Читать книгу Death's Corral: A Walt Slade Western - Bradford Scott - Страница 6

3

“THINK ANYBODY will recognize you as a Ranger?” Crane asked as they pushed through the swinging doors.

“I rather doubt it,” Slade answered. “I hope not, be better that way.” Crane snorted dubiously.

The Branding Pen was big, well-lighted, and noisy. Slade liked the looks of the place with its long and shining bar, lunch counter, tables for leisurely diners, more tables for gamesters. Two roulette wheels whirred, there was a busy faro bank, a dice table, and a full dance-floor. A Mexican orchestra played music he thought was quite good.

“Hardrock Hogan owns it,” said the sheriff. “Used to be a cowhand, then turned miner and did some prospecting on the side. Made a pretty good strike and invested the money in this rum hole. Runs a square place and ’pears to be doing rather well.”

“And will continue to do so, I venture to presume,” Slade commented. “Sanderson will always be a good town, and prosperous, being a division point with the big railroad yards and shops. I’ve a notion it will grow a mite and tame down as the years pass.”

“Sure ain’t tame now,” grunted Crane. “A natural for owlhoots, and they come from all points of the compass. I feel pretty sure the bunch that’s been operating in the section, east, west, north, and south, has headquarters here or near-by.”

“Not beyond the realm of possibility,” Slade conceded. “You can tell me more about it while we eat,” he added as they occupied a table and gave a waiter their order.

“Been making most of their town raids out of my county,” said the sheriff. “But everybody ’grees they have their headquarters hereabouts. That’s the chief reason I wrote to McNelty for a few Rangers—county lines work to our disadvantage; you can’t go bargin’ into another gent’s bailiwick. Sheriffs are touchy about that, feel that it reflects on their own ability. Don’t feel that way about a Ranger.

“The hellions robbed a bank way up at Stockton, another one at Ozona—oh, it was them, all right. Held up the Langtry stage twice. Robbed a train just a few miles to the west of here. Worked that one mighty slick. Had one of their bunch on the train. At the right spot he pulled the signal cord, knew just how to handle it. Engineer stopped to see what the blankety-blank was wrong with his train. The rest of the bunch bulged outa the brush and took over. Blew open the express car, killed the messenger, and made off with better’n thirty thousand dollars. It’s a smart outfit, all right, with a jigger with a headful of brains running it.”

“Any description of their personal appearance?” Slade asked. Crane shook his head.

“Nothing that’s worth a blankety-blank-blank,” he replied. “They’re always masked with black rags that cover their whole faces. ’Pear to be about average in size, nothing outstanding about any of them. Cashier of the Stockton bank said the hellion that ’peared to be running things spoke well, but not like the average brush popper. Said he didn’t ’pear to be very big but was well-built. That’s about the best we’ve got so far, and it ain’t much.” Slade nodded agreement.

“And the spreads to the north have all been losing stock,” the sheriff continued.

“And I haven’t been able to clap eyes on any blankety-blank who looks to be a suspect,” he concluded morosely.

“And the chances are you won’t,” Slade remarked. “One might be sitting at the next table and you wouldn’t recognize him as such, from his appearance. That’s one of the handicaps under which the peace officer labors; outlaws don’t look like what outlaws are commonly supposed to look like. And folks who appear to fit the popular conception of what an outlaw is supposed to look like usually are not outlaws. Take that big fellow at the far end of the bar, for example, who glances this way every now and then. With his rather wide, almost reptilian mouth, his narrowed eyes, crooked nose, underslung jaw, and blue jowls he fills the bill perfectly. And I’ll wager he isn’t one.”

“You’re darn right he isn’t,” Crane chuckled. “That’s Hardrock Hogan himself, and a more honest man never lived.”

“Any more robberies hereabouts?” Slade asked.

“The spreads to the north have all been losing cows,” the sheriff repeated.

“Run them to the Rio Grande, I imagine,” Slade commented. “By what route, would you say?”

“The way you’d figure them to run ’em is by way of Echo Canyon,” Crane answered. “It’s a prime short cut to the river, and over to the Big Bend country, too.” Slade nodded.

“Looks like by keeping a watch at the south mouth of the canyon you might be able to intercept them,” he said. “Nothing can go through that crack in the rocks without being heard coming for a great distance.”

“Uh-huh, but the only trouble is it don’t work out,” grunted the sheriff. “Night after night I kept watch on that infernal hole, and nothing came through. And three different times while I was keeping watch, stock was widelooped and run somewhere. ’Peared to head for Echo Canyon but sure didn’t go through it. And they’d have to make a long detour, east or west, for there’s no getting cattle over the hills. Twice the hands of spreads that had been robbed were hot on their trail, or thought they was, but they always lost it somewhere along the base of the hills and couldn’t pick it up again. The Cross W hands swore they weren’t an hour behind the rustlers when they left the spread, but just the same they didn’t overtake them.”

