Bullets for a Ranger_A Walt Slade Western Page 10

  “That’s the one you’ll sleep in if you sign up as range boss,” he added to Slade. “I’d rather have you here than in the bunkhouse, so you’ll be handy in case I need you.”

  “And we figure to have a little poker game in the bunkhouse tonight,” Al Hodson said. “Care to join us, Slade?”

  “Be glad to,” the Ranger accepted. “Haven’t looked at a pasteboard for quite a while.” Marie made a moue at him.

  “Come along first, Mr. Slade, and I’ll show you your room,” she said. They mounted the stairs, and she opened a door to show a wide and airy room, comfortably furnished.

  “Hope you’ll like it,” she said.

  “I know I will,” he replied.

  “And do you intend to sign up with us, Mr. Slade?” she asked.

  “The offer becomes more and more attractive all the time,” he conceded smilingly. “Incidentally, an owner usually addresses a range boss by his first name and does away with the Mister.”

  “I hope you’ll find it still more attractive—Walt,” she said softly. “And, seeing as I am only a half-owner, I think we can dispense with the Miss.”

  “All right—Marie,” he replied. “Yes, it is steadily becoming more attractive.”

  “Have luck at your poker game,” she said. She led the way downstairs, where the hands were awaiting him.

  “How about you settin’ in, Doc?” Hodson asked.

  “Not me,” that worthy declined unequivocally. “All right for you young whippersnappers to sit up all night, but I expect work to do tomorrow.”

  Waring also declined, citing a similar reason. Slade and the others trooped out.

  The poker game lasted until after midnight. Slade enjoyed it, for he liked poker. He managed to stay about even, which was what he wished to do.

  When he reached the ranchhouse, he found a low light burning in the living room. Curled up in an easy chair was Marie Waring, the light striking glints of gold in her tawny hair.

  “I waited up for you,” she said, unnecessarily.

  “Nice of you,” Slade smiled. “I’m glad you did.”

  “I wished to talk to you about several things,” she said. “First, something I think you should know before you sign up with us, if you decide to do so.”

  “Yes?” Slade asked expectantly.

  “Yes. Very likely you will hear things said about my brother. Things which I assure you are not true. Phil was rather wild when he was younger, before our father died, and was in trouble a few times. But he is honest, and he doesn’t lie.”

  “How could he be otherwise with such a charming advocate,” Slade parried. He was thinking of Miguel Lopez’ rather vague remark anent Phil Waring, which ended with—“but I don’t spread gossip.” He decided that a direct question was in order.

  “Just what is being said of him?” he asked.

  “Somehow, by somebody, it seems a whisper started,” she replied slowly, “that Phil is connected with the so-called men of steel you exposed. That he is their leader. I hope you won’t believe it.”

  “I never take much stock in what’s said about a person, especially if it isn’t said to his face; I make a habit of finding out for myself before passing judgment,” the Ranger replied, again not definitely committing himself.

  For again he was thinking—thinking of Phil Waring’s burned hand and the false beacon lighted to lure a ship to destruction, the wood of which must have been drenched with oil to cause it to flare up brightly despite the rain.

  “And what I’ve told you wouldn’t deter you from signing on with us?” she asked.

  “Not in the least, if I decide to do so,” he said, and meant it.

  She sighed. “I feel better,” she said. “You are a comforting person to have around. I think you always learn the truth. But it’s late, and you must be tired.” She extinguished the light, and they groped their way to the stairs.

  “Be careful and don’t stumble,” she whispered, with a little giggle. “We’ll wake the whole house.”

  For answer, he picked her up, cradled her in his arms and carried her up the steps. At the head of the stairs their lips met.

  14

  THE COWBOYS TROOPING IN FOR BREAKFAST awakened Slade. For some minutes he lay reviewing the happenings of the past twenty-four hours. Then he got up, washed and dressed, for he wished to get an early start back to town.

  Deciding he could go another day without a shave, he descended the stairs to find Marie and her brother in the living room.

