Bullets for a Ranger Page 4

  “Would have thought you’d have been glad if he did,” snorted the sheriff, regarding Waring with scant favor.

  “Nope,” Waring returned, his voice cheerful. “Nope, I want that pleasure myself. Would have felt plumb bad if Hodson had beat me to it.”

  He turned his back on the glaring sheriff and walked back to the bar.

  “Blankety-blanked horned toad!” sputtered the angry peace officer. “He meant it!”

  “I’ve a notion he did,” Slade agreed, the little devils of laughter leaping to the fore. There was a comical side to the sheriff’s wrath.

  “He’s been in trouble before,” growled Ross. “Plugged a dealer through the shoulder in a poker game in the Occidental, down the street, and busted furniture. Got fined for that one. Oh, he’s a hell-raiser for fair. Liable to be mixed up in anything.”

  “That was a dangerous thing for him to say before witnesses,” Slade said seriously. “If he should happen to have a ruckus with Parr and kill him, he might well find himself facing a first degree murder charge based on premeditation.”

  “Maybe they’ll plug each other,” Doc Price remarked hopefully. “I don’t like either one of ‘em. Parr is too darned uppity, and Waring is a pest.”

  “I don’t see how a nice girl like Marie could have such an ornery rapscallion for a brother,” the sheriff complained.

  “Well,” said Doc, “I understand that old Wallis himself was a good deal of a ripsnorter when he was young. Reckon it’s in the blood. But a feller could get by with more in those days. Not much law hereabouts then other than what a man packed on his hip.”

  “Hasn’t changed too much for the better,” Ross replied morosely.

  Doc Price glanced at the clock over the bar. “Well,” he said, “you young hellions can stay up all night if you want to, but I’m going to bed.”

  “And I’m going to follow your example,” Slade said. “I didn’t sleep too well last night, everything considered.”

  “Come on over to my place,” Doc invited. “I got plenty of room, and it isn’t bad for bachelor quarters. Plenty to eat in the house, too, and even if I do say so, I’m a pretty good cook. You’ll be more comfortable than in one of those flea sacks they call hotels.”

  “Be glad to,” Slade accepted. “See you tomorrow, Ross.”

  “Okay,” the sheriff nodded. “Got to keep an eye on the notorious El Halcón. Glad, anyhow, it won’t be at an inquest, which is more than I hoped for a bit ago. I’ll stick around here a while in case something else busts loose.”

  “The presence of the majesty of the law should keep the boys on their good behavior,” said Doc. “Come on, Walt, he’s just using that for an excuse to get drunk.”

  Before lying down on the comfortable bed in the room Doc Price assigned him, Slade cleaned and oiled his guns and did some serious thinking. Looked like there was more to the chore handed him than had appeared on the surface. Not only was there a shrewd and salty outlaw bunch operating in the section, which presented a problem, there was a row between two prominent citizens and the probability of a grand cattle-sheep conflict in the making. If Eldon Parr made good his threat and ran woollies onto the open range, the cowmen of the section would be up in arms. Parr must know that and, Slade believed, would make provisions against it. Parr struck him as a man who would not be deterred by the possibility of trouble.

  Meanwhile, the herders to the southwest, who handled their sheep properly on their own land, would be caught in the middle.

  First, the grotesque “men of steel” must be handled. Slade believed he saw a way to take care of that angle. Once more his El Halcón reputation might well stand him in good stead. Worth trying, anyhow. He went to bed in a cheerful frame of mind.

  He was still cheerful when he awoke late the following morning.

  “Figured you needed your rest, so I didn’t bother you,” said Doc. “Come on and eat.”

  After enjoying an excellent breakfast prepared by Doc Price, Slade repaired to the sheriff’s office. When he arrived there, he found Ross had a visitor—a slender, dark-faced and exceedingly handsome middle-aged man who appeared mad as a hornet.

  Don Miguel Lopez—although Texas-born as was his father before him, he was still accorded the courtesy title of Don—was angry, and with cause. Miguel Lopez was not a man to be frightened by wild yarns of iron-shirted riders or affected by local superstitions. With his herders, however, most of whom were Mexicans, it was a different story. Lopez, Sheriff Ross informed Slade, after performing the introductions, was the biggest sheep owner in the section and also raised cattle, improved stock that brought top prices.

