Читать книгу Death's Corral: A Walt Slade Western - Bradford Scott - Страница 5

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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 said.

“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.

“But what happened tonight is different. Vergara was his amigo, as well as his employee, and Arista will be fit to be hogtied when he learns about it, and of course, he’ll blame Webb.”

“I see,” Slade said thoughtfully. “The making of real trouble.”

“And now, suppose you tell me just what happened, and how Vergara came to get killed, if you know,” the sheriff suggested.

Slade told him. Crane swore sulphurously. “And you got two of the hellions, eh?” he growled.

“I got a couple of trigger-happy gents who tried to down me,” Slade replied. “I can’t say that they were members of the bunch who killed Vergara, although I presume they were.”

“And they were dressed as cowhands?” Slade nodded.

“But they evidently had not worked at it for quite a while,” he added. “Which would tend to rule out Webb’s punchers, would it not?”

“Uh-huh,” agreed the sheriff, “but it won’t rule out the possibility that they were hired gunslingers Webb brought in to do his shooting for him. That’s what Arista will say, on that you can bet a hatful of pesos.”

“Very likely,” Slade conceded. “Now what are you thinking about?” For Crane was muttering under his breath and tugging his mustache.

“I was thinking,” he explained, “that Webb is might apt to think, once you’re recognized in a few places, that Arista has brought in El Halcón to do his shooting for him.”

“Possibly,” Slade admitted with a smile.

“Which puts you on a spot,” Crane snorted. Slade laughed.

“Won’t be the first time,” he said cheerfully. Crane snorted again.

“I don’t believe you’ve got a nerve in your body,” he complained querulously. “Sometimes I think you enjoy getting shot at.”

“I don’t mind so long as the slug doesn’t connect,” Slade replied, still cheerful. “Is Arista a Mexican?”

“Pure blood Spanish-Mexican descent, but born in Texas, as was his father before him,” the sheriff answered.

“Texas citizen of at least the second generation,” Slade commented. “And Webb, is he an old-timer hereabouts?”

“Oh, sure,” said Crane. “The Webb family has owned the big Cross W since a few weeks after Noah landed the Ark, I figure.”

“So, two real old-timers on the prod against one another,” Slade nodded.

“That’s about it, I guess,” admitted Crane. “Well, I’ll mosey over to Echo Canyon in the morning and pack in those carcasses and put ’em on exhibition. Maybe somebody will recognize the hellions and be able to tell us something about them. Rather too much to hope for though, I reckon. Hungry, ain’t you? I know I am; listening to you gab about how you’ve given some gents their comeuppance always starves me. So let’s amble over to the Branding Pen—a new saloon and restaurant in town—and tie onto a surroundin’. Okay?”

“By the way,” asked Crane as they headed for the restaurant, “do you figure those two devils recognized you as El Halcón?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they did,” Slade admitted. “Looks like the only logical explanation for their going after me like they did. Of course, however, if they were members of the bunch that killed Vergara, they might have figured me a possible witness to the shooting that should be eliminated.”

“Could be, but somehow I doubt it,” said Crane. “I’m of the opinion they did recognize you as El Halcón with a reputation for horning in on good things other hellions have started. That could be the answer, too. Remember, it wasn’t to stop a cart war that McNelty sent you here, but to help me clean out a nest of snakes that have been raising heck and shoving a chunk under a corner hereabouts for the last few months.”

“We’ll take that up later,” Slade said, adding, “and it’s just possible that there could be a tie-up between the two; I’ve known such things to happen before. The chance that those two killers recognized me as El Halcón causes me to lean to that possibility.”

“That loco El Halcón business will end up getting you into trouble, one way or another, see if it don’t,” Crane grumbled.

Which was just what Captain Jim McNelty, the famous Commander of the Border Battalion of the Texas Rangers, more than once told his lieutenant and ace-man.

Because of his habit of working under cover whenever possible and not revealing his Ranger connections, Walt Slade had built up a singular dual reputation. Those who knew the truth, like Sheriff Tom Crane, maintained vigorously that he was not only the most fearless but also the ablest of the Rangers. Others, including some puzzled sheriffs and marshals, who knew him only as El Halcón, a man of dubious reputation with killings to his credit, were wont to insist as vigorously that he was just a blasted outlaw too smart to get caught, so far, but who would eventually get his comeuppance.

The fact that the deception did lay him open to grave personal danger at the hands of some trigger-nervous deputy or other peace officer, to say nothing of professional gunslingers out to enhance their reputation by downing the notorious El Halcón, “the fastest gunhand in the whole Southwest,” and not above shooting in the back to attain their end, bothered Slade but little. And he pointed out that as El Halcón avenues of information were opened to him that would be closed to a known Ranger. Also, that outlaws, thinking him just one of their brand, were apt to grow careless and tip their hands.

What counted most with him was the saying of the Mexican peones, “El Halcón the good, the compassionate, upon whom rests God’s benison.”

So Slade went his careless reckless way as El Halcón, whenever possible, satisfied with the present, looking back on the past with no regrets, and giving little thought to the future.