AS THE EVENING WORE ON, Slade was pleased to note that the cowboys and the railroaders were mingling, chatting together amicably, sharing drinks. Butler noticed it too, and chuckled.
“Feller, you sure got a way with you,” he said. “Wouldn’t have believed it possible. The last time they were trading punches; tonight they’re trading glasses. Do you always affect folks this way?”
“Not always, I fear,” Slade was forced to admit, with a smile.
“Then there must be something plumb off-color about somebody,” Butler declared with conviction.
Finally Hal Murdock glanced at the clock over the bar. “Guess we’d better call it a night, work to do tomorrow,” he announced. “Belly up for one more, boys, then we’ll be ambling. You riding with us, Slade?”
“For part of the way,” the Ranger replied. “Until you branch off to head for your spread. Then I’ll keep on north to the camp. All set? Let’s go. Goodnight, John, I’ll see you in a day or two.”
Slade had also noticed that the carters kept strictly to themselves, ignoring both the railroad workers and the cowhands. He could feel their eyes following him as they pushed through the swinging doors.
The horses were procured and the troop rode north at a fair pace. It was a night of brilliant stars in a cloudless sky, and objects were visible for a long distance. Clumps of brush bristled up from time to time, solider shadows amidst the shadows, silent, motionless, for not a breath of air was stirring. These Slade studied carefully, although there appeared no apparent reason for him to do so. No apparent reason, but nevertheless there was a “reason.”
In men who ride much alone with danger as a constant stirrup companion there develops a subtle and unexplainable sixth sense that warns of peril when none, seemingly exists. In Walt Slade that sense was acute. And ever since leaving Presidio, the silent monitor had been setting up a clamor in his brain. Inaudible, wordless but persistent and very real, it sounded its tocsin of alarm.
Slade had learned not to disregard its warning, so he was very much on the alert as the insistence seemed to grow more strident. And he had not forgotten that just a few evenings before, somebody had taken a shot at Hal Murdock, from ambush. This lonely desert trail provided excellent opportunity for a possible drygulcher or drygulchers.
Six or seven hundred yards ahead appeared a long straggle of thicket paralleling the trail on the west. It was not very broad, but the brush was thick and tall. Seemingly from the thicket, came the persistent yipping of a coyote, which would doubtless keep up all night were the little prairie wolf not disturbed. An owl answered steadily with a melodious whistle.
Suddenly the yipping cut off short. At the same instant the owl’s whistle changed to an irritated whine. Gazing ahead, Slade saw something like a popgun ball shoot into the air over the thicket and float away under the stars. For some reason the owl had taken wing, and the coyote had ceased its clamor.
“Hold it!” Slade snapped to Murdock, who rode beside him, and halted Shadow.
“What’s the matter?” asked the range boss as the others jostled to a halt behind them.
“I don’t know for sure,” Slade replied, “but I don’t like the look of the belt of chaparral up there ahead.”
Instantly Murdock was very much on the alert. “You mean you figure somebody might be holed up there waiting for us?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Slade repeated, “but it’s sort of funny that the coyote should stop barking and the owl take off for someplace else right at the same time. Usually they’ll keep on yelling at each other all night. Something scared the coyote, who’s evidently holed up in the brush, and something caused the owl to get mad. Did you hear his whistle change to an angry whine? And remember, you told me somebody took a shot at you from the brush the other day. If there does happen to be somebody with a dry-gulching in mind, we’d be setting quail in this bright starlight, if we keep on riding the trail.”
Murdock swore sulphurously. “What the devil we going to do?” he asked.
Slade pondered a moment. “If you don’t mind taking a chance, we might be able to bag the hellions, if they are there, and turn them over to the authorities. And, incidentally, perhaps put a stop to the heck raising that’s been going on hereabouts of late.”
“We’ll take a chance, and glad to,” Murdock instantly replied. “Won’t we, boys?”
There was immediate and profane assent.
“You tell us what to do and we’ll do it,” Murdock said.
“I don’t think they would have spotted us down here,” Slade said. “We’ll cut across the prairie behind those other clumps of brush and come to the thicket from the west. If there is somebody in there, they’ll be watching the trail. With good luck we should be on top of them before they know it.
