THE NEXT DAY SLADE WIRED A cryptic message to Sheriff Cartwright. As a result, in the dead of night the sheriff and half a dozen deputies and their horses arrived via a material train, and went into seclusion with Casey and the old Mexican who looked after Slade, to take care of their wants. Nobody else knew they were at the camp.
“I’m sure tomorrow night will be it, in the nature of a last resort,” Slade told Cartwright. “By then the river will be at crest and a real breakthrough could cause tremendous damage here, perhaps delay the work indefinitely. At any rate long enough for the M.K. to get a real head start and win the race to Chihuahua City. Yes, I’m confident they’ll try it at the upper bend. They must have had it planned for quite a while. That little snake who tried to blow up the powder house wasn’t packing that plat of the river for nothing.”
“You don’t think they may suspect you have figured out what they plan to do?” asked the sheriff. Slade shook his head.
“I really don’t think so,” he replied. “If they have figured it, they will have taken precautions and the hunter may turn out to be the hunted.”
“A nice prospect,” grunted Cartwright. “Well, guess we’ll have to risk it; that’s always the way in this sort of game.”
“And we’ll work on the premise that they may have possibly caught on and try to guard against such an eventuality,” Slade replied. “Is everything understood now?”
“Yep,” answered the sheriff. “All set to go.”
“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow night—tonight, rather, it’s past midnight. Now I’m going to try and get a little sleep, and you’d better, too. Beunas noches!”
All the following day the river rose steadily, growling and grumbling, chaffing its banks, thundering against the massive center pier, while the bridge builders worked with frantic speed to anchor the pier with the forward reaching span. The thud of hammers, the chatter of riveters, the creaking of the cranes and the rhythmic clang of steel on steel rose above the loudening complaint of the swollen stream.
“We’re doing it,” enthused Butler. “Before tomorrow morning the span will be in place and nothing more to worry about.”
“I hope so,” Slade replied. “Yes, I think we will, if nothing goes wrong.”
He turned and gazed upstream as he spoke, where shone the gleam of the rushing water charging around the bend, almost cresting the high bank. Butler gazed also, apprehensively. For Slade had taken the engineer into his confidence.
“We’ll stop the hellions, if they do try something,” he growled. “When do you figure to leave the camp?”
“Be ready to move a couple of hours after dark,” Slade replied. “I figure they’ll hardly try anything before ten o’clock. Most likely if they do at all it will be after midnight; but we can’t afford to take chances.”
“I’ll be ready,” Butler promised. “I’m itching for a crack at those devils.”
The afternoon wore on, with the river rising and the work progressing at a steady pace. Slade began to feel optimistic as to the outcome. Unless something totally unexpected happened the real consummation of the project was at hand. And it was up to him to prevent that “unexpected something” from happening.
Slade was everywhere, directing, encouraging, solving problems that rose with smooth efficiency. The men greeted him with cheers and waving hands and bent their brawny backs. Darkness fell and the flares and torches glared back at the stars blossoming in the sky, with only a thin wisping of cloud to dim their brightness. There would be no moon until very late.
Which fitted well with El Halcón’s purpose. The prairie would be shadowy with little chance that moving objects would be spotted from any distance.
Slade made a final tour of inspection and decided that there was nothing that Casey could not handle by himself. He located Butler and together they repaired to the camp car where the sheriff and his posse were holed up. Otherwise the camp was deserted, save for the old Mexican who bade them “Vaya usted con Dios”—Go you with God.
Getting the rigs on their horses they rode north on the Chihuahua Trail, and as they rode Slade outlined his plan.
“We’ll ride north for a couple of miles, then turn west and make a wide circle back to the river,” he told them. “Not far back from the apex of the bend is a straggle of chaparral. There we’ll hole up and wait. If they show, we should be able to get the drop on them. But remember, I’m not at all sure that they will give up without a fight. Plant is a desperate man and those he will have with him are of the same ilk. I figure only his trusted, close-knit bunch will accompany him on this chore, and they’re plenty salty. But those are the ones we want. I doubt if many of his carters are in his operation against the railroad. Perhaps not all, if any, of his cowhands. What we’ll be up against is the cream of the crop, so if it comes to a corpse-and-cartridge session, shoot fast and shoot straight.”
“What if the hellions have caught on and are in that brush waiting for us?” one of the deputies asked nervously.
“Then you’ll know they’re there when you see the flash of their guns,” Slade replied dryly. “Chances are you won’t hear the reports, lead traveling a mite faster than sound.”
“Gosh!” muttered the deputy. Hardbitten old Sheriff Cartwright chuckled.
Just the same it was nerve racking work, riding slowly toward the dark and silent loom of the thicket, not knowing that at any moment they would be met by a blaze of gunfire. It was with a general sigh of relief that they reached the edge of the chaparral with nothing happening. The posse dismounted, the horses were tethered and the tedious wait began.
