Читать книгу Bullets for a Ranger: A Walt Slade Western - Bradford Scott - Страница 6

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IT WAS WELL PAST NOON when El Halcón rode into Port Lavaca, which reeked with the smell of fish and the unsavory aroma of packing houses.

Slade was familiar with the bay town’s colorful history, the present town being on the approximate site of Linnville, which was destroyed by enraged Comanches. Burning with anger over the slaughter of their leaders in the Council House fight in San Antonio, an army of five hundred Indians had laid waste to Victoria and marched on Linnville. The residents, believing them to be Mexican traders, took no precautions until it was too late. But before the town was completely surrounded, they realized what was up and took refuge in a big lighter out on the bay beyond arrow shot. The Indians stole everything they could pack away and burned what they couldn’t, loaded their loot on fifteen hundred captured horses and departed. Later on, Port Lavaca, “Port of the Cow,” rose on the ruins of Linnville.

The town was still a rather important place of entry, but the currents and tides of Matagorda Bay were already slowly choking the channel with silt and destroying the deep water facilities. Port Lavaca would know an era of stagnation until the development of oil and exploitation of recreation facilities would cause it to boom again.

However, it was still plenty lively and still making history when Walt Slade rode in late that beautiful afternoon.

After locating a suitable stable for his horse and making sure all his needs were provided for, Slade headed for the sheriff’s office, hoping that official would be in.

Sheriff Neale Ross was in, dozing comfortably in an armchair, his feet propped on his desk. Looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, but in fact he had plenty.

The sheriff slowly opened one eye as Slade entered. Then the other snapped open, and his boots hit the floor with a thud.

“Slade!” he shouted. “Where in tarnation did you come from?”

“Over west,” Slade replied, grinning at the sheriff’s astonishment.

Ross surged to his feet and held out a big paw. They shook solemnly.

“Have a chair,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable. Hey, what’s the matter? Your head’s tied up.”

“Leaned against the hot end of a passing slug,” Slade answered cheerfully. “Just a scratch.”

The sheriff shook his own red head resignedly.

“All right, where are the bodies,” he sighed. “I’ll go pack ’em in.”

“I wish I knew,” Slade said.

“Now what the devil do you mean by that?” demanded Ross.

“Sit down, Neale, and I’ll tell you about it,” Slade replied, and proceeded to do so.

The sheriff swore whole-heartedly as the tale progressed. “The men of steel, eh?” he growled. “And you actually saw them?”

“Yes, I saw them,” Slade admitted. “Were wearing what looked like armor, all right, but it wasn’t very good armor —didn’t offer much protection against a .45. But the lead they threw at me certainly wasn’t medieval—it was plumb up to date. I wish I had gotten a close look at what they were wearing, but for a while I wasn’t in much shape to do any looking, and when the rest of the bunch showed up, I figured odds of eight to one were a bit lopsided, even if I had been up to snuff, which I certainly was not.”

“So I imagine,” nodded the sheriff. Suddenly he grinned.

“So!” he chuckled. “I write to McNelty asking for a troop to restore order and he sends me El Halcón, the notorious owlhoot. Oh, well, guess it might be worse. Just suppose there were two El Halcóns. That would be a real calamity, the way trouble always shows up when there’s just one of you around. And I’ve got enough as it is.”

“Neale, what is going on here?” Slade asked. The sheriff proceeded to enlighten him to the best of his ability.

Like Slade the night before, Sheriff Ross had for some time been trailing “ghosts.” At least according to quite a few folks—Ross himself did not think so. He considered it strange and contrary to experience for ghosts to throw hot lead and steal sheep and cows. Which was just what they had been doing, as he wrote Captain McNelty.

In the section there were many sheep ranches, owned chiefly by Texas citizens of Mexican descent or other citizens of out-and-out Indian blood. Embodied in the beliefs of these folks were legends and traditions dealing with the armor-clad men of Spain who had once conquered and overrun the country. As is customary with legendary figures, the men of steel were endowed with awesome and mystical attributes. Strange tales were told beside lonely campfires of the things they did. And the story went on and became a prophecy believed in by many, that, though long vanished from the scene, they would come again in due time and once again rule the land. The simple herders and peones of the region believed the stories. So did some not so simple Texas cowhands who should have known better.

Cattle are not the only things in the West that are widelooped. Sheep are worth money, also. They are easy to handle, much easier indeed than obstreperous longhorns; and there are markets for woollies, to those who know where to look for them.

So Sheriff Ross was not particularly surprised when a report came to him that the herders of the section were losing sheep. But he was surprised when more and more reports came in. What was worse, several flock owners had been killed while endeavoring to protect their woollies. Sheriff Ross swore in some special deputies and did his best to run down the wide-loopers. Without success. He found that he was up against a stone wall of fear and superstition on the part of the people he was trying to protect.

He swore in wrathful disgust at the whispers running through the section that the men of steel were once again riding the wastelands. Weird stories were told of men in shining cuirasses and helmets riding through the filtered moonlight of a stormy sky—men it was death to meet, who snatched up herds of sheep and cattle and swept them away into the clouds, never to be seen again.

But the bodies the ghostly riders left behind were plain to be seen, and were found to be punctured by very prosaic and matter-of-fact bullet holes.

Would ghosts use powder and lead to do their killing, he demanded. All too often he was met by an eloquent shoulder shrug and a muttered quién sabe? Who knows?

But where do the sheep go, he was asked. And the cows that have been lifted, too. Not to the north, that is certain. Not across seventy miles of desert to the Rio Grande. An expressive glance to the clouds overhead. Profanity from the sheriff.