  “We waited to eat with you,” said Waring. “Come on, before I tumble over from starvation. Doc ate and headed for town. Said he had patients to look after.”

  Waring and Slade chatted while they ate, but Marie sat silent, her eyes downcast, the color coming and going in her soft cheeks.

  “Why you so quiet?” Waring asked. “Usually it’s impossible to get a word in edgewise when you’re around.”

  “I was just—thinking,” she replied. She looked up, met Slade’s eyes, blushed rosy-red and dropped her gaze to her plate.

  “Sorry you have to rush off, Slade,” Waring remarked. “I’d hoped you’d ride over the holding with me today.”

  “I want another look at that wrecked ship before she breaks up completely,” Slade explained. “If a storm comes along, she’s liable to do just that.”

  Marie looked up quickly. “I’d like to see it,” she said. “May I ride with you?”

  Slade hesitated. “All right, if your brother doesn’t object.”

  “Lots of good it would do me to object,” grunted Waring. “She does as she pleases. But you’ll be mighty late getting back,” he added.

  “I’ll stay overnight in town, at the hotel,” she replied.

  “Okay,” said her brother. “Go to it. You’ll be in good hands, anyhow. Slade won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Marie shot him a sideways glance through her lashes and smiled slightly.

  Half an hour later they rode off together, Marie dressed in neat Levi’s and a soft blue shirt, open low at the throat.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I hate to ride in fussy things,” she said.

  “That’s sensible,” he replied. “Besides, you look very nice as you are; and as I told you before, you look very, very nice in—anything.”

  Marie smiled and dimpled. “I’m glad you feel that way about—that,” she said softly.

  As they rode, Slade constantly scanned their surroundings with care, although he did not really expect a reoccurence of the day before’s happening. They had covered something less than half the distance to town when he suddenly pulled up, gazing northward.

  Over the ridge, some four hundred yards distant, dark shapes were wheeling and soaring and steadily drifting lower to settle out of sight behind the tall brush.

  “You stay here,” he told his companion. “I want to look at that rise.”

  She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Those—those are vlutures, are they not?” she asked.

  “They are,” he replied grimly and spoke to Shadow.

  It did not take the powerful horse long to force his way through the brush to the ridge crest. Slade abruptly pulled him to a halt. The disturbed vultures croaked angrily and took to the air. Slade didn’t feel too good; the remains of a vultures’ feast is not nice to look upon.

  The coyotes had been there, too, and there was little left of the dry-gulcher but bones and clothing shredded by beak and fang.

  “So I did get the hellion,” he muttered. “Shadow, there should be a horse around here somewhere.”

  At that moment, a plaintive whinny sounded, and he saw the horse, peering around a bush. A saddle hung askew, and a broken bit strap dangled.

  Slade dismounted and approached the animal, which showed no signs of fright. He removed the saddle and the bit so the creature would be comfortable until somebody picked it up.

  Then he stepped back and gazed at the brand scoring its hide. It was an HF Bar.

  “That makes three of those ea
st Texas burns,” he told Shadow. “Remember, two of the horses ridden by the members of the bunch we downed by the bay were HF Bar. This is getting a mite interesting. Stretching coincidence a bit to think they were all bought or stolen over there. Looks like several of the gents known as the men of steel were from east Texas, Neches River country.” He turned the black’s head and rode back to where Marie waited. She looked at him questioningly.

  “Yes, he’s up there, what’s left of him,” he said.

  “I’m glad,” she said, clenching her little fist. “He meant to murder you. He got just what was coming to him.”

  “I’ll have to admit I don’t feel particularly conscious-stricken about it,” he replied. “He did nearly get Hodson. If Al hadn’t leaned forward to stroke Shadow’s neck when he did, the slug would have drilled him dead center instead of just creasing him. Yes, the world can do without that sort.”

  Marie reached down and tapped the walnut stock protruding from her saddle boot.

  “You see, I brought my rifle along,” she said. “I can shoot, and I hope I get a chance to use it.”

