Читать книгу Death's Corral: A Walt Slade Western - Bradford Scott - Страница 7

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MEANWHILE IN the saloon, Bert, the young deputy, had proven talkative and thoroughly conversant with conditions in the section. Slade found his remarks interesting and let him ramble on. He noted that Hardrock Hogan, the owner, was eyeing them speculatively. After a bit, he strolled over to the table. Bert performed the introductions and Slade invited Hogan to have a chair.

“Something happened?” he asked as he motioned to the waiter to bring drinks. “I saw Sheriff Crane and Arista have their heads together.”

Bert glanced at Slade. “Any reason why I shouldn’t tell him?” he asked.

“None that I can think of,” the Ranger replied. “He’s bound to hear about it eventually, and he might as well get the straight story while he’s at it.”

Bert proceeded to relate Slade’s account of the happening, vividly and true as to detail. When he paused, old Hardrock reached a big paw across the table to Slade.

“Son, you did a good chore, a mighty good chore,” he declared. “Betcha those two sidewinders were part of the bunch that’s been making trouble hereabouts of late. And Arista blames the Cross W? Rats! Those young hellions are good at getting into ruckuses and starting a fight at the drop of a hat, but when it comes to chasin’ a man and shootin’ him in the back, I don’t believe it. Old John Webb is a salty hombre and ready to pull on you if you’re standin’ up to him, but when your back is turned you’re plumb safe. Arista wouldn’t shoot a man in the back, either, so he had oughta give the other feller credit for being as square as he is. But when a feller gets his mad up he just nacherly ain’t got any brains that are in workin’ order.”

Slade smiled and didn’t argue the point. There was truth in the old saloonkeeper’s homely philosophy, and shrewd common sense. He regarded Hardrock Hogan as something of a character, which he was.

Although it was past midnight, the Branding Pen was still going strong. Even stronger, in fact. The bar was crowded, as was the dance-floor. All the gaming tables were occupied and at several Slade decided the stakes were rather steep. He noted that there were quite a few Mexicans, well-dressed young fellows, and wondered if they were members of Pancho Arista’s carting outfit, deciding that they very likely were. Cowhands and railroaders were in the majority, however, and some gentlemen whose antecedents and present status, Slade felt, were dubious.

Hardrock ordered another drink for Slade and Bert and stood up.

“Mind if I tell the boys what happened?” he asked of Slade.

“No reason why you shouldn’t,” the Ranger replied. “And you might pass the word that when he brings in those two bodies tomorrow, Sheriff Crane would like to have the folks look them over on the chance they might be recognized by somebody.”

“I’ll do that,” Hardrock promised and returned to the end of the bar, where he engaged a constantly augmented crowd in conversation.

As Hardrock continued to speak, Slade noted that the young Mexicans and several equally young Texans dressed as cowhands were gathering in a tight group, talking together with compressed lips and frowning brows. Bert noticed the direction of his gaze and answered an unspoken question.

“The Mexicans are some of Arista’s cart drivers, the Texans his outriders,” Bert said. “Reckon they ain’t feeling very happy over what happened. Vergara was a good man to work with and was popular with the carters and riders. Could be trouble in here before the night is over.”

Slade was inclined to agree and watched the group closely.

“Oh, good gosh!” Bert suddenly exclaimed. “Here comes the Cross W bunch; must have been holed up someplace else. Now look out!”

The newcomers, seven in number, were young, swaggering, and boisterous and appeared the worse for wear from having looked upon the wine when it was red or some other color. They made their way to the bar not far from where the carters stood and ordered drinks. Now Slade watched both groups.

Nobody, except Walt Slade, seemed to know just how the fight started. Later, the carters swore they didn’t start it. The cowboys maintained just as vigorously that they didn’t start it. Anyhow, somebody hit somebody and the ruckus was on, to the accompaniment of shouts, curses, screams from the dance-floor girls, soothing yells from the bartenders. Tables were overturned, chairs smashed, bottles and glasses broken. It was a wild melee of hitting, wrestling, kicking, and gouging.

“Keep out of it,” Slade snapped to Bert. “They won’t do one another much damage and Hardrock and his floor men will soon break it up.”

Bert, who had started to rise, settled back in his chair.

