Bullets for a Ranger_A Walt Slade Western Page 3

  The flock owners of Mexican descent, who had held their land for generations, knew how to handle sheep properly and did handle them properly, keeping their charges constantly on the move, never allowing them to eat the grass down to the roots or otherwise damage it.

  However, it was all too often different with unscrupulous owners out for quick profits and caring nothing for the welfare of others. So it was not remarkable that the cattlemen of the section looked askance on any plan to run sheep in and onto the open range.

  “Parr is quite a gent, and he sure knows the packing business,” Ross observed. “Well, here’s Doc’s place, and I reckon he’s in.”

  Old Doc Price, who also knew Slade well, shook hands warmly and gestured him to a chair.

  “Nicked again, eh?” he remarked as he undid the bandage. “Keep up at this rate and your head will end looking like a patchwork quilt. Hmmm! Not so bad. You did a good chore of padding and bandaging. A cleansing, a couple of stitches and a strip of plaster, and you’ll be okay.”

  A few minutes later he stepped back and surveyed his handiwork.

  “There, that’ll hold you,” he said. “Pull your hat down on that side and it won’t even show. Fee? What fee? You go to hell!”

  “We were going over to the Post Hole,” admitted the sheriff. “Join us in a snort, Doc?”

  “Not a bad idea,” agreed Price. “Should be sort of exciting before the night’s over, with El Halcón in town.”

  “That’s what I’m scared of,” groaned the sheriff. “Trouble just naturally follows him around.”

  After the doctor had cleaned and put away his instruments, they set out for the saloon in question. Dusk was sifting down through the still air. The bay was smoldering purple flecked with flashes of rose and gold. Far out on the water a ship was heading for port, the tips of her tall masts catching the last dying sunlight and beaconing it back in rays of amber. Port Lavaca crouched expectantly on its low bluff and awaited the night.

  4

  THE POST HOLE WAS BIG, well lighted and boisterous. The bar was pretty well crowded, the orchestra already tuning up, the dance-floor girls gathered together, talking. Some of the gaming tables were occupied. A couple of roulette wheels were whirring, and the faro bank was going strong.

  “Sort of lively for so early in the evening,” Slade commented.

  “Payday for the spreads and for most of the other workers hereabouts,” Sheriff Ross explained. “They try to have ’em all hit together; good for business. Especially Doc’s.”

  “But not conducive to peace and quiet,” observed that worthy. “Well, here goes for that snort.”

  “And then something to eat,” Slade suggested.

  “I’m in favor of it,” said Doc. “I’m gaunt as a gutted sparrow. And Neale is always hungry—can’t get over his starvation days as a cowhand. Used to be so thin he couldn’t cast a shadow. Fat and sleek, now that he’s got his hand in the public till, but he still eats. Not that I’m complaining; I’m getting rich dosing him with stuff to take off some of the tallow. A pity he hasn’t got stronger arms.”

  “How’s that?” asked the sheriff, falling into the trap.

  “So you could push yourself away from the table before your belly shoves against it,” snorted Doc. “Fill ’em up, bartender.”

  The three repaired to a table, where they enjoyed a hearty meal. Afterwards they sat sipping coffee, and smoking and talking.

  Frog-lip Fogarty, the owner, came over from the end of the bar to join them. Ross performed the introductions, and Fogarty shook hands with a firm grip. An expression of perplexity crossed his good-natured, big-mouthed face as he regarded Slade.

  “Seems to me I ought to know you, cowboy,” he said. “I’ve either seen you before or heard of somebody who looks like you.”

  “Lots of folks look alike,” Slade replied noncommittally.

  Frog-lip did not appear impressed. “Anyhow, I’m sorry to see you in such bad company,” he sighed. “A sheriff and a doctor! All we need is an undertaker to make it perfect.”

  “And the chances are you’ll need all three in this rum-hole before the night is over,” the sheriff predicted. “I never knew it to fail.”

  “Could be,” admitted Frog-lip. “The boys are apt to get a mite rambunctious after a while, but I’ve a notion I can quiet them down if I have to. Well, enjoy yourself, gents, I’ll send over a drink.” He sauntered back to the bar, his step lithe and quick for so bulky a man.