“And you’re sure there’s no other way through the hills?” Slade asked.

“Sure for certain,” replied Crane. “If they didn’t go through Echo Canyon, and they didn’t, they’d have to go round the hills to the east or west and that’s all there is to it.”

“Interesting,” Slade commented, his eyes thoughtful.

“And darn irritatin’,” Crane growled. “Well, here’s our helpin’; let’s eat.”

A period of busy silence followed. Finally the sheriff pushed back his empty plate with a sigh of satisfaction. Slade ordered more coffee and rolled a cigarette.

“Imagine the carting business is lucrative, is it not?” he observed.

“You’re darn right it is,” Crane replied. “They’re doing all right by themselves, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they do a little offhand smuggling on the side, which also helps. Yep, it’s a worthwhile business.”

“Then doubtless some of the carts at times pack a valuable cargo easily disposed of,” Slade pursued. Crane nodded.

“So,” the Ranger remarked, “it wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility that your bunch might make a try for the carts.”

“Guess so,” agreed Crane, “but it would take considerable doing to pull it off; would have to be a mighty slick scheme. Those carts are guarded by outriders who are always on their toes. Say, there comes one of my deputies; can use him about now.”

He beckoned to the tall young man who had just pushed through the swinging doors. Slade ordered a drink.

The deputy came over and joined them, accepting the drink with thanks.

“Slade, this is Bert Ratcliff,” the sheriff introduced. “Bert, when you finish your snort, go try and locate Pancho Arista and bring him here. Tell him it’s important.”

“Certain,” replied Ratcliff. He tossed off his drink, nodded to Slade, and departed.

“Arista has got to know about what happened to Vergara, and the sooner the better,” Crane said. “He’s going to hit the ceiling, but I hope I can quiet him down. Pretty sure you can.”

“I’ll try,” Slade promised.

Sheriff Crane’s brow was furrowed and he kept shooting glances to all parts of the room.

“Trying to spot an outlaw?” Slade asked jokingly.

“You’ve got me all confused with your talk of outlaws not looking like outlaws,” complained the sheriff.

“Well,” Slade said, “I’ve sure known quite a few who didn’t. For example, over at El Paso, a few months back, I had a set-to with one that looked anything but an outlaw and yet he was one of the coldest killers I ever contacted. Called himself Juan Covelo, although his real name was Hansen, Gus Hansen. Built up the Covelo myth and had everybody in the section jumpy. Quiet, well-spoken, fine-looking. As Hansen, he ran a respectable saloon and restaurant; as Covelo he robbed and murdered. Seemed to take pleasure in killing. His father was a Scandinavian seaman, his mother the daughter of a Yaqui chief. He inherited his fair complexion, yellow hair and very dark blue eyes from his father. As Covelo, he wore a hooded cloak to hide his yellow hair and make his blue eyes appear black. So everybody was looking for a swarthy, black-haired, black-eyed half Yaqui. Took me quite a while to catch on to him. With the aid of Sheriff Arch Hart of El Paso County, I managed to clean out his bunch, but Covelo gave me the slip. Dived off a cliff into a creek and swam in the clear. And I’m ready to wager that right now he’s operating somewhere. No one would think, to look at him and observe his attitude, that he was an outlaw, but he is, one of the worst Texas has ever known. In fact, there was only one thing about him that might be considered off-color. When something riled him, to employ the expression of one of Hart’s deputies, his eyes were like the eyes of a mad cat. Which of course could mean no more than that he had an ungovernable temper.”

“And he’s unfinished business for you, eh?”

“That’s right,” Slade conceded.

“Well, by the time you’re through with him he’ll be ‘finished’ business, I’ll bet on that,” declared Crane. “I ain’t forgot Veck Sosna, the panhandle owlhoot. He was unfinished business, for a while.”

“But sometimes I think Covelo is worse than Sosna was—more brains,” Slade remarked gloomily. “Oh, well, you can’t win ’em all.”

“Never heard of you losin’ any,” chuckled the sheriff. “Hello! Bert worked fast. Here he comes with Arista.”

Pancho Arista was a strikingly handsome man. Tall, broad-shouldered, he had black hair streaked with gray, piercing black eyes, and a firm but kindly mouth. His eyes widened slightly as they rested on Slade’s face, but he acknowledged the sheriff’s introduction with a courtly bow. When he spoke it was in colloquial English without a trace of accent.

“Understand you have something to tell me, Tom,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Sit down, Pancho,” the sheriff replied. “I’m scairt I’ve got bad news for you. No sense in beating about the bush—Rafael Vergara was killed today.”

Arista’s eyes widened, he looked dazed.

“Killed!” he repeated. “Where . . . why . . . how. . . .”

The sheriff gestured to Slade. “You tell him, Walt,” he suggested.

Slade did so briefly, but omitting no detail. Arista’s face flushed darkly, his eyes glared.