  “Never mind,” Slade said. “I don’t want to take any chances on a corpse and cartridge session with you along. You’re too precious.”

  Miss Waring tossed her reddish curls. “Oh, I’m just another woman,” she replied. “And what is one woman among so many.”

  “Now who’s been telling you things about me?” he teased.

  “I don’t need to be told,” she answered airily. “A demonstration in practice is more convincing than precept.”

  Slade appeared to understand perfectly the rather vague observation, for he chuckled, and the devils of laughter in the back of his cold eyes turned gleeful somersaults. Marie smiled and blushed.

  They rode on, Slade vigilant and alert, Marie apparently occupied with retrospect, which appeared to be pleasant, judging from the coming and going dimple at the corner of her red mouth.

  Arriving in town without incident, Slade replenished the store of provisions in his saddle pouches.

  “You’ll be hungry before we get back, so we’ll cook out and have a snack,” he told the girl.

  “That will be fun,” she said. “I love a dying campfire at night.”

  After pausing at the Post Hole for a cup of coffee, they headed south through brilliant sunshine, Marie riding a big roan that looked to have speed and endurance. He was a mettlesome horse, but the way she handled him evoked Slade’s admiration.

  “I could ride before I could walk,” she replied to his comment. “I love horses and can always get along with them.”

  “You have the trick of voice as well as of hand,” he said. “And that is most important. Talk to a horse in a way he can understand, and you can get anything from him.”

  “I guess the same goes for a woman,” she smiled. “Anyhow, it worked.” They laughed together.

  They did not push their horses, and the sun was low in the west when they sighted the ship. She hadn’t changed much, so far as Slade could ascertain.

  “I think they’ll be able to salvage her if they don’t waste too much time and get here before there’s a bad blow,” he observed. “She’s wedged tight between those two reefs, which protect her to an extent. And that hole in her bow appears to be all the real damage she has suffered.”

  “It looks so lonely and forlorn,” Marie remarked.

  “A beached ship always does,” Slade replied. “She’s out of her element.”

  With interest, he noted that the stretch of placid water beyond the bow was now in motion, moving slowly to sea. However, the tide was runing out, and he did not attach any significance to the phenomenon. That is, till a moment later, when a puzzling incident developed.

  Bobbing along on the surface was a small white cylinder; it was a half-smoked cigarette.

  “Now where did that come from?” he wondered, glancing perplexedly about. “There’s nobody on the shore, and it couldn’t have come from any great distance—wouldn’t take long for the paper to get soaked and it would sink. See, it’s beginning to disintegrate now.”

  It was. Another moment and the paper had shredded away, releasing brown particles of tobacco. Almost immediately, both paper and tobacco vanished. Slade continued to gaze about, following the strip of moving water with his eyes. It ended in a jumble of overhanging rocks which faced the shoreline.

  “Guess the wind must have blown it from somewhere,” he hazarded, knowing that the explanation really didn’t explain, for the wind was blowing in from the bay. With a shake of his head, he returned his attention to the vessel.

  “I’ve a notion Sheriff Ross has learned her registry by now, and perhaps who are her owners,” he said. “May have gotten in touch with them. Yes, I believe she can be salvaged. Hope so; I hate to see a ship die. Bad enough that the crew had to.” “You are convinced they were murdered, are you not?” Marie asked.

  “I am,” he replied. “I suppose the bodies were carried out to sea. I’ve been watching the shoreline all the way down here, and there was certainly no sign of them. The tide will sometimes bring a body back to shore, and there are strong currents running in all the time.”

  Marie shuddered. “Something uncanny about a body coming back that way,” she said. “Looks almost as if it were seeking rest.”

  Slade nodded and resumed his study of the beetling, clifflike rocks which fronted the shoreline a little distance to the east. Because of the angle of the curvature and the overhang configuration of the rocks, he could only see about halfway down to the waterline. Abruptly he turned to face his companion.

  “I’m going to climb down those rocks,” he told her. “I want to get a look at their base.”