  “I tell you, Neale, it goes beyond all patience,” he said. “Those infernal masqueraders have been scouting my place, and my herders are scared stiff. They say they fear no mortal foe—and they speak truth—but who can give face to the Powers of Darkness? In vain I reason with them. They are loyal to me in all else, but they refuse absolutely to drive a flock to town. Eldon Parr will take a flock if I can get it here, gladly, but how to get it here! I can’t very well ask my vaqueros to handle the chore. As you know, nearly all of them are Texasborn and have no more use for sheep than any other Texas cowboy. In addition, they have their hands full keeping an eye on my cows. I don’t know what the devil to do if you don’t clean out that gang of owlhoots, for that’s all they are, brushpopping border scum.”

  Slade, who had listened intently to what Lopez had to say, spoke for the first time.

  “They’re more than brush-popping scum,” he remarked. “Somebody connected with the outfit has brains, and imagination, both attributes not common to the average owlhoot.”

  “I fear you may be right, Mr. Slade,” Lopez replied gloomily. “Which certainly doesn’t make the picture look any brighter.”

  “No, but it is significant,” Slade said. Lopez’ brows drew together, in the manner of a man trying to recall something to memory.

  “Mr. Slade,” he said, “somehow your name has a familiar ring. I seem to have heard it before, somewhere, in some connection.”

  “Possibly,” Slade conceded. “I understand that the majority of your herders are Mexican-born.”

  “That’s so,” nodded Lopez.

  “Probably from the Rio Grande river villages.”

  Lopez nodded again. “Most of those born in Texas are also from the villages on this side of the river,” he added. “Why?”

  “It may be important,” Slade replied briefly. For some moments he sat silent, while the other watched him expectantly. Finally he glanced at the sheriff and nodded.

  Ross chuckled. “Mig,” he said, “did you ever hear of El Halcón?”

  “Why, of a certainty, El Halcón—the fearless, the just. Who has not? I—”

  He ceased speaking and his eyes widened. “Ha!” he exclaimed, “I have it! No wonder your name had a familiar ring, Mr. Slade! You are El Halcón!”

  “Been called that,” Slade admitted smilingly.

  Don Miguel heaved a deep sigh, a sigh that was undoubtedly one of relief. “I believe,” he said deliberately, “that my sheep will be driven to market, after all.”

  “Yes,” Slade smiled, “I think they will. Suppose we ride down to your place; I wish to have a talk with your herders. We should be able to make it by shortly after dark.”

  “Assuredly,” said Lopez, rising to his feet. “We will start at once, and gracias, Mr. Slade, gracias! It is most kind of you.”

  “Have a little personal interest in the matter,” Slade replied, tapping his bandaged forehead. “I’d like to meet the rest of those gents in tin shirts, especially with a bunch of good fighters at my back. Let’s go.”

  “I’ll come and pick up the bodies,” Sheriff Ross called cheerfully after them as they left the office. “Good hunting!”

  6

  AS THEY WERE GETTING the rigs on their horses, Slade asked, “Don Miguel, just what do you know about the so-called men of steel?”

  “Very little,” the other repl
ied. “It is as difficult for me to obtain information as it is for the sheriff. You see, I am of Spanish blood, but that is about all Mexican that I can claim. My herders and the peones are evasive when I question them. They don’t look on me as one of them. Had I a leavening of indio blood, it might be different, but to them I am just an ignorant all-white who does not understand. As Ross no doubt told you, they fear to talk, saying, or at least implying that there are ears listening in the dark beyond the dark and unheard voices ready to report all that is said. They are less fearful of property loss or death than they are of demon retribution handed out by the awful denizens of the unseen world, of whom they believe the men of steel are a part. So when I try to learn something, I am met by either a shrug of the shoulders or evasive generalities that mean nothing.”

