Читать книгу The Hate Trail: A Walt Slade Western - Bradford Scott - Страница 5

A STAGE COACH ran from Tascosa to Amarillo—Tascosa, the former “Cowboy Capital of the Plains,” before the hoped-for railroad bypassed it. A dying town that before many years would be little more than a memory.

But Tascosa wasn’t dead yet, quite a ways from it, and its shops and saloons still did plenty of business. In consequence, the stage often packed quite a considerable sum of money in a locked strongbox, bound for an Amarillo bank.

With the Canadian Valley, a terrain favorable to the depredations of outlaws, crossed without mishap, and Amarillo not many miles ahead, the stage rolled along blithely, approaching one of the few stands of thick chaparral, with occasional trees, that flanked the trail. Beyond the chaparral was the open, treeless prairie.

On the high seat, an alert guard sat beside the driver, shotgun across his knees. A rifle leaned against the driver’s knee. Both were conscious of the strongbox inside the locked coach; there were no passengers today, but that strongbox packed a hefty sum of dinero. Now, however, nearing Amarillo as they were, guard and driver relaxed a bit, conversing animatedly, their subject the anticipated night in town.

The stage entered the chaparral belt and a few minutes later careened around a bend.

“Look out, Prate!” the guard shouted.

The driver hauled back hard on the reins. Directly in front, the motionless body of a man lay face-downward across the middle of the trail. Nearby stood a saddled and bridled horse that gazed at the prostrate form and held up one foreleg.

The stage jolted to a halt, the prancing lead horses almost on top of the body. Overhead a tree arched its heavy branches and thick foliage across the trail.

“Cayuse has a busted leg—must have fallen and pitched the jigger on his head!” the guard exclaimed excitedly. “Looks like his neck’s busted. I’ll—” he glanced up as a slight rustling sounded over his head. An instant too late.

From the screen of leaves overhead whisked two tight loops. They encircled the shoulders of guard and driver and were instantly jerked taut. The unfortunate pair were snaked from the seat, shotgun and rifle clattering to the ground, and hung yelling and cursing and kicking, but helpless.

From the encroaching growth bulged three masked men. The “dead man” in the trail leaped erect and also proved to be masked.

“Stop your blasted kicking and be still if you don’t want to stay still forever,” boomed the taller of the group. The double click of a cocking gun emphasized the order.

The driver and the guard hung rigid, hardly daring to breathe, swaying gently back and forth like spiders on a web-thread. Two more masked men slid down the tree trunk, chuckling and casting derisive glances at the hogtied pair.

A couple of shots smashed the stage’s door lock. The strongbox was hauled out. A couple more shots opened it, revealing packets of bills and rolls of gold coin.

Two of the robbers dashed into the brush to return a few moments later with saddled and bridled horses. The money was transferred to saddle pouches. The “dead man” cut the thin cord that had held up his horse’s front hoof to simulate a broken leg. All six mounted and turned their horses west.

The tall leader lingered a moment, gazing speculatively at the shivering guard and driver and fingering his cocked gun. Then he uncocked and holstered the iron.

“Hang aound for a while, gents, and enjoy the scenery,” he said with sardonic humor and galloped after his companions.

It took the furious pair some little time to free themselves and drop to the ground. They retrieved their fallen arms, climbed onto the seat and, raving and cursing, sent their rifled vehicles roaring to Amarillo.

Slade and the sheriff were still sitting in the Trail End, discussing cups of steaming coffee, when the driver and guard stormed in and business came to a standstill.

“The blankety-blank-blanks!” howled the driver. The guard mouthed incoherent profanity.

“What the devil’s the matter with you two?” shouted the sheriff. “What’s wrong—what happened?”

The story came out, vividly spiced with cuss words. Sheriff Carter outs wore them both.

“Did you ever hear tell of such a pair of terrapin-brains?” he demanded of Slade, after he had caught his breath.

“An old trick, but it works,” the Ranger replied. He turned the full force of his cold gray eyes on the excited pair and they fell silent.

“How far from Amarillo were you when it happened?” he asked.

“Just a few miles,” replied Prate, the driver. “Took us less than half an hour to get here; we came fast.”

