clint Sheriff Carter sent you and I’ve a notion he’ll take you in.”

  “Thank you,” Slade answered. “That helps a lot. I like to sleep close to my horse.”

  “So I expect,” the sheriff conceded dryly. “Be seeing you. I’ll amble over to the Trail End and see if I can learn anything—be darned surprised if I do.”

  Before the sheriff was half way across the street, he demanded querulously, of himself, “Now who the blankety-blank is he? Just comes to me that while I figured on trying to learn a mite about him, I did all the talking and he didn’t say a darn thing.”

  Which, had the sheriff known it, was a peculiarity that had puzzled and bewildered wiser men than himself. Walt Slade would talk freely and pleasantly, almost volubly at times; but he wouldn’t tell you anything.

  Left to his own devices, Slade located the stable without difficulty. A husky individual with a blocky face and a truculent eye opened the door in answer to his knock. He gave Slade a glance, stared at Shadow.

  “Bring him in! Bring him in!” he rumbled. Slade dismounted and did so.

  “It’s okay, Shadow,” he said. The big black, who had flattened his ears when the keeper reached for the bridle iron, pricked them forward again.

  “One-man horse, eh?” grunted that worthy. “That’s the right kind. He’ll get proper care, and be here when you want him.”

  “Sheriff Carter said you might have a sleeping room for rent,” Slade observed. The keeper nodded.

  “Brian Carter’s all right, but the horse is a better rec’mendation,” he said. “Yep, I’ve got a room open. First one at the head of the stairs; I sleep in the second. Key’s in the door, and here’s one to the front door. I don’t often give ’em out, but a feller who rides that horse must be okay.”

  “Thank you,” Slade said as he accepted the key and picked up his saddle pouches and rifle.

  “Don’t thank me, thank the horse,” Clint grunted.

  “I have, more than once,” Slade smiled. “If it wasn’t for him, several times over, I wouldn’t be alive today.”

  “Don’t doubt that,” Clint said, running a keen glance over the Ranger’s face and form.

  He saw a tall man, more than six feet, with a breadth of shoulder that matched his height and a deep chest slimming down to a sinewy waist. Doubtless he found the sternly handsome countenance of his guest also arresting. The lines of a rather wide mouth relieved somewhat the tinge of fierceness evinced by the prominent hawk nose above and the powerful chin and jaw beneath.

  The lean, deeply bronzed face was dominated by long, black-lashed eyes of very pale gray, cold, reckless eyes that nevertheless always seemed to have little devils of laughter dancing in their clear depths. But old Clint, a shrewd observer, felt that should occasion warrant, those devils, leaping to the fore, would be anything but laughing. His pushed-back J.B. revealed thick, crisp hair so black a blue shadow seemed to lie upon it.

  Slade wore the homely but efficient garb of the rangeland with careless grace—bibless overalls tucked into well scuffed half-boots of softly tanned leather, a blue shirt with a vivid neckerchief looped at the throat. The broad-brimmed hat completed the costume.

  Circling his waist were double cartridge belts, from the carefully worked and oiled cut-out holsters of which protruded the plain black butts of heavy guns.

  And from those gun butts his slender, powerful hands seemed never far away.

  “Trough of running water in the back if you’d care to splash the dust off,” said Clint as Slade descended the stairs after stowing his gear in the plainly furnished but clean little room. “It’s cold, but fresh. Soap on the shelf and a towel hanging on a nail.”

  “Thanks,” Slade accepted gratefully. “That’ll help a lot.”
r />   The sluice in the icy water was refreshing. After which he donned his well-worn garments, decided he could do another day without a shave and sallied forth in quest of the Trail End and something to eat.

  “Now who the devil is he?” Clint asked of the unresponsive Shadow as the door closed on Slade’s broad back. “Looks like a chuck-line-ridin’ cowhand, but I’ll bet my bottom peso he ain’t. Oh, well, we’re getting all sorts hereabouts of late and I reckon one more won’t hurt. I’m putting a snort in your water—goes well with oats. Don’t do it for everybody, but you and him both are a mite out of the ordinary.”

  TWO

  THE TRAIL END proved to be a typical cowtown saloon, bigger and better appointed than most. There was a long bar, a dance floor with a small raised platform to accommodate the orchestra, poker tables, two roulette wheels, a faro bank, a lunch counter, and tables for more leisurely diners.