“But,” he added impressively, “if it comes to a ruckus, shoot fast and shoot straight. That sort is dangerous as a nest of rattlesnakes.”
“We’ll shoot,” Murdock promised grimly. “I’m itchin’ for a chance to line sights with the blankety-blank who took that shot at me from the brush. Maybe he’ll be in there,” he added hopefully.
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Slade said. “Off the trail, and back of the brush over there,” he ordered abruptly. “Look,” gesturing to the east where the silver edge of the late moon was showing above the horizon. “Should be pretty good shooting light in another half hour or so. We’ll hold off until the moon is up a bit. Then the devils should show if they’re at the east edge of the brush, where they’re apt to be.”
Keeping behind as many of the scattered clumps of growth as possible, they rode west for more than half a mile. Now the moon was sliding up the eastern slant of the sky, and objects stood forth in bold relief. Slade called a halt in the shadow of a thicket and they sat their motionless horses for several minutes.
“All right, head east,” he said in low tones. They moved on, still taking advantage of every bit of cover. Finally Slade again called a halt, behind a thicket that was a couple of hundred yards from the belt of growth flanking the trail.
“All right, we’ll leave the horses here,” he whispered. “Will your critters stand?”
“Uh-huh, they’re well trained,” Murdock breathed back, as he dismounted.
“Here we go,” Slade said. “Straight for the brush, and for Pete’s sake don’t make a noise. If they hear us coming we’ll get a reception we won’t like.”
Crouching low, silently as shadows, they sped across the open space in the white flood of the moonlight.
It was a ticklish business. If the possible drygulchers were keeping a lookout at the west edge of the belt, the first intimation of their presence would be a blaze of gunfire. Slade breathed deep relief when they reached the shadow of the belt. He motioned a halt and the cowhands stood rigid and silent, hardly daring to draw breath.
Suddenly the silence was broken by a sound, a faint and musical sound that Slade recognized as the jingle of a bit iron as a horse tossed its head.
“They’re in there,” he whispered to his followers. “We’ve got only about fifty yards to go. Take it slow and easy and be quiet!”
Leading the way, he crept forward, careful to break no twig, to step on no dry and fallen branch, devoutly hoping that his companions, single-filing behind him, would exercise a like care. A few minutes later his keen ears caught a mutter of rough voices; he slowed the pace to a snail crawl.
Step by slow step, the posse wormed through the brush, ears straining, eyes peering to pierce the darkness. As they approached the trail the growth thinned and the ground was splotched by blobs and irregular triangles of moonlight. Another moment and they saw the drygulchers, half a dozen forms outlined in the pale light, facing down the trail, lethally expectant.
A flame of wrath enveloped Slade. The devils meant snake-blooded murder, nothing less. He felt he would be justified in mowing them down where they stood, but the stern code of the Rangers bound him. He must give them a chance to surrender. He motioned his followers to fan out on either side. The move was made in utter silence. Slade drew both guns. His voice rang out, its thunder shattering the silence to shards.
“Elevate! you’re covered!”
The forms at the edge of the growth leaped as if touched by hot branding irons. They whirled toward the sound of the command. Slade saw the gleam of a gun barrel and shot with both hands, left and right. And the ball was open!
Back and forth gushed the lances of flame. Yells, curses, cries of pain, the booming of the guns and the neighing of startled horses, filling the night with horrendous sound.
A bullet twitched Slade’s sleeve. Another fanned his face with its hot breath. A third jerked at the crown of his hat. He shot again and again through the swirling smoke wreaths, and abruptly realized there was nothing left to shoot at. As he stuffed fresh cartridges into his empty guns, there was a crackling and crashing of the brush, followed by a beat of hoofs on the trail, speeding south. He rushed through the final straggle of the brush and emptied his guns after the fleeing drygulchers. But three riderless horses galloping after the others disturbed his aim and none of the shots took effect. Another instant and the quarry was out of range. Again reloading his guns he hurried back to join his companions.
“Got three of the horned toads!” whooped Hal Murdock, swabbing at a bullet-gashed cheek with a bloody handkerchief. One of the cowboys was cursing violently and cherishing a punctured arm. Otherwise there appeared to be no casualties.
A glance assured Slade that Murdock’s injury was not serious. “Hold still,” he told the wounded puncher, and deftly cut away his shirt sleeve, exposing a bleeding hole in the fleshy underpart of the upper arm.