“But not fast enough so far as you’re concerned, I’d say,” Slade remarked to the sheriff. “If they headed west, they’re in Oldham County by now, the chances are. So I guess you’d better wire ahead and send word to Sheriff Davenport telling him what happened and to be on the lookout for the hellions. Not that it’s likely to do him much good; chances are they’ll slide into the Canadian Valley and make for a hole-up somewhere. Sosna knows the Valley like the palm of his hand.”

“I’m sure hoping for a chance to get my hands on him,” growled the sheriff, “It happened in my bailwick.”

“Maybe you will,” Slade comforted him.

“Any notion how much they got?” he asked the driver.

“I don’t know, but I figure it was plenty,” Prate replied.

“Shipment to the bank here?”

“That’s right.”

“Better notify the bank officials, too, without delay,” Slade said to Carter.

“I will,” replied the sheriff. “Come along with me?”

“If you wish me to,” Slade agreed, rising to his feet.

“Take care of you later, Swivel,” the sheriff said. They left the saloon together.

“Say, who is that big feller?” asked Prate, the driver, as he accepted a drink. “He seemed to take charge of things right off, told Carter what to do and everything.”

“Don’t you know?” asked Swivel, glowering with one eye and leering with the other. “That’s El Halcón, the outlaw.”

“Huh!”

“That’s right,” said Swivel. “The notorious El Halcón. Looks like a hawk, don’t he? Like one of those big gray mountain devils that’ll give an eagle his comeuppance. Yep, name sorta fits him.”

“But how come him and Sheriff Carter are so chummy, if he’s an outlaw?” demanded Prate.

“Oh, Slade—that’s his name, Walt Slade—always takes sheriffs in tow,” Swivel explained airily. “Reckon they figure it’s best to have him close so they can keep an eye on him.”

Outside the saloon the sheriff paused, glancing questioningly at Slade.

“Telegraph office first,” the Ranger decided. “Then we’ll visit the bank president or cashier and notify them of what happened.”

The message for Sheriff Davenport of Oldham County was sent.

“May be an answer,” Slade said to the operator. “If so, hold it for the sheriff.”

Next they repaired to the home of the bank president, on Pierce Street. That official did a very good job of swearing himself, for a bank president, when informed of what had happened.

“The so-and-so’s made a good haul,” he growled. “I can’t say as to the exact amount, but there must have been something between thirty and forty thousand dollars in that box, judging from what’s usually sent to us.”

“Insured?” Slade asked. The banker nodded.

“We won’t lose anything, but it’ll hit the express company hard,” he said. “Up will go their premiums. Maybe the insurance people will drop them and they’ll have trouble getting another to take them on. What you going to do about it, Carter?”

“I’m hanged if I know, Bob,” the sheriff replied wearily. “It happened in Potter County, but Slade here is of the opinion that by now they are over in Oldham County and perhaps down in the Canadian Valley.”

The banker shot Slade a shrewd glance. “That’s the way you figure it, eh?” he asked.

“I’m not committing myself absolutely,” the Ranger replied quietly. “I merely voiced an opinion, a little while ago.”

“Hmmm!” said the bank president. “And you might possibly change your opinion?”

“Not beyond the realm of possibility,” Slade conceded. Another shrewd glance from the banker, but when he spoke it was to the sheriff.

“Got a notion it wouldn’t be a bad idea to listen to him, Brian,” he said. “Got a notion.”

The sheriff nodded but did not further commit himself one way or the other.

Outside the banker’s residence the sheriff, though not a jovial soul, gave vent to a loud chuckle.

“I was just thinking,” he said, “that here the sheriff of the county is taking advice from El Halcón, the notorious owl-hoot.”

“Well, there’s an old saying,” Slade returned, “ ‘Set a thief to catch a thief.’ ”

Sheriff Carter chuckled again. “You may have something there, son,” he admitted. “Well, got anything to suggest?”

“I have,” Slade replied. “That is, if you’re willing to follow a hunch that has very little on which to base it other than what I’ve learned from experience, some of it not pleasant, just how Veck Sosna is liable to operate.”

“I’ll follow anything that promises results,” the sheriff replied. “Right now I’m on something of a spot, and there’s an election coming up this fall. Bob Evans, the banker, ain’t feeling very good about this business and he packs considerable influence. Let’s hear what you have to say.”