  Although it was still only midafternoon, the bar was well crowded, mostly with cowhands, and everybody appeared to be excitedly discussing the recent gunplay.

  Sitting at a nearby table putting away a surrounding was Sheriff Brian Carter. He intercepted Slade’s glance and beckoned.

  “Sit down there where I can keep an eye on you,” he ordered as Slade drew near. “Where’d you say you came from?”

  “I didn’t,” Slade replied, accepting the vacant chair, “but if you’re real anxious to know, I rode in from the west.”

  “So!” the sheriff exclaimed. “Got chased outa Oldham County and decided to give Potter a whirl, eh?”

  “Well, the sheriff over there did think it might be a good idea for me to move on,” Slade replied smilingly. He refrained from mentioning that the sheriff of Oldham County was an old friend who thought that Slade’s “reason” for being in the section might possibly be hanging around Amarillo.

  “I don’t doubt it! I don’t doubt it!” Sheriff Carter agreed heartily. “That hellion over there is always sending me trouble.” He beckoned a waiter.

  “Fatten him up so he can’t slip between the bars,” he directed.

  “I’ll do that, Sheriff,” the grinning waiter promised, adding sotto voce, but not too sotto to Slade, “Try and get him to lock you up, feller. We send over the meals for the prisoners and fellers have been knowed to spit on the sidewalk just for a chance at getting free helpin’s from the Trail End.”

  “You’ll get a chance at some free helpin’s if you don’t keep your thumb outa my bowl of soup!” the sheriff declared. The waiter chuckled, took Slade’s order and hurried to the kitchen.

  “Learn any more about who started the shindig and why?” Slade asked. The sheriff shook his head.

  “Best I can gather, somebody made a misdeal,” he replied. “Those six hellions came in here together. A couple of ’em got in a poker game. There was a row and the other four, who were at the bar, joined in. I ain’t sure just which side really started it. Card players are usually close-mouthed and you can’t get ’em to talk. Prefer to settle their differences themselves.”

  Slade nodded thoughtfully. He wished he had gotten a look at the six riders who hightailed out of town.

  “Aiming to coil your twine here?” the sheriff asked suddenly.

  “Maybe, if you’ll promise not to throw me in the calaboose just for the fun of doing it,” Slade answered, with a smile.

  “I ain’t promising,” said the sheriff. “Every stranger who ambles in of late either ends up there or ought to. It is a good section for cowhands, though. The spreads hereabouts are always short of help.”

  Slade knew that the shrewd old peace officer, despite the persiflage in which he indulged, was covertly studying him and doing a bit of probing. Well, one couldn’t blame him. The Cowboy Capital was a trouble spot. There was no town organization and the affairs and laws of the community were administered by the county officials and it was up to them to try and keep something resembling order. Which was no easy chore and it was not unnatural that all strangers were to an extent suspect.

  Slade’s meal arrived and there followed a period of busy silence. Finally the sheriff pushed back his empty plate with a sigh of contentment. He hauled out a black pipe and stuffed it with tobacco. When the steamer was going to his satisfaction, he spoke—

  “So John Davenport sent you over here, eh? Why?”

  Slade regarded him for a moment. He liked the old fellow’s looks, felt that he was trustworthy, not exactly stupid and could keep a tight latigo on his jaw. He decided to take him into his confidence, to an extent.

  “Sheriff,” he said, “did you ever hear of Veck Sosna?”

  The sheriff’s eyes widened. “Why, I reckon I have,” he admitted. “He was the pack leader of the Comachero outlaws who raised heck in the Canadian River Valley and up around the Oklahoma Border a few years back. Yep, I heard of him; I was a deputy in those days. Why?”

  “Because,” Slade replied, “I have reason to believe that Sosna has returned to his old stamping grounds and has organized a following—he’s a genius at that.”

  The sheriff jumped in his chair. “The devil you say!” he sputtered. “As if I didn’t have enough on my hands! I—” his voice died away and he stared at Slade. Then he glanced around, leaned forward and lowered his voice.

  “I’ve got you placed at last!” he said. “Been trying to figure it since I first clapped eyes on you. Now I’ve got it. You’re El Halcón!”