“Be back in a minute,” he said, and sped to the west edge of the growth, whistling a long, melodious note. As he passed through the final fringe of growth, Shadow came racing across the prairie in answer to his call. He quickly secured a roll of bandage and a pot of antiseptic ointment from his saddle pouch and hurried back to the wounded cowboy. After smearing the wound with the ointment he deftly padded and bandaged it to check the bleeding, which he was glad to note was not profuse. From a handkerchief and the cut-away sleeve he contrived a sling to support the injured member.
“That should hold you till the doctor can look you over,” he said. Rolling a cigarette he lit it and handed it to the waddie who gratefully took a deep drag.
“Much obliged,” he mumbled. “Feel fine, now.”
Murdock protested he didn’t need any attention, but Slade insisted on treating the bullet cut in his cheek with salve and a pad. His ministrations finished, he rolled a cigarette for himself.
Meanwhile the bodies of the dead drygulchers had been dragged into a patch of moonlight. There was nothing outstanding about either of them, so far as Slade could see. Two were short but powerfully built, the third long and lanky. Murdock peered close at the rigid faces.
“The two little ones got a sort of familiar look—I’d swear I’ve seen them somewhere,” he said. “That’s about all I can say for the hellions. How about you, boys?”
The cowhands shook their heads. Murdock grunted and began turning out the dead men’s pockets, revealing various trinkets of no significance and considerable money.
“Share and share alike,” he said cheerfully. “Only Slade had oughta get the biggest whack.” El Halcón smilingly shook his head. Murdock glanced at him, shrugged resignedly and divided the money into six equal parts.
“What we going to do with the carcasses?” he asked, as he straightened up.
“Leave them where they are and notify the sheriff of the county,” Slade decided. “He can ride down from the county seat and look them over.”
“And now we’re heading for home,” said Murdock. “Slade, you gotta ride with us and tell the Old Man just what happened.”
“I fear he won’t welcome me,” Slade demurred.
“Won’t he?” growled Murdock. “He’d better,” he added ominously. “Let’s grab our cayuses and go; I’m hungry.”
Slade bit back a grin and offered no further objections. Murdock’s temper, he could see, was fast rising to the boiling point. He grumbled and muttered to himself as they rode north for a couple of miles and then turned sharply east into a trail much less traveled than the broad Chihuahua.
“Only about five miles now to the casa,” Murdock volunteered. “We been on the Barred Diamond range for quite a bit. Runs west to the hills, only this burned out section over here ain’t worth a hoot. Jorg’s granddad tied onto it for some reason or other.”
Soon they were riding across true grassland, and after a bit sighted a big white ranchhouse set in a grove of cottonwoods.
“Jed, you and Cal look after the horses,” Murdock directed. “The rest of you come with me. Come along, Slade.” He waited until the two hands had been properly introduced to Shadow, then led the way up the wide veranda steps.
“I’m waking the Old Man up,” he said, “he’s gotta hear about what happened right away.” He began hammering the door with a blacksmith’s blows, creating a devilish uproar.
A light flashed on inside the building. There was a sound of hurrying steps on stairs. The door opened to reveal old Andy Jorg swathed in a robe. His eyes widened as they rested on Slade’s tall form and he glowered.
“What the devil do you mean by bringing him here?” he demanded truculently of Murdock.
At which the geyser of big Hal’s smouldering temper erupted with scalding steam, a smell of sulphur and language utterly impossible to reproduce upon paper.
“Shut up!” he roared. “If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here and neither would the boys. You and your loco row with the railroad is responsible for what happened. Tighten the látigo on your jaw and listen to what I have to tell you. For two pesos I’d leave you flat and take all the boys with me.”
Old Andy gulped and goggled, and gave back as Murdock strode through the door. Slade bit his lip hard to hide a grin. Murdock flopped into a chair, gestured Slade to another and poured forth his story.
As the tale progressed, Jorg’s lined face froze into a mask of horror and when Murdock paused for breath, he held out his hand to Slade.
“Son,” he said unsteadily, “it looks like maybe I made a mistake.”
“Yes, Cousin Andy, it certainly does,” said a feminine voice behind Slade.