Slade answered with a question. “How many deputies have you?”

“Three, all good men.”

“Can you round them up in a hurry?”

The sheriff nodded.

“Three with you and I will be enough,” Slade said. “Get hold of them and we’ll ride west; you can swear me in as a special, if you care to.”

“West?” repeated the sheriff.

“That’s right, on the chance that the hellions will turn and head back this way, which I’m of a notion they’re doing just about now.”

“You mean to say you think they might come back to Amarillo?” the sheriff demanded incredulously.

“Why not?” Slade countered. “Their faces were not seen. Neither the driver nor the guard could identify them. They’d be perfectly safe in Amarillo, so far as they know.”

“How about the row they kicked up in the Trail End?” said the sheriff. “They’d be recognized as doing that, all right. Why couldn’t I throw them in the calaboose for disturbing the peace?”

“What row they kicked up in the Trail End?” Slade answered. “I listened to the talk at the bar. Everybody was pretty well agreed that those two tinhorn gamblers started the row. You can be sure they are not going to sign a complaint. With everybody confident that they pulled a little chore of cold decking, they’ll be out of sight for a while. You can sometimes get by with a killing, but not with an engineered misdeal. They know it You’d just get yourself laughed at. Sosna knows that and is not in the least worried about trouble being made for him because of that little rukus in which nobody was cashed in and the possible complaining witnesses not present. But there is another angle. . . .”

“What?” asked Carter.

“Just this,” Slade replied. “I don’t think that Sosna knows I’m in this section. Otherwise, knowing I am quite conversant with his methods, he’d very likely not try it. As it is, I figure it’s just the very thing he’s likely to do. It would relieve him and his bunch from possible suspicion; nobody would suspect a bunch of stage robbers would be so brazen as to show up here in town in but a few hours after pulling a holdup. And that’s just the way Sosna works.”

“Dadgum it! you’ve sold me a notion against my better judgment,” the sheriff said querulously. “How the devil did you do it?”

Slade laughed, and did not explain.

During the course of the conversation they had been walking to the sheriff’s office. A light burned within and they found the three deputies whiling away the time at cards. They stared at the man whose exploits, even though some of them might be regarded as questionable, were the talk of the Southwest, when Sheriff Carter performed the introductions.

Briefly, Carter explained what he had in mind. “It’s Slade’s idea,” he concluded, adding gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye, “He don’t like for other owlhoots to horn in.”

“I can understand that,” observed Deputy Bill Harley, a lanky individual whose leathery countenance was as impassive as a green hide. “Johnny Davenport gets ringey when you start working on his side of the county line. A feller should stay in his own bailwick. Live and let live is the right notion.”

“Get the rigs on your bronks, and come loaded for bear,” ordered the sheriff. “We’re going up against a salty bunch.”

“And if we do come up with them, be ready to shoot fast and shoot straight,” Slade interpolated. “They’re desperate men and I doubt if they’ll surrender without a fight. I don’t know about the others, but Sosna is a dead shot. Very likely the others are also handy with their irons. We can’t afford to take chances.”

The deputies nodded soberly and hurried out. Ten minutes later the posse was riding west at a fast pace.

There was a nearly full moon in the sky, that was cloudless, and the prairie was flooded with silver light, which worked well with Slade’s plan. For he had a definite objective in view and believed he would be able to attain it—the belt of chaparral where the holdup occurred. He reasoned, knowing how Sosna’s mind worked, that the outlaw leader would have been in no hurry to ride east. Better to let things cool down a mite before approaching Amarillo, then slip into town unobtrusively. He felt that the last thing Sosna would expect was a posse riding from the east after the driver and guard told of him riding west. Which was doubtless his reason for allowing the pair to live; Sosna usually left no witnesses.

All of which the Ranger had carefully considered before urging Sheriff Carter to head west with his posse on the chance of intercepting the outlaw band. He believed his hunch was a straight one and that there was a good chance to put an end to Veck Sosna’s career of robbery and murder once for all.

Not that he was sure—he’d had too much experience with the Comanchero leader’s uncanny ability to wriggle out of what appeared to be a tight loop. His hairtrigger mind plus his perfect coordination of brain and body had enabled him to more than a few times escape from what seemed an absolutely hopless situation. Veck Sosna was a formidable opponent for even El Halcón.