  “Yes, he can usually quiet ’em down,” conceded the sheriff. “A nice jigger, but he can be plenty salty if necessary, and he’s got a couple of floor men of the same caliber.”

  The drinks were brought and placed beside the coffee cups. Doc and the sheriff downed theirs, the latter smacking his lips with appreciation. Slade left his untouched for the moment. His gaze was fixed on a rather striking appearing individual who had just entered.

  “That’s Eldon Parr I was telling you about,” said the sheriff.

  Eldon Parr was a big man with wide shoulders and abnormally long arms that hung loosely by his sides. He was good-looking in a rugged way, with craggy features, a thin-lipped but well-shaped mouth, and eyes of very light blue. His stride was assured, his bearing also assured, to the verge of arrogance. He wore clean overalls and a blue shirt open at the throat, but, unlike most of the gathering, no gun belt.

  As Parr neared the bar, a big cowhand, more than half drunk, detached himself from a group and accosted him. Slade could not hear what was said, but the effect on Parr was galvanic. His hand lashed out, and the flat of it took the cowboy across the mouth, sending him reeling back. He tripped over his own feet, slammed into a table and hit the floor amid a shower of bottles and glasses. Spitting blood and curses, he scrambled to his feet. His right hand flickered down and up; a black muzzle lined with Parr’s chest.

  The room echoed to the crash of a shot. The cowboy gave a howl of pain and doubled up, gripping his blood-streaming hand between his knees. His gun, one butt plate knocked off, lay half across the room.

  A long-barrelled Colt in each hand, one wisping smoke, Walt Slade swept the suddenly hushed crowd with his cold eyes. After one swift glance he holstered his guns with the same effortless ease with which he had drawn them, sat down and raised his brimming glass to his lips with a hand that did not spill a drop.

  Sheriff Ross let out a bellow of wrath. “Parr!” he thundered. “What the blankety-blank-blank do you mean by coming in here and slapping folks around! And as for you, Hodson, you came mighty, mighty close to having a cold-blooded killing to your credit. Parr isn’t even heeled. You’d better both be thanking Slade here for what he saved you from. And if I hear any more out of either of you, I’ll lock you up and throw the key away.”

  The words had a cooling effect on the antagonists. Sheriff Neale Ross was a cold proposition and known to be as good as his word.

  “Guess you’re right,” groaned the puncher, tenderly cherishing his throbbing hand. “That big feller with you, too. But if you’d had half your teeth knocked loose, you wouldn’t have felt so good, either.” He shot a venomous look at Parr.

  “I’m sorry, Hodson,” said the latter. “I shouldn’t have gone off half-cocked; but you shouldn’t have said to me what you did.”

  “Guess that’s right,” conceded Hodson. “I’m sorry, too. And if you don’t mind taking the left one—” He held it out, hesitantly. They shook hands.

  “That’s better,” said the sheriff.

  Doc Price lumbered across to the cowboy. “Let’s have a look at that lunch hook,” he said. “Nothing to it—just a hunk of meat knocked loose. Frog-lip, fetch the bandages and stuff you always keep handy.”

  A few minutes later the wound was dressed and bandaged. Somebody handed Hodson his fallen gun. He shook his head sadly over the smashed butt plate and holstered it.

  “Both of you have one on the house and forget all about it,” suggested Frog-lip, who was looking Slade up and down.

  He saw a
tall man, taller even than Eldon Parr, with broad shoulders and a deep chest that slimmed down to a lean, sinewy waist, and a face that went well with the splendid form, a face dominated by long black-lashed eyes of very pale gray, cold but with little devils of laughter lurking in their clear depths. The rather wide mouth, grin-quirked at the corners, relieved somewhat the tinge of fierceness evinced by the prominent, high-bridged nose above and the lean and powerful jaw and chin beneath. The pushed-back “J.B.” revealed crisp, thick hair so black that a blue shadow seemed to lie upon it. An unusual and extremely handsome face, Frog-lip thought. The look of perplexity that he had worn was gone, replaced by one of understanding. He approached the table.

  “Feller,” he said in low tones, “betcha a hatful of pesos you ride a black horse.”

  “You’d win,” Slade smiled.

