9

AT THE MOUTH of an alley, a few yards distant, two men were wrestling furiously. Slade instantly recognized one as Sebastian Hernandez, the Lopez range boss. A third man dodged about, trying to get behind Hernandez, a knife raised to strike.

Slade bounded forward, caught the descending wrist just in time. He gave it a terrific wrench. There was a snapping sound, the knife tinkled to the ground and the wielder gave a yelp of pain. Slade hit with his left hand, grazed the other’s jaw, but with enough force to knock him off his feet; he scuttled into the alley on all fours, and his racing steps sounded back from the darkness. The other man tore free from Hernandez, tripping the range boss, who fell heavily, and fled into the alley after his companion. Slade half drew his guns, then thought better of it. He didn’t know what the score was, and a killing might not be justified. Could be a private row over a señorita, or something. A moment later he was to regret his indecision.

Hernandez, all the breath knocked out of him, was scrambling to his feet. He gave a strangled yell.

“Shoot them! Shoot the ladrones!”

“Hold it,” Slade told him. “They’re gone. What is this all about?”

“They were after the money, the blankety-blank-blanks!” Hernandez gasped, trying to pump some wind into his lungs. “They knew right where to look for it, the mangy homed toads!”

“Simmer down and tell me what happened,” Slade said. “I can’t make head or tail of your gabble.”

Hernandez grew quieter as his breath returned. “I was heading for the Post Hole from the cantina right down the street, to look for you,” he explained. “As I passed that alley, the two hellions closed in on me from behind. One jabbed a knife into my ribs and said, ‘Elevate!’ With that sticker against my back I didn’t argue. The other one reached right for my inside pocket and began unbuttoning it. That made me good and mad. The one with the knife had eased back a trifle, so I took a chance and slid sideways from it—grained the skin a little—and grabbed the other one by the neck. I’d pretty near got to my gun when you showed up. Lucky for me you did; I’d have gotten that blade in my back if you hadn’t. Guess that’s all.”

“And plenty,” Slade said. “Yes, I missed a trick by not blasting the sidewinders. You all right? Did he cut you much?”

“Oh, just a scratch,” Hernandez said. “Sorta spoiled my coat, though, I’m afraid.” He turned to show a long tear in the back of the garment.

“Come on back to the cantina where we can get a look at it,” Slade said. “A sharp knife doesn’t pain much, and you might be hurt more than you think. Doesn’t appear to be bleeding much, but best not to take chances.”

“Okay,” agreed Hernandez. “Right down the street a couple of blocks, where you see the light.”

They headed for the cantina, Hernandez walking without difficulty. Slade did not think he was seriously injured but wanted to make sure.

The Quetzal was big, softly lighted and much quieter than the Post Hole. A really good orchestra provided music, and the señoritas of the dance floor were all Hernandez had claimed for them.

The proprietor, plump and jolly and efficient-looking, came hurrying forward to greet them.

“Back so soon, Sebastian?” he exclaimed. “I am glad you found your amigo so quickly. Welcome, Capitán! My humble establishment is indeed honored. It is the great pleasure to be host to El Halcón.”

His smile changed to a look of concern when Hernandez told him what had happened, and he led the way to a back room where the range boss stripped off coat and shirt, baring his sinewy back.

Slade was relieved to find that the wound was really very slight. Some salve and a few strips of plaster, which the owner produced from a drawer, took care of it.

“And now,” said Hernandez as he donned his garments, “now I feel the need of a drink, two drinks, a whole flock of drinks. Getting knifed always makes me thirsty.”

“I think I’ll settle for coffee,” Slade decided.

The proprietor escorted them to a table, seated them with a flourish and cared for their order himself.

“On the house,” he said. “I will have it no other way. I repeat, I am honored.” With a bow and a smile, he left to attend to various chores.

“’Pears to be a right hombre,” Slade commented.

“He is,” said Hernandez. “They don’t come any better.”

Hernandez sipped his wine in silence for a while. “Wonder how the devil those hellions knew just where to look for that money?” he suddenly remarked. “Somebody must have watched me stow it away and tipped them off.”

“Looks that way,” Slade agreed noncommittally; he was wondering about it himself.

“Knew I was doing the right thing when I gave it to you to carry,” Hernandez said, with a chuckle.

“Well, the way it turned out, there would have been no harm if you’d been packing it,” Slade replied.

“Maybe,” the range boss conceded dubiously. “Just the same, I’m glad you have it and not me. Guess that pair will have something to remember you by. I’m pretty sure you busted the arm of the one with the knife. Sure sounded like it, the way he yelped. Wonder if he’ll go to Doc Price to have it set?”

Slade shook his head. “Not likely,” he replied. “Whoever sent them to do the chore would be too smart for that. He’ll have it attended to elsewhere.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if you’re right,” Hernandez conceded. “I didn’t get much of a look at him, but I think I’d recognize the other ladrón if I see him. Hope so; I’ll give him more than a busted arm if I do. Oh, the devil with ‘em! Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

Slade did enjoy his visit to the Quetzal. He had several dances with the señoritas, who proved as charming as they were pretty, yielded to a request to sing. His offering was greeted with thunderous applause, and several encores were demanded. After a while, however, he glanced at the clock over the bar.