  “I see,” Slade said thoughtfully. “I think,” he continued, “that there will be a little change of heart on the part of your herders and the peones. Sweep the cobwebs out of their brains and they’ll be the same tough fighters against the men of steel as they are against ordinary owlhoots.”

  “That’s so,” Lopez agreed, adding gloomily, “but so far I haven’t done much of a job of sweeping.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t use the right broom,” Slade smiled. “Fear is a strong emotion, but faith is stronger. The methods we will employ will be something in the nature of fighting fire with fire; we’ll see who can set the biggest blaze.”

  “I think I can provide the answer to that,” Don Miguel said gently. “The peones say that El Halcón is one upon whom the hand of God has rested, sent to do His work in the world, who can give front to all the Powers of Darkness.”

  Slade’s cold eyes were suddenly all kindness. “I hope I won’t forfeit their trust,” he replied.

  “You won’t,” Don Miguel declared, with emphasis.

  They were several miles from town when they saw a horseman approaching from the south. As he drew near, Slade recognized Phil Waring, the boisterous young owner of the W Diamond ranch. Waring waved a hand in greeting.

  “Hello, Lopez, how are you?” he called. “Howdy, Mr. Slade, where’d you run into this old coot? Don’t mind him. He’s all right, even if he does raise sheep.”

  “How are you, Phil?” Lopez asked, his smile pleasant. “What are you doing down this way?”

  “Oh, just riding around,” Waring replied evasively. “Heading for your holding?”

  “That’s right,” Lopez answered. “Mr. Slade has consented to be my guest for a few days.”

  “Everybody to their taste, as the herder said when he kissed the sheep,” Waring said cheerfully. “If he can stand the smell of the blattin’ woollies, maybe he’ll make out. Come to think of it, you don’t keep ’em close to the house; reckon you can’t stand it yourself.”

  “There are worse smells,” Lopez returned.

  “Guess that’s right,” Waring conceded, his face darkening. “Take Eldon Parr, for instance; he out-stinks any sheep that ever grew wool.”

  “I wish you’d forget your feud with Parr,” Lopez said. “It will only bring you trouble in one way or another. Nothing is ever gained from holding a grudge.”

  Waring did not look convinced. “Be seeing you,” he said. “Glad to have run into you again, Mr. Slade.”

  With a wave of his hand, he rode on, and did not look back. Lopez turned in the saddle to follow his retreating figure with his gaze.

  “A wild young man, but I can’t help but like him,” he remarked. “Lots of people do not think at all well of him, and there are hints—but I don’t spread gossip. I wonder what he was doing down here?”

  “He didn’t say,” Slade replied thoughtfully. He was wondering a little himself.

  As they rode, Slade carefully studied the terrain over which they passed, wishing to familiarize himself with its salient points. For he knew it would take two full days at least to move a flock from Lopez’ place to Port Lavaca. Which meant a night camp, possibly two. And he gathered that at night camps herders had been slain and their flocks wide-looped.

  When they reached the point, shortly before sundown, where Slade had had the run-in with the two men of steel, he pulled up and surveyed his surroundings for some minutes, then nodded with satisfaction.

  “Right here we’ll probably make our camp,” he told Lopez. “Yes, this is a very good spot for it. May mean a second camp before we reach town, but I’ve a notion it will pay off.”

  The ride was without untoward happenings, but it was long after dark when they reached Don Miguel’s spacious hacienda, built in the Spanish style and situated in a grove of ancient oaks. A wrangler, who was formally introduced to Shadow, took charge of the horses.

  After making sure his guest was comfortable in the spacious living room, Lopez immediately repaired to the bunkhouse occupied by the herders. A criado, who bowed low to Slade after an instant of wide-eyed surprise, brought the Ranger a cup of steaming coffee. Slade relaxed in an easy chair and awaited his host’s return.

  Lopez did return shortly, chuckling.

  “The news created quite a stir,” he told Slade. “The boys will all be assembled in front of the veranda, awaiting you, right after breakfast tomorrow morning. They’re very much excited. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble making them see things your way. Well, let’s go eat; been a long time since breakfast.”