Slade, whose eyes were everywhere, saw the three men edging swiftly toward the swinging doors. He saw their eyes glint in his direction. Two barged through the doors. The third whirled toward him, his hand streaking to his holster. Slade went sideways out of his chair, drew and shot in a single ripple of motion. There was a howl of pain and a gun clattered to the floor. Its owner dived for the outside. Slade blasted three more slugs into the swinging doors and bounded across the room, gun ready for instant action.

But there were excited and bewildered men in his way, an overturned table and a smashed chair. By the time he reached the door and peered cautiously out, there was nobody in sight. He turned back to the rising tumult of the saloon.

The fighting had stopped for the moment but seemed likely to resume at any instant. Slade’s great voice rolled in thunder through the room, striking all to silence.

“Stop it! We’ve had enough foolishness for one night!” The muzzle of his cocked Colt gestured to the carters and the cowhands.

“You fellows get back to the bar and behave yourselves,” he told them in tones like steel grinding on ice. “Do you understand?”

Under the threat of that rock-steady muzzle, with the terrible eyes of El Halcón behind it, they understood. Both groups, muttering and growling but making no further hostile move, shuffled to the bar. Slade holstered his gun, returned to the table, and began rolling a cigarette. Bert gazed at him, and the young deputy appeared slightly dazed.

“That hellion you winged made a try for you, didn’t he,” he stated rather than asked.

“He did,” Slade replied, finishing his brain tablet without spilling a crumb of tobacco and touching a match to it. “Guess he was a mite slow, though.”

“He didn’t ’pear slow to me,” Bert declared. “But you made him look slow as a snail climbing a slick log. Gentlemen, hush! Now I believe it.”

“Believe what?” Slade asked.

“ ‘The fastest gunhand in the whole Southwest,’” Bert quoted. “Yep, I was sorta wonderin’, but I ain’t anymore. Gentl-l-lmen, hush!”

Slade smiled. “Go over there and see if you can find his iron,” he directed. “I think it’s on the floor somewhere close to the door.”

Bert did so, returning a moment later with the drygulcher’s gun, or what was left of it, one butt plate being missing and the lock smashed by Slade’s bullet.

“Blood spots on the floor, too,” he announced. “Reckon you took part of his hand off.”

“I thought I winged him, not seriously, however, from the way he skalleyhooted,” Slade said as he examined the damaged gun.

Hardrock Hogan came over to the table; his face was serious.

“Mr. Slade, it looks like you made some enemies today,” he said as he settled his ponderous bulk in a chair. “Possibly,” El Halcón conceded.

“I saw what happened,” Hardrock said. “Happened to look toward the door right at that minute. Do you figure that fight was staged as a cover-up?”

“It was,” Slade replied, “but not by the carters or the Cross W bunch. I saw one of those sidewinders hit one of the Cross W hands from behind. He naturally figured it was one of the carters and swung on the one nearest. I didn’t realize what it meant, at first, thinking it was just an over-zealous amigo of the carters perhaps resenting something that was said. But when the three of them headed for the door once the ruckus was under way, I thought it looked a mite funny and watched them.”

Hardrock shook his head in wordless admiration. “I think you should have another drink,” he said. “I’ll send one over before I help the boys clean up that mess of busted furniture. I oughta make the hellions pay for it, but I won’t.”

“I think I’d prefer a cup of coffee, thank you,” Slade answered.

Hardrock snorted. “Okay, okay,” he said. “If I was in your place right now, I’d hanker for a double snort to stop me shakin’.”

He lumbered off to the kitchen, still wagging his big head. Bert chuckled.

“I watched you roll that cigarette,” he remarked. “You sure weren’t doing any shaking I could spot. Haven’t you any nerves at all? Right now I’m still jumpy as a rabbit in a hounddog’s mouth. Here comes Crane.”

The sheriff came hurrying across the room, his face mirroring concern.

“I’d stopped at Stampler’s place for a minute,” he explained. “Heard there was trouble over here and a shooting. Knew darn well you were mixed up in it some way. What happened?”

Slade told him. The sheriff swore. “Figure it was somebody with a grudge against El Halcón?”