“Guess you’d better round up your boys and call it a night,” he told Hernandez. “We want to get a fairly early start back to the ranch, and it’s late.”

The range boss cheerfully acquiesced, and a little later they left the cantina in a body.

“Now let the sidewinders try something!” Hernandez growled. “We’ll make chili stew of them.”

However, the outlaws failed to oblige, which under the circumstances was not surprising.

The following morning, Slade paused at the sheriff’s office before heading back to Lopez’ spread and acquainted Ross with what had happened the night before.

“So the hellions have started operating in town,” snorted the peace officer. “My troubles are getting no better fast. You be back soon?”

“In a day or two,” Slade replied. “Be seeing you.”

When they reached the bad water south of town, Slade once more slowed up and surveyed the bay. On former occasions, the tide had been at flood. Now it was at ebb, and although the waves still swirled and eddied and pounded the rocks, the current which had so intrigued him was practically nonexistent. His black brows drew together until the concentration furrow was deep between them, a sure sign that El Halcón was doing some hard thinking. He turned to gaze northward, shook his head and rode on.

With nothing untoward happening, they arrived at the hacienda as the sun was setting in amber and gold. They were warmly welcomed by Don Miguel, who swore in several languages when Hernandez regaled him with a graphic account of routing of the wide-loopers and the frustration of the robbery attempt. When the range boss paused, he solemnly shook hands with Slade.

“And that should settle the blasted men of steel,” he said. “I’ll spread the word around among the other flock owners. Maybe we’ll have peace now.”

Slade shook his head. “I doubt it,” he differed. “I’m of the opinion they’ll give up their bizarre masquerade, now that it’s been uncovered, and they haven’t much choice but to do so. But they won’t stop operating—not so long as the business is profitable, as it undoubtedly is. A smart and salty owlhoot outfit doesn’t give up just because of a setback. They’ll break loose again, perhaps where, when and how least expected.”

“Here?” Don Miguel asked.

“Not likely, I’d say,” Slade replied. “They’ll know you are very much on the alert and that your boys are spoiling for another whack at them. I think they’ll fight shy of your Tumbling L spread, at least for a while. They might make a try if they figure you’ve been lulled into a false sense of security. Your excellent stock is a temptation to any outlaw bunch, and you’re strategically situated, from their point of view, not far from the bay and near where there are many little coves and inlets. That is, if they do run the stolen sheep and cattle onto a waiting ship, which it seems logical to believe. Yes, they might give it a whirl if they figure you’ve gotten careless.”

“I won’t get careless,” Lopez promised grimly. “I’m on the lookout for anything so long as the hellions are still in existence, which I’ve a notion they won’t be for long, not with El Halcón on their trail.”

“Hope you’re right,” Slade said, “but at present they are still very much in existence, and I predict they won’t wait long to pull something. When an outlaw leader suffers a reverse, he has to get busy and make a haul to bolster the morale of his followers.”

Walt Slade quickly proved himself no mean prophet. The next day, in midafternoon, Manuel Garcia, Don Miguel’s neighbor to the west, rode up to the Tumbling L casa in anything but a good temper.

“I lost a hundred head last night,” he explained. “Just vanished into the clouds, or so my herders swear.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Lopez said flatly. “Haven’t been to town for a few days, have you, Manuel?” Garcia shook his head.

“If you had, you’d have heard what I’m going to tell you,” Lopez continued. There followed a pungently profane account of the unmasking of the men of steel and the killing of six of their number. Garcia said things he never learned in the Mission school.

“I knew all along it was just some sort of skullduggery, but try and make my herders believe it,” he concluded. “Now maybe they will believe me.”

“I’d planned to send Hernandez and a couple of the boys to talk to them tomorrow,” Lopez said. “And we’ll spread the word to Telo and Ybarra and the others. Men of steel! Just a bunch of owlhoots in tin shirts! Doesn’t seem possible anybody would believe such nonsense.”

“Well, when we were children, we believed in fairies and St. Nick, and that the Devil went about in horns and a tail, gnashing his teeth, and unfortunately most of the herders and the peones of the river villages have never gotten beyond the childhood stage,” Garcia pointed out. “The legend of the men of steel has come down from father to son, and the story never lost anything in the telling. But the rest of them, like your boys, will be good and mad at being made fools of. This business has got to be stopped, Miguel. We’ve all got to work together, and with Mr. Slade here to handle things as they should be handled, I have little doubt as to the final outcome.”

“Agreed,” said Lopez. “Come on, it’s time to eat. You might as well spend the night and head back to your place in the morning. I’ll have Hernandez and a couple of the boys ride with you.”

“And I’ll ride with you also, if you don’t mind,” Slade said. “I’d like to have a look at the pasture from which your woollies were wide-looped.”

“Gracias, Mr. Slade, that is fine of you,” Garcia instantly responded. “The presence of El Halcón will do much to allay my herders’ fears.”