El Halcón versus Veck Sosna! A saga of the West that would be talked about for many a year.

Suddenly the sheriff exclaimed, a trifle apprehensively, “Suppose’n we just run into a bunch of cowhands coming to town for a bust? Starting a corpse-and-cartridge session with them would be a fine howdy-do.”

“Law-abiding citizens don’t get trigger-nervous when called upon to halt by a peace officer who announced himself,” Slade pointed out. “You don’t need to worry on that score.”

“Guess that’s right,” Carter agreed, in relieved tones.

Slade himself was doing a mite of worrying. He felt confident that he had sized up the situation correctly and that they had plenty of time to reach the belt of chaparral before Sosna. But suppose he had guessed wrong and the outlaws would get there first and from its shadow spot the posse riding blithely across the moon drenched prairie? Sosna’s quick mind would instantly understand and react accordingly. The thought made Slade feel a bit cold along his backbone.

Finally they sighted the chaparral belt, which was very broad to the north, running almost to the downward plunge of the wild Canadian River Valley. Slade instinctively slowed the pace a little and his eyes probed the shadows ahead.

It was an uneasy business, riding into what might well be a sudden blaze of gunfire. A blaze they would see but not necessarily hear, lead travelling somewhat faster than sound. His right hand hovered close to his gun butt as they drew near the dark and silent growth.

It was with a sigh of relief that, riding slightly ahead, he reached the stand of growth without anything happening. Again he slowed the pace.

“Easy now,” he told his companions. “We want to find a good spot to hole up and wait.”

He led the way until they came to where a tall tree stretched its branches across the trail, effectually shutting out the moonlight for the space of a dozen yards or so. Directly ahead, some twenty paces distant, the trail curved. The moonlight poured down on the bend and the straight-away beyond the tree. Slade pulled to a halt.

“This’ll do,” he said. “We will be in the shadow and they’ll be in the light when they round the trail, that is if we don’t have to wait too long; the moon moves and soon the whole trail will be in the shadow. I’ve a notion that right here is where the holdup occurred, from the description Prate, the driver, gave of it.”

“Figure you’re right,” said the sheriff. “Okay, boys, just take it easy till the ball opens, if it does.”

A tedious wait followed and Slade grew acutely uneasy. The moon was drifting steadily westward and already the edge of the trail at the bend was growing shadowy. A little more of that west by slightly south trend and their advantage would be wiped out.

A few more minutes passed, then the Ranger stiffened to attention; his keen ears had caught a sound that steadily grew louder—the soft drumming of hoofs on the dusty trail.

“Get set!” he whispered. “They’re coming. Crowd your horses against the brush. Carter, you do the talking. You’re a peace officer and you’ll have to give them a chance to surrender.”

“The hellions don’t deserve it, if it’s really them,” the sheriff breathed. “Can’t take a chance, though, it might not be them.”

A couple of minutes crawled past. Then around the bend, clearly outlined in the moonlight, surged a group of horsemen, six in number. Slade instantly recognized the tall, broad-shouldered rider slightly in front. It was Veck Sosna! The sheriff’s voice rang out—

“In the name of the law! Elevate! You’re covered!”

The riders jerked to a halt with startled exclamations. Instantly Veck Sosna acted. He whirled his horse and sent it charging into the growth to the north. Slade drew and shot, but knew he had missed, for even as he pulled trigger, Sosna crashed into the brush and out of sight. And for the moment Slade had his hands full.

As if their leader’s move had triggered them, his followers went for their guns. The growth jumped and quivered to a roar of sixshooters.

Slade shot left and right, and again. He saw a man topple from his saddle. A second slid sideways to the ground. Lead stormed all about him, one slug graining the flesh of his right arm, another ripping the shoulder of his shirt. His companions were shooting as fast as they could pull trigger, but the light was uncertain, the horses rearing and plunging. One of the deputies gave a yelp of pain. Another barked a curse. His horse, gone half loco, charged in front of Slade and he had to hold his fire.

The three remaining outlaws whirled their horses and, one slumping forward in the hull but keeping his seat, sent them careening back around the bend, the posse yelling and shooting in pursuit.