However, the sheriff figured he had the answer to the question. Sheep can be transported via ship, and so can cattle. A ship stands in at night. The critters are loaded and away they go to Mexico, or some place else where somebody is waiting to buy them.

“No ships have been seen.” To that one the sheriff did not have the answer. He was forced to admit that, so far as he knew, it was true.

What irritated Ross most was his inability to obtain reliable information. The herders wouldn’t talk. They were brave, hardy men who feared no purely physical dangers. But they shook with terror at the shadows in their own minds. To them the ghostly riders were real and were not of honest flesh and blood.

Finally, in despair, Sheriff Ross wrote to Captain McNelty asking for help. The result: El Halcón, who did not believe in ghosts and in whom the Mexican peones and pastores did believe.

“So that’s how the situation stands,” Ross concluded. “I can’t learn anything I can depend on, and I can’t find out for sure where the blasted critters go. I’ve had men posted at all the likely coves and inlets; no ship ever shows up. A couple have been spotted standing well out to sea, down south of where the channel begins. If they’d tried it down there, they’d have smashed to the devil against the rocks. They didn’t. After a while the lights twinkled away. There’s even been a watch kept over around San Antonio Bay, to the west. Nothing happened there.”

“Those ships you mentioned,” Slade remarked. “Were they spotted on stormy nights?”

The sheriff ruminated a moment. “Come to think of it, I believe they were,” he replied. “Why?”

“Last night was stormy, and I distinctly saw the lights of a ship standing off-shore; she didn’t put in. May have been just coincidence, but then again it may not. Of course there is less chance of detection on a bad night, which wide-loopers take into consideration.”

“That’s so,” the sheriff conceded. “And you actually did for two of the devils? That’s more than anybody else has been able to do. Not a bad beginning. I’ve a notion business is going to pick up. Wonder if they’ll spot you for El Halcón, even maybe for a Ranger?”

“I’ll settle for El Halcón,” Slade replied. “I hope to keep my Ranger connections secret, at least for a while. Be better that way.”

The sheriff nodded but looked dubious, as Captain Jim McNelty often did when he and Slade discussed the matter.

Owing to his habit of working under cover as much as possible and often not revealing his Ranger identity, Walt Slade had built up a peculiar dual reputation. The smartest Ranger of them all, and he ain’t scared of anything that walks, crawls or flies, said those who knew the truth. Just a blasted outlaw with too much savvy to get caught, so far, declared others, including some puzzled sheriffs and marshals.

Slade did nothing to correct this erroneous impression, although he was forced to admit that it laid him open to grave personal danger, as Captain Jim often pointed out. But Slade insisted that it afforded a much better chance of acquiring valuable information and that it was worth the risk.

“Let the owlhoots think I’m just one of their brand trying to horn in on some good thing they’ve started,” he said. “Then they get careless and tip their hands.”

“Uh-huh, and you’ll end up getting your hand tipped by some trigger-happy deputy, or some gunslinger out to get a reputation by downing El Halcón, ‘the fastest gunhand in the whole Southwest.’ Oh, go ahead! Go ahead! I get sore tonsils arguing with you!”

So Slade continued to “go ahead” on the path of his choosing, satisfied with the present and giving little thought to the future.

“Well, suppose we go hunt up Doc Price and let him have a look at your head,” Ross suggested. “You got a bad rap, and it shouldn’t be neglected.”

“Guess you’re right,” Slade conceded. “I don’t think there is anything much to it, but it’s better not to take chances.”

As they walked along the street, Slade gestured toward a big and sprawling building to the right.

“Seems to me that one has acquired an addition since I was here last year,” he remarked.

“It has,” said the sheriff. “Used to be one of old Shanghai Pierce’s slaughterhouses. Now it’s Eldon Parr’s packing establishment. Parr packs sheep meat.”

“A good site for it, here,” Slade commented. “Plenty of sheep in this section.”

“Parr mostly brings his woollies in by ship,” replied Ross. “Owns a couple of ranches over to the east, I understand. He bought local sheep when he came here, about four months back, but because of the blasted men of steel scare he can’t depend on local deliveries. He’s threatened to start a ranch hereabouts, which doesn’t set too well with the cowmen—quite a bit of open range here which they use but don’t own. They’re scared that if he does bring in sheep he’ll let them run wild over the range, and you know what that means. All the sheep in this section are owned by the Mexican herders down to the southwest, where the cowmen haven’t any holdings.”

Slade nodded his understanding. He knew what carelessly handled sheep would do to rangeland. The prophet Ezekiel knew what he was talking about when he wrote:

“Woe be to the shepherds of Israel .... Seemeth it a small thing unto you to have eaten up the good pasture, but ye must tread down with your feet the residue of your pastures? ...”

That is just what sheep, carelessly handled, do. They kill more than they eat. They feed in compact masses, and their sharp chisel feet, driven by a hundred pounds of solid bone and flesh, cut even the roots of the grass to pieces. As a result, vegetation may be killed for years to come. The damage is even more serious in arid lands, where vegetation is essential to the conservation of moisture. Without vegetable life, rain is not absorbed but runs off the ground and cuts it into arroyos and ravines where nothing will grow. A range overstocked with cattle is in for trouble, sooner or later. With sheep, it is sooner.

Which is the reason for the bloody range wars fought in the West because of the encroaching woollies.

But Slade knew that experience had taught that sheep and cattle can be raised in the same section to the advantage of both; it is just a matter of proper handling. Steep and stony pastures that are worthless for cattle provide good grazing for sheep. Wise ranchers take advantage of this fact and profit thereby.

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.