5

SHERIFF ROSS cocked an eye at Slade.

“Well, what do you think of him?”

“A hard man, but with a weakness, perhaps his only one,” Slade replied.

“What’s that?” the sheriff asked curiously.

“Temper,” Slade said. “He let it get away from him tonight. Temper clouds the judgment. Had he been his normal cold, practical self, he would not have struck Hodson as he did.”

“You mean he woulda let Al get away with it?”

Slade shook his head. “No, he would have struck with his fist, with all his weight behind it. Then Hodson would have been in no condition to pull a gun or anything else. Hodson undoubtedly has an uncontrollable temper, especially when he is drinking. Parr should have taken that into account, especially as he was not packing a gun, and made sure Hodson would not be capable of retaliation, if he felt he must resent the remark. As it was, he merely stung him and came close to getting his come-uppance in consequence.”

“I’ve a notion you’re right,” conceded the sheriff. “Loco galoots, both of them. How about some more coffee?”

As they sat sampling the steaming cups, he suddenly uttered a sharp exclamation.

“Blazes! I’m glad Parr left when he did. Here comes Phil Waring. If Parr was still here, there’d likely be more trouble. There is bad blood between those two.”

The newcomer was a tall, rawboned young man with sparkling black eyes, a tight mouth and a long cleft chin. He swaggered to the bar and ordered a drink, his glance sweeping the room as if in quest of somebody. Slade noticed that when he settled down to his drink, his eyes were studying the gathering as reflected in the backbar mirror.

“Yep, those two don’t get along,” repeated the sheriff. “A few months back, Parr had Waring arrested for trespassing. Said he was snooping around his packing plant, likely planning to set fire to it. Could be. Waring’s got no use for sheep in any form and don’t make no bones about saying so. The judge let him off with a lecture, but he hasn’t forgot and holds it against Parr.”

Slade eyed Waring with awakened interest. “Cattleman?” he asked.

“That’s right,” replied Ross. “Owns the W Diamond up to the northwest. That is, he and his sister Marie own it together. Inherited it from their dad, old Wallis Waring, who died about five years back. It’s a good holding. Al Hodson is one of his hands. Look, they’re talking together.”

For several moments the pair were deep in conversation. Waring’s gaze shifted to the table occupied by Slade and his companions. Abruptly he turned and walked to the table, his swagger more pronounced. Pausing, he let his glittering eyes rest on Slade’s face. He nodded, not unpleasantly.

“Want to say much obliged, feller, for keeping that loco centipede from killing Eldon Parr,” he said, in a rumbling but not unmusical voice.

“Would have thought you’d have been glad if he did,” snorted the sheriff, regarding Waring with scant favor.

“Nope,” Waring returned, his voice cheerful. “Nope, I want that pleasure myself. Would have felt plumb bad if Hodson had beat me to it.”

He turned his back on the glaring sheriff and walked back to the bar.

“Blankety-blanked horned toad!” sputtered the angry peace officer. “He meant it!”

“I’ve a notion he did,” Slade agreed, the little devils of laughter leaping to the fore. There was a comical side to the sheriff’s wrath.

“He’s been in trouble before,” growled Ross. “Plugged a dealer through the shoulder in a poker game in the Occidental, down the street, and busted furniture. Got fined for that one. Oh, he’s a hell-raiser for fair. Liable to be mixed up in anything.”

“That was a dangerous thing for him to say before witnesses,” Slade said seriously. “If he should happen to have a ruckus with Parr and kill him, he might well find himself facing a first degree murder charge based on premeditation.”

“Maybe they’ll plug each other,” Doc Price remarked hopefully. “I don’t like either one of ‘em. Parr is too darned uppity, and Waring is a pest.”

“I don’t see how a nice girl like Marie could have such an ornery rapscallion for a brother,” the sheriff complained.

“Well,” said Doc, “I understand that old Wallis himself was a good deal of a ripsnorter when he was young. Reckon it’s in the blood. But a feller could get by with more in those days. Not much law hereabouts then other than what a man packed on his hip.”

“Hasn’t changed too much for the better,” Ross replied morosely.

Doc Price glanced at the clock over the bar. “Well,” he said, “you young hellions can stay up all night if you want to, but I’m going to bed.”

“And I’m going to follow your example,” Slade said. “I didn’t sleep too well last night, everything considered.”

“Come on over to my place,” Doc invited. “I got plenty of room, and it isn’t bad for bachelor quarters. Plenty to eat in the house, too, and even if I do say so, I’m a pretty good cook. You’ll be more comfortable than in one of those flea sacks they call hotels.”

“Be glad to,” Slade accepted. “See you tomorrow, Ross.”

“Okay,” the sheriff nodded. “Got to keep an eye on the notorious El Halcón. Glad, anyhow, it won’t be at an inquest, which is more than I hoped for a bit ago. I’ll stick around here a while in case something else busts loose.”