“Have that bundle of oil-soaked cotton waste to the front,” Slade directed. “Touch the match to it when I give the word. It’ll flare up instantly and should help throw them off balance besides giving us good shooting light. All right, everybody, quiet from now on and keep your ears and eyes open.”
Slowly the hours passed. The great clock in the sky wheeled westward. Midnight came and went and Slade began to wonder if he had guessed wrong. Was starting to look that way.
Then suddenly his keen ears caught a sound, a muffled, persistent sound that steadily loudened—the beat of horses’ hoofs on the soft ground near the river.
“Get set!” he whispered to his companions. “They’re coming.”
There was a clutching of weapons, a peering and listening. A deputy crouched beside the heap of oil-soaked waste, match ready.
The soft thudding slowed but did not cease, filtering through the moan and mutter of the swollen river. It seemed to hesitate as if in search of something, then continued as with renewed confidence. Another moment and shapes, grotesque, unreal in the starlight loomed, resolved to mounted men, seven in number. At the apex of the bend and directly opposite where the posse waited they pulled to a halt, the riders dismounted, turned toward the river bank. Slade could see that several carried shovels, and one a bundle wrapped in burlap, which he handled carefully. The Ranger’s breath caught a little. If a slug hit that bundle! He leaned forward, touched the crouching deputy on the shoulder. There was a scratching sound, a tiny flicker, then a roar of flame shooting high in the air, making the scene momentarily bright as day.
The men who had started to climb the steep river bank whirled as Sheriff Cartwright’s voice rang out, “In the name of the law! Elevate! You’re covered!”
And as the burning waste flared higher, Slade recognized the tall form and handsome face, contorted with rage, of Gordon Plant.
But even as he glimpsed the cart train owner, Plant dodged behind a man beside him and fired over his shoulder, the bullet fanning Slade’s face. His companions went for their guns and the night fairly exploded to the bellow of the reports.
Shooting with both hands, Slade tried to line sights with Plant, but the light from the burning waste was dimming and Plant was constantly on the move, ducking, dodging, weaving. Slade saw the outlaws falling, heard a yelp of pain behind him, a curse, and knew that a couple of the deputies had stopped lead. His own right sleeve was shot to ribbons, blood was streaming down his arm from where a slug had grazed the flesh. Dimly he saw a form flash toward where the horses stood, and as he swung his guns around to bear, a deputy stumbled in front of him and he was forced to hold his fire. The next instant there was a thudding of fast hoofs and the shadowy form of a mounted man vanishing westward.
“It’s Plant!” yelled Sheriff Cartwright. “He’s getting away!”
And abruptly Slade realized there was nothing more in front to shoot at. He whirled and raced to where he had left Shadow.
“You fellers look after those hellions on the ground,” the sheriff shouted to the deputies, and pounded after Slade, John Butler close on his heels.
“And somebody find that bundle of dynamite that’s lying around somewhere,” Slade called, as he flung himself into the saddle and scooped up the split reins. His voice rang out, “Trail, Shadow, trail!”
The black horse leaped forward and was going at flying speed. Slade strained his eyes for a glimpse of the fugitive, and a moment later sighted his shadowy outline fully three hundred yards ahead. He urged Shadow to greater effort, for he saw that he had a race on his hands.
Plant was splendidly mounted. In the big sorrel he bestrode, Shadow had almost met his match. Almost, but not quite. Slowly, slowly he shortened the distance. Within a mile the three hundred yards of lead had shrunk to less than two, and the flying black was still gaining.
Far behind, hopelessly outdistanced but stubbornly hanging on, rode Sheriff Cartwright and John Butler.
Now Slade could make out the whitish blur of Plant’s face as he turned to glare at his pursuer. He fingered the butt of his Winchester but reluctantly abandoned the idea. The light was very bad and to chance a shot at Plant he would have to sacrifice precious distance; and although he had every faith in Shadow, there was no guarantee that his endurance was as great as that of the powerful sorrel, who carried much the lighter load. Better to get a bit closer, even at the risk of stopping a slug himself when the showdown came.
The film of cloud over the stars was thickening, the light dimming even more. At the horses’ very feet the river growled hungrily; but close to the water’s edge was the only clear going free from tufts of brush and holes made by burrowing marmots. Slowly, slowly, Shadow closed the distance.
Abruptly Plant gave up the race. He jerked his mount to a halt, whirled him to face his pursuer and went for his guns. Weaving, ducking in the hull, Slade charged straight into the blaze of orange flame. Bullets whined past. One jostled his hat on his head. Another plucked urgently at his sleeve. Then his own Colts spurted fire and smoke. He saw Plant reel, steady himself, bring his guns to bear. Slade fired as fast as he could pull trigger, left, right, left, right. Now Shadow was almost shoulder to shoulder with the sorrel.
Plant screamed, a retching, rasping scream. He toppled, slumped, fell sideways from the hull, his body rolling over and over down the steep slope. A sullen plunge and, dead or dying, he vanished from sight forever.
Slade pulled to a halt and sat gazing at the swirling black water that was bearing what was left of Gordon Plant on his long, one-way journey to the sea.