  “Been called that,” Slade admitted composedly.

  The sheriff gave a hollow groan. “Trouble, trouble, trouble!” he lamented. “Why’d you have to come here? Everybody knows trouble just follows you around.”

  “Perhaps you’ll have less by the time I’m ready to leave,” Slade replied.

  “That’s plumb sure for certain,” the sheriff declared, with fervor. “Yes, sir, sure as the sun rising in the morning. And you’re looking for Sosna?”

  “Well, I’ve chased him all over Texas and Mexico,” Slade said. “Thought a couple of times I’d gotten rid of him for good, but he’s got more lives than a cat and has always managed to survive.”

  “Uh-huh, I’ve heard of the feud between you two hellions,” growled the sheriff. “Maybe you’ll finish each other off,” he added hopefully.

  “I hope you’re wrong about that,” Slade smiled. “I’d sure hate to have to keep on chasing Veck Sosna through eternity.”

  Sheriff Carter chuckled. “Reckon you must feel sort of that way about it,” he conceded. “But mavericking around as El Halcón, an owlhoot too smart to get caught, will end up getting you in trouble. Oh, I know there are no reward notices out for you—I’ve heard that discussed—but give a dog a bad name—”

  “First you have to drop a loop on the dog,” Slade smiled.

  “Oh, you’re too darn smart for me to arg’fy with,” snorted the sheriff. “But about Sosna, you really think he might show up here in Amarillo?”

  “I’ve been wondering if he hasn’t already shown up,” Slade answered.

  “Now what the devil do you mean by that?” demanded Carter.

  “Nothing much, except I wish I’d gotten a good look at those hellions you chased out of town,” Slade said. “Somehow it seemed to me that antic had the Sosna touch; I just can’t help wondering a mite.”

  Sheriff Carter tugged his mustache and frowned. Abruptly he stood up.

  “You stay right here,” he said. “I’m going to mosey around and see if I can learn anything.” He stalked to the bar and engaged the head bartender in conversation. Slade relaxed comfortably in his chair and rolled another cigarette. Things appeared to be working out rather better than he had hoped for. And that once again his El Halcón reputation was going to pay off. The sheriff, no doubt, considered him the lesser of two evils and would be glad to pit El Halcón, “the singingest man in the whole Southwest, with the fastest gunhand,” against the devilish Sosna whose name was a byword throughout the Texas Panhandle country for ruthlessness, devilish ingenuity and sadistic cruelty. And, as the sheriff sa
id, if the hellions did for each other, well—

  Not that he really believed the old peace officer was that callous where human life was concerned. Just a subconscious assumption that in such an event his troubles would be lessened.

  Due to his habit of working under cover whenever possible and often not revealing his Ranger connections, Walt Slade had built up a peculiar dual reputation. Those who knew the truth insisted vigorously that he was not only the most fearless but the most capable of the Rangers. Others, who knew him only as El Halcón, were wont to declare just as vigorously that he was just a blasted owlhoot too smart to get caught but who would get his comeuppance sooner or later.

  Captain Jim McNelty, the famous Commander of the Border Battalion of the Texas Rangers, knew well that the deception laid Slade open to grave personal danger at the hands of some triggernervous marshal or deputy, to say nothing of professional gunslingers out to get a reputation by downing the notorious El Halcón and not above shooting in the back as a means to their end.

  But he was forced to admit that the deception paid off at times, that outlaws, doubtless believing they had but one of their own brand and a lone wolf seeking to horn in on somebody else’s good thing to deal with would at times grow careless, to Slade’s advantage. Also that avenues of information were open to him that would have been closed to a known Ranger. So Captain Jim would growl and fuss but not actually forbid his lieutenant and ace man to continue the deception, allowing Slade to go his own cheerful way with little thought for the danger involved and with confidence in the future.

  Among those who did not know the truth, Slade had champions as well as detractors. “Sure he’s cashed in a lot of hellions, but just show me one that didn’t have a killing long overdue. That’s a chore for the sheriffs and marshals, you say? Huh! it’s a chore for any decent and law-abiding citizen. More power to him!”

  And the Mexican peons would say, “El Halcón! the friend of the lowly, of all who are wronged or sorrow or are oppressed. El Halcón, who walks in the shadow of God’s hand!”