  It had been, but as Slade viewed the meal that a worshipful cook and an equally worshipful criado set before him, he felt it was worth going foodless since morning to be in a condition to do full justice to it. The old servant who passed the dishes beamed with pleasure at the havoc wrought, and so did the cook. Both were old men of Mexican-Indio blood, usually impassive and unemotional, but tonight they were positively exuberant.

  “Mr. Slade,” Don Miguel said when they returned to the living room to smoke and talk over final cups of fragrant coffee, “it is marvelous the impression you make on people. Yes, marvelous. I am indeed honored to have El Halcón as my guest.”

  “Thank you, Don Miguel,” Slade replied simply.

  When Slade appeared on the veranda the following morning, the herders, all eight of them mature men, were already present, looking eager and expectant. In another group were the vaqueros, ten in number. They were mostly young, and wiry and active as panthers. Slade liked the looks of both groups. He addressed the herders.

  “Amigos, they tell me you are afraid of a bunch of ladrones in tin shirts. I don’t believe it. First, however, I want to talk a little about those men of steel whose steel isn’t steely enough to stop a bullet. I understand that the herders who have been slain met their death by way of .45 slugs. Now is it reasonable to believe that spirits would resort to such prosaic methods? Wouldn’t they be more apt to employ thunderbolts?”

  He paused. The herders looked bewildered, but nodded their heads in agreement.

  “Also,” Slade continued, “I have learned that the raids always took place on dark and stormy nights, when it is easier to wide-loop critters and the raids can be conducted with less chance of the raiders being detected. Wind and darkness provide good cover for run-of-mine rustlers with the forked end down and a hat on top. But would ghostly horsemen such as it is claimed have been seen, who have the ability to vanish away at will and snatch flocks into the clouds, who are impervious to such small items as the hot end of a passing bullet or the constructive qualities of a noosed sisal rope around the windpipe, have any qualms about being detected in their nefarious activities? Doesn’t seem reasonable, does it?”

  Again there were nods of agreement, more emphatic this time.

  “All right,” Slade said, letting the full force of his steady gray eyes rest on the faces of the herders. “Now I have something to tell you. The other night I killed two of those ‘spirit’ horsemen. Their armor couldn’t stop my bullets. And before I downed them both, they gave me this to remember them by—” He touched his bandaged head and added impressively, “And they didn’t do it with a thunderbolt or a devil’s pitchfork;
they did it with hot lead.”

  The herders stared at him, muttering together.

  “All right,” he repeated. “Very shortly a flock is going to be driven to Port Lavaca, despite the so-called men of steel. Who among you have the will to follow El Halcón? Let them raise their hands.”

  Instantly eight hands shot into the air.

  “Where El Halcón leads, we will follow,” a voice called. “El Halcón, the friend of the lowly, of the wronged and the oppressed, fears naught in this world or the next, because his heart is clean. Sí, we will follow!”

  “I thought you would,” Slade said, with a smile. “If those ladrones in tin shirts try to interfere with us, we’ll use .45 caliber can openers on them.”

  There was a roar of laughter. Slade held out his hand and the herders pressed forward to shake it, albeit diffidently.

  Slade noticed that the vaqueros had their heads together. One, whom he learned was Sebastian Hernandez, the range boss, detached himself from the group and approached Don Miguel.

  “Patrón,” he said, “five men are sufficient to care for and guard the ganado. The other five of us would fain ride with El Halcón. We will cast lots as to who is to go and who is to stay.”

  Lopez glanced questioningly at Slade, who nodded. “The more the better,” he said, and turned to the herders.

  “Get your flock ready to move when I give the word,” he said, and glanced at the sky, which was hazy. “Very likely tomorrow will be the day. I want each man to pack two blankets and bring along a pair of overalls, a shirt and a hat, and a sack of straw. And I also want an old and dependable horse accustomed to night guard work. Everything understood? Okay. Be seeing you, amigos.

  “Incidentally,” he added to Lopez, “have the vaqueros dress as herders. Whoever got that bunch together and is the head of it has plenty of savvy. If the vaqueros wore their regular riding costume, it might be noted and he might smell a rat.”

  “I will attend to it,” Lopez promised. He shook his head as they entered the house together.