“Could be, of course, but somehow I don’t think so,” Slade replied. “Remember, there were five men chasing Vergara. I met two men riding the other way and presume they were part of the bunch that killed Vergara. For some reason two returned to the canyon, perhaps to get rid of the body, or possibly ‘discover’ it. If so, that would leave three unaccounted for. I feel that the three continued to town. There’s just a chance that the three who attempted to drygulch me are the identical three. After listening to Hardrock tell the story of what happened in the canyon, they may have decided that I should be eliminated. Just conjecture, of course, but that’s the way I’m inclined to view the incident.”

“Think you would recognize those three horned toads if you happened to see them again?” Crane asked.

“I would,” Slade answered. “However, I’m of the notion that they’ll steer clear of me for a while, realizing that I would very likely recognize them.”

“Or wait for you up some dark alley,” Crane returned meaningly.

“Possibly,” Slade smiled. “The moral then being, keep out of dark alleys.”

“You won’t,” snorted the sheriff. “You’ll likely go prowlin’ ’em. That would be more your style.”

Slade laughed and changed the subject.

“The boys over at the bar appear to have quieted down somewhat,” he commented.

“I imagine they did after you spoke a gentle word to them,” the sheriff agreed dryly.

“Uh-huh, plumb gentle,” chuckled Bert. “I jumped half outa my skin. Nearly scared the pants off me, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong. I never heard such a voice!”

“Wait till you hear him sing sometime and you’ll say that double,” observed Crane. “Here comes Arista.”

The cart owner appeared worried as he approached the table. “Heard there was trouble here,” he said. “Did my boys start something?”

“No,” Slade told him. “Nor did the cowhands, intentionally; it was just a mistake.” Arista looked relieved.

“I’ve a notion that gent with a bullet hole through his hand figures it was a darn bad mistake,” remarked Crane and proceeded to regale Arista with an account of what happened.

“And you think, Mr. Slade, that those three men were part of the bunch that killed Vergara?” Arista asked when the sheriff paused.

“Not impossible that they were,” Slade replied. “And,” he added, his gaze hard on the other’s face, “if so, it is an example of what happens when honest men get on the prod against one another, each blaming the other for anything off-color that occurs, and providing opportunity for the lawless to operate.”

“You may be right,” Arista sighed. “But,” he added bitterly, “I don’t see why Webb should adopt the attitude he holds. I did not resent his entering into the carting trade in competition with me. So far as I was concerned, he was welcome to any business he could get.”

Slade refrained from mentioning that it was his inability to get the business he’d hoped for that caused Webb to paw sand, for there was truth in what the carter said. He resolved to have a talk with John Webb at the earliest opportunity.

Arista glanced toward the bar. “I think I’ll go over and have a talk with my boys,” he announced.

“A good idea,” Slade applauded. “Tell them not to start any trouble, and, Tom, it might also be a good idea for you to have a little powwow with the Cross W bunch.”

“I will,” the sheriff said grimly. “I don’t calc’late to have any corpse and cartridge session in this town if I can prevent it, and I’ve a notion I can.”

Slade was inclined to agree; Sheriff Crane was known to be a cold proposition. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, told the waiter to bring more coffee, then rolled a cigarette.

As he watched Arista mingling with his men, Crane with the cowhands, Slade felt he had averted trouble for the time being at least; but he was dubious as to the future. There was no doubt but that Pancho Arista deeply resented Webb’s attitude, and he had a fiery temper. It would take little to set him off.

“You sure have whipped the Old Man and Arista into line,” chuckled Bert, the deputy. “They both do just what you tell them to and don’t arg’fy.”

“I just suggest,” Slade smiled.

“Uh-huh, like the business end of a six-shooter suggests,” said Bert.

Which caused El Halcón to smile again. Bert’s manner of expressing himself was refreshing.

A little later, Crane and Arista returned to the table. “I’m going to bed,” said the latter. “I’m dog-tired. See you tomorrow, Mr. Slade. Later today, rather; it’s long past midnight.”

“And I think I’ll follow your example,” Slade replied. “Guess I can get a room at the Regan House, Tom?”

“Sure you can,” Crane assured him. “They’ve always got vacancies. Let’s go. I’ll knock off a few hours myself and get an early start after those carcasses. Old coots like me don’t need much sleep. Come along, Bert, time you was in bed, too.”