“The Cross W hellions!” he spat. “Could have been nobody else! I’ll—”

“Mr. Arista!” Slade interrupted. The carter jumped in his chair at the change of his voice. “Mr. Arista, it is not commendable for a man of your standing in the community to make wild and unfounded charges. No matter what you may think because you have had a difference with the Cross W, there is not one iota of proof that the Cross W had anything to do with Vergara’s killing; and unless those bodies are recognized as former members of the outfit, or some unexpected development occurs, there will still be no proof of guilt against the Cross W.”

“But if not the Cross W, who?” countered Arista. “I have no enemies capable of such a deed.”

“Vergara was killed, not you,” Slade pointed out. “Vergara may have had enemies unbeknownst to you. It is seldom, no matter how closely one may be associated with another, that one knows all the details of the other’s private life. There are many ways in which a man may make enemies. Sometimes because of a business deal in which the other party feels he has been taken unfair advantage of. Sometimes through a difference of personal opinion, or a misunderstood act. Mr. Arista, I would like to ask you a question. Answer or not, as you choose: did Vergara possibly carry a large sum of money?”

Arista hesitated and glanced at the sheriff, who nodded.

“It is possible that he did,” he admitted. “He rode to Stockton to contact certain buyers and it is not illogical to believe that he made some collections.”

“I see,” Slade nodded. “And the chances are he would have packed the money in his saddle pouches. And, as I said, his horse was nowhere in evidence. So robbery must not be ruled out as a motive. This, I gather, would tend to eliminate the Cross W outfit as suspects.”

“You make a good case for Webb and his hellions,” Arista sighed. “But I fear I’ll have difficulty altering my opinion.”

“That’s your privilege, but to voice your opinion without a foundation of fact is an abuse of that privilege,” Slade instantly retorted.

Arista looked bewildered and apparently at a loss about how to reply. The sheriff created a diversion.

“Like to take a look at what’s left of poor Vergara?” he asked.

“Yes, I would,” Arista replied, evidently glad of the chance to end a conversation in the course of which his position was becoming more and more untenable.

“I’ll stay here and talk with Bert, if you don’t mind,” Slade said to Crane. He knew very well that Arista was anxious to speak with the sheriff alone and decided to provide him with the opportunity.

“Okay,” said Crane. “See you when we get back—we won’t be gone long.”

Outside, Arista turned to the sheriff. “Know who we’ve been talking with?” he asked.

“Yep,” Crane answered. “Name’s Slade, as I told you—Walt Slade.”

“And he has another name,” Arista remarked meaningly, “El Halcón; I recognized him at once.”

“Guess that’s so,” Crane admitted.

“There are people who say he’s an outlaw,” Arista snapped.

“That so?” the sheriff returned cheerfully. “Ever see a reward notice for him?”

“No, nor anybody else,” Arista exclaimed exasperatedly. “They say he’s too blasted smart to ever get caught. He’s got a lot of killings to his credit.”

“To his credit is right,” replied Crane. “Like the two devils he did for today.”

“How do we know he’s telling a straight story about the killing of Vergara?” Arista demanded.

“Because he told it,” Crane replied, with finality. Arista threw out his hands in an expressive gesture.

“I give up,” he said. “You always seem to know what you’re talking about when it comes to people. I hope you’re not making a mistake this time.”

“I am not,” the sheriff stated. “And Pancho, I’ll tell you something. Walt Slade is a mighty good man to have for you, and a mighty bad one to have against you. Right now I believe he’s for you, so don’t do or say anything that might cause him to change his attitude.”

“All right,” Arista said resignedly. “I’ll tighten the latigo on my jaw and keep my thoughts to myself.”

“A darn good notion,” agreed Crane. “By the way, I believe your cook is a Mexican, ain’t he?”

“He is,” Arista answered. “I never forget that my forebears came from Mexico and I like to provide opportunity where possible for the people from south of the Rio Grande. As you know, I have quite a few Mexicans in my employ. Why did you ask?”

“Because I want you to ask your old cook about El Halcón and listen to what he has to tell you,” Crane replied. “He’s pretty apt to know of El Halcón, and what he has to tell you may surprise you a mite. Okay, here we are.”

A moment later, Arista gazed sadly at the dead face of his business associate and friend.

“He was a good man,” he said. “This shouldn’t have happened to him. I suppose an inquest will be held.”

“Yep, I’ll get in touch with Doc Cooper, the coroner, and we’ll hold one after we pack in those other two bodies,” Crane said.

“I’ll look up the undertaker—I think he’s playing cards over at the Regan House bar—and arrange to have the body prepared for a decent burial,” Arista remarked. “Poor Vergara left no relatives to my knowledge. May drop in at the Branding Pen a little later, if you figure to be there.”

“Chances are I will be for a while,” Crane replied. “Be seeing you.”

Arista hurried off on his sorrowful errand. The sheriff headed for the Branding Pen at a leisurely pace.