  “All right, I’ll go with you,” she replied.

  “You’ll stay right where you are,” he said.

  “I won’t,” she declared flatly. “Don’t worry about me; I can climb as well as you can. I’ve done lots of it.”

  “Okay,” he surrendered. “But if I get all wet fishing you out of the water, I’ll spank you.”

  “Don’t tempt me!” she giggled. “Come on, let’s go.”

  It really wasn’t an extremely difficult chore, for the rough contours provided plenty of handholds and footrests. Getting over the bulge of the overhang was a bit tricky, but they negotiated it without mishap.

  Very quickly Slade dismissed his fears for his companion; she was active as a cat and, as she said, had undoubtedly done rough climbing before.

  After a while, going carefully and slowly, they were well down the rugged face. Slade suddenly uttered an exclamation. Now he could see to the water’s edge, and almost below them was an opening in the rocks, something resembling a partially submerged railroad tunnel. The opening was perhaps thirty feet in width and the lip of the rock roof a good ten feet above the surface of the water.

  “Look,” Marie said, “there’s another one a little farther along.”

  She was right. Another and similiar opening showed some twenty or thirty yards farther east. Slade studied both openings with interest.

  Water was rushing into the farther opening, quite briskly, while from the near one water flowed out placidly, which facts he pointed out to his companion.

  “What do you make of it, Walt?” she asked.

  “I’d say,” he replied judiciously, “that those openings are the mouths of caves hollowed out in this limestone formation by the action of water in the course of many ages.”

  “But why does water run into one and out of the other?” she persisted.

  “I’d say that the far cave or tunnel has an inward slope, while this one has an outward slope.”

  “And—” she prompted.

  “It would appear,” he explained, “that somewhere, quite a distance back under the ground, the two caves merge. The water flowing in is perhaps shunted aside by an end wall or some similar formation into the cave with the outward slope. That’s the plausible hydraulic explanation.”

  “Sort of a wat
ery merry-go-round,” Marie commented.

  He chuckled at the aptness of her expression. “Sort of,” he agreed. “But I still want to know where that blasted cigarette butt came from.”

  “You said you thought maybe the wind blew it into the water,” she reminded him.

  “That could be the answer, possibly,” he conceded, but without conviction. In truth, he knew it was proof positive that somewhere, somehow, somebody had access to those underground currents. “Let’s be getting back topside.”

  They made the return climb without accident. On level ground, Slade turned and gazed toward the rises to the north, fully a half mile distant. After a long look he turned back to his companion.

  “We’ll ride on down around the bend to that broad sand dune where we had the ruckus with the sheep thieves,” he decided. “Back in the thickets is a good place to cook and eat. A spring there, and grass.”

  “Good!” she exclaimed. “I’m starved.”

  They reached the mesa in due time. Slade soon got a fire going. He heaped on plenty of fuel so it would burn down to a bed of coals favorable for cooking. He took his rolled blanket from behind his saddle and spread it on the ground nearby.

  “For you to sit on,” he explained.

  Next he loosened the cinches and flipped out the bits so the horses could graze and drink in comfort. By the time he had emptied the saddle pouches of their contents, the fire was in good shape.

  “All right,” Marie said, “I’ll do the cooking; that’s woman’s work. Oh, I know how; I’ve prepared many a meal over a campfire. You just take it easy for a while.”

  Nothing loath to do so, he stretched out comfortably on the blanket and rolled a cigarette, smoking leisurely till she called him to come and eat.

  Bread, coffee, bacon and eggs. Simple, but plenty of everything. And for the appetite of youth and perfect health, a feast

  They ate slowly, talking and laughing, and it was full dark before the utensils were cleaned and packed back in the pouches. Then they sat by the dying fire, mostly silent, for the drowsy peace and the wild beauty of the wastelands seemed to make talk superfluous.

  The flame sank lower and lower to glowing embers, which in turn dulled and tarnished till only a little cluster of sparks remained. These winked out slowly, one by one.