  “I knew it!” sighed Frog-lip. “I knew it! Didn’t I say all this table needed was an undertaker to make it perfect. I’ll send over another drink.”

  “Caught on quick, eh?” chuckled the sheriff as Frog-lip walked away. “Suppose somebody else will, too. Listen to the talk, will you!”

  Slade had already overheard some of the remarks running from table to table and along the bar.

  “Did you ever see such shooting! Those irons just happened in his hands. Hodson had already lined sights, and that feller pulled and blasted the hogleg clean across the room ’fore he could squeeze trigger! Who the devil is he, anyhow?”

  “Dunno, but he’s somebody. Huh! What’s that? Are you sure? Wheee-e-w! The fastest gunhand in the whole South-west! Now I believe it. Gentl-l-lemen, hush!”

  The sheriff grinned. Doc Price chuckled. “Can’t hide your light under a bushel, or a barn,” he misquoted.

  “So it would seem,” Slade replied.

  “Anyhow, you sure saved Eldon Parr’s bacon,” observed Ross.

  “I’m not so sure,” Slade said. “I think he would have missed the first shot, and Parr would have been all over him before he could pull trigger again. He’s quick as a cat.”

  “Uh-huh, but I doubt he’s that quick,” said Ross.

  Suddenly, from a table where heads were drawn together, came a bellow.

  “And the singingest man in the whole Southwest, too! Hey, feller, give us a song. You don’t have to shoot us, just sing us one and we’ll crawl!”

  Other voices took up the plea, until the room resounded with a chorus of requests. Sheriff Ross shook with laughter.

  “Looks like you’re elected, Walt,” he chuckled. “Come on, give us one, and make everybody in here your friend for life. Here comes the orchestra leader, with a guitar. Those Mexicans of his all know you, but they’re good at keeping tight latigos on their jaws and never would have given you away till you put the okay on it.”

  The orchestra leader was at the table, bowing and smiling and holding out the guitar.

  “Please, Capitán,” he pleaded. “When El Halcón sings, the stars pause to listen.”

  “Well, if you can stand it, I reckon I can,” Slade acquiesced. He stood up.

  Strutting proudly, the leader led the way to the little raised platform that accommodated the orchestra. With a low bow, he handed Slade the guitar and stepped back.

  Slade ran his slender fingers over the strings of the instrument with crisp power. He glanced about, saw that the majority of the expectant crowd were cowhands. He smiled, flung back his black head and sang them a gay but wistful love song of the range:

  Night! and the sky’s wide glory.

  A whisper of wind in the sage!

  With the high stars telling a story,

  As plain as the printed page!

  Night! and the gray trail flowing

  Under the moon’s pale beams!

  The light of the campfire glowing;

  Night! and a girl—and—dreams!

  And as the great golden baritone-bass pealed and thundered, a cathedral hush fell over the crowded saloon. No drink was poured, no card turned. The roulette wheels hung motionless. The dancers paused and stood almost at attention, in impulsive salute.

  Just a simple little song of simple words, composed beside some lonely campfire or around a restless herd, but rendered into a thing of sublime beauty by the magic of a great voice.

  The song ended in a lingering breath of melody, and Slade stood smiling at his entranced audience.

  The hush lingered for a moment, then was broken by a storm of applause and shouts for another.

  Slade gave them several more before restoring the guitar to its owner and returning to the table. For an instant his glance lingered on Eldon Parr, standing erect and commanding by the bar. From the moment he had entered the room, his exression had not changed. During the hectic encounter with the cowhand his face had remained impassive as a deal board. Only his eyes seemed to burn as they rested on El Halcón’s tall form. After Slade was seated, he strolled to the table.

  “May I?” he said, nodding to a vacant chair.

  “Sit down, Eldon, and have a drink,” Sheriff Ross invited hospitably. “How was that for singing? Ever hear the beat of it? I never did.”

  “And I doubt if you ever will,” replied Parr. He turned to Slade. “You are to be congratulated on your rare gift. And, incidentally, I wish to thank you for what you did in my behalf. I thought for an instant I was going to get an air hole in my hide.”

  “I doubt if he would have pulled trigger, but I thought it best not to take chances,” Slade answered.