“The presence of the majesty of the law should keep the boys on their good behavior,” said Doc. “Come on, Walt, he’s just using that for an excuse to get drunk.”

Before lying down on the comfortable bed in the room Doc Price assigned him, Slade cleaned and oiled his guns and did some serious thinking. Looked like there was more to the chore handed him than had appeared on the surface. Not only was there a shrewd and salty outlaw bunch operating in the section, which presented a problem, there was a row between two prominent citizens and the probability of a grand cattle-sheep conflict in the making. If Eldon Parr made good his threat and ran woollies onto the open range, the cowmen of the section would be up in arms. Parr must know that and, Slade believed, would make provisions against it. Parr struck him as a man who would not be deterred by the possibility of trouble.

Meanwhile, the herders to the southwest, who handled their sheep properly on their own land, would be caught in the middle.

First, the grotesque “men of steel” must be handled. Slade believed he saw a way to take care of that angle. Once more his El Halcón reputation might well stand him in good stead. Worth trying, anyhow. He went to bed in a cheerful frame of mind.

He was still cheerful when he awoke late the following morning.

“Figured you needed your rest, so I didn’t bother you,” said Doc. “Come on and eat.”

After enjoying an excellent breakfast prepared by Doc Price, Slade repaired to the sheriff’s office. When he arrived there, he found Ross had a visitor—a slender, dark-faced and exceedingly handsome middle-aged man who appeared mad as a hornet.

Don Miguel Lopez—although Texas-born as was his father before him, he was still accorded the courtesy title of Don—was angry, and with cause. Miguel Lopez was not a man to be frightened by wild yarns of iron-shirted riders or affected by local superstitions. With his herders, however, most of whom were Mexicans, it was a different story. Lopez, Sheriff Ross informed Slade, after performing the introductions, was the biggest sheep owner in the section and also raised cattle, improved stock that brought top prices.

“I tell you, Neale, it goes beyond all patience,” he said. “Those infernal masqueraders have been scouting my place, and my herders are scared stiff. They say they fear no mortal foe—and they speak truth—but who can give face to the Powers of Darkness? In vain I reason with them. They are loyal to me in all else, but they refuse absolutely to drive a flock to town. Eldon Parr will take a flock if I can get it here, gladly, but how to get it here! I can’t very well ask my vaqueros to handle the chore. As you know, nearly all of them are Texasborn and have no more use for sheep than any other Texas cowboy. In addition, they have their hands full keeping an eye on my cows. I don’t know what the devil to do if you don’t clean out that gang of owlhoots, for that’s all they are, brushpopping border scum.”

Slade, who had listened intently to what Lopez had to say, spoke for the first time.

“They’re more than brush-popping scum,” he remarked. “Somebody connected with the outfit has brains, and imagination, both attributes not common to the average owlhoot.”

“I fear you may be right, Mr. Slade,” Lopez replied gloomily. “Which certainly doesn’t make the picture look any brighter.”

“No, but it is significant,” Slade said. Lopez’ brows drew together, in the manner of a man trying to recall something to memory.

“Mr. Slade,” he said, “somehow your name has a familiar ring. I seem to have heard it before, somewhere, in some connection.”

“Possibly,” Slade conceded. “I understand that the majority of your herders are Mexican-born.”

“That’s so,” nodded Lopez.

“Probably from the Rio Grande river villages.”

Lopez nodded again. “Most of those born in Texas are also from the villages on this side of the river,” he added. “Why?”

“It may be important,” Slade replied briefly. For some moments he sat silent, while the other watched him expectantly. Finally he glanced at the sheriff and nodded.

Ross chuckled. “Mig,” he said, “did you ever hear of El Halcón?”

“Why, of a certainty, El Halcón—the fearless, the just. Who has not? I—”

He ceased speaking and his eyes widened. “Ha!” he exclaimed, “I have it! No wonder your name had a familiar ring, Mr. Slade! You are El Halcón!”

“Been called that,” Slade admitted smilingly.

Don Miguel heaved a deep sigh, a sigh that was undoubtedly one of relief. “I believe,” he said deliberately, “that my sheep will be driven to market, after all.”

“Yes,” Slade smiled, “I think they will. Suppose we ride down to your place; I wish to have a talk with your herders. We should be able to make it by shortly after dark.”

“Assuredly,” said Lopez, rising to his feet. “We will start at once, and gracias, Mr. Slade, gracias! It is most kind of you.”

“Have a little personal interest in the matter,” Slade replied, tapping his bandaged forehead. “I’d like to meet the rest of those gents in tin shirts, especially with a bunch of good fighters at my back. Let’s go.”

“I’ll come and pick up the bodies,” Sheriff Ross called cheerfully after them as they left the office. “Good hunting!”