  “I am very glad you thought so,” Parr returned dryly. “I am not very adept in the use of a gun, so I seldom carry one. Hodson, I understand, is. And I have noted that a man who is adept in handling one is usually quick to use it.”

  Slade nodded but did not otherwise comment. He was confident in his own mind that Hodson did intend to use the gun he drew.

  “Eldon, just what did Al Hodson say to you that set you off so?” asked the sheriff.

  “It was not what he said, but the manner in which he said it,” replied Parr. “Tonal inflection can carry a more stinging impact than words. What he said was, ‘All of a sudden this place is smelling mighty strong of sheep.’ The words alone could have meant little, but the implication was plain.”

  “I see,” said the sheriff. Walt Slade, while not appearing to do so, abruptly took a stronger interest in Eldon Parr; his manner of expressing himself, the Ranger thought, was a trifle out of the ordinary.

  “Sheep!” growled the sheriff. “The blattin’ varmints always can be counted on to kick up a ruckus where there’s open range. We can do without them here—the herders down to the south have all that’s needed. Let them handle them.”

  “Sheriff,” Eldon Parr said, “if I decide to run sheep onto the open range here I will do so, despite opposition. If the land is open range for cattle, there is no reason why it shouldn’t be open range to sheep.”

  Parr spoke calmly, without raising his voice, but Slade was convinced he meant exactly what he said. He was impressed with the force of the man’s personality and believed that opposition would not deter him from any set purpose.

  “You’ll be looking for trouble if you do run ’em in,” Sheriff Ross warned.

  “I think,” Eldon Parr replied deliberately, “that I am competent to take care of any trouble that comes my way. Good night, gentlemen.” He rose to his feet, and with a nod, left the saloon.

  5

  SHERIFF ROSS cocked an eye at Slade.

  “Well, what do you think of him?”

  “A hard man, but with a weakness, perhaps his only one,” Slade replied.

  “What’s that?” the sheriff asked curiously.

  “Temper,” Slade said. “He let it get away from him tonight. Temper clouds the judgment. Had he been his normal cold, practical self, he would not have struck Hodson as he did.”

  “You mean he woulda let Al get away with it?”

  Slade shook his head. “No, he would have struck with his fist, with all his weight behind it. Then Hodson
would have been in no condition to pull a gun or anything else. Hodson undoubtedly has an uncontrollable temper, especially when he is drinking. Parr should have taken that into account, especially as he was not packing a gun, and made sure Hodson would not be capable of retaliation, if he felt he must resent the remark. As it was, he merely stung him and came close to getting his come-uppance in consequence.”

  “I’ve a notion you’re right,” conceded the sheriff. “Loco galoots, both of them. How about some more coffee?”

  As they sat sampling the steaming cups, he suddenly uttered a sharp exclamation.

  “Blazes! I’m glad Parr left when he did. Here comes Phil Waring. If Parr was still here, there’d likely be more trouble. There is bad blood between those two.”

  The newcomer was a tall, rawboned young man with sparkling black eyes, a tight mouth and a long cleft chin. He swaggered to the bar and ordered a drink, his glance sweeping the room as if in quest of somebody. Slade noticed that when he settled down to his drink, his eyes were studying the gathering as reflected in the backbar mirror.

  “Yep, those two don’t get along,” repeated the sheriff. “A few months back, Parr had Waring arrested for trespassing. Said he was snooping around his packing plant, likely planning to set fire to it. Could be. Waring’s got no use for sheep in any form and don’t make no bones about saying so. The judge let him off with a lecture, but he hasn’t forgot and holds it against Parr.”

  Slade eyed Waring with awakened interest. “Cattleman?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” replied Ross. “Owns the W Diamond up to the northwest. That is, he and his sister Marie own it together. Inherited it from their dad, old Wallis Waring, who died about five years back. It’s a good holding. Al Hodson is one of his hands. Look, they’re talking together.”

  For several moments the pair were deep in conversation. Waring’s gaze shifted to the table occupied by Slade and his companions. Abruptly he turned and walked to the table, his swagger more pronounced. Pausing, he let his glittering eyes rest on Slade’s face. He nodded, not unpleasantly.