Gunsmoke over Texas (7 page)

Kent looked a little blank, but convinced. “And then you’d say there is no oil under the desert?”

“I would hesitate to make such a dogmatic statement,” Slade replied. “We must take into consideration the fact that we do not know what occurs or has occurred in the depths of the earth. Through overflow or seepage there might possibly be some oil under the desert, although I consider it highly improbable. But even if there is, it would be but a shallow deposit that would not compare with what you have up here. My advice to you is to leave the desert alone and not waste your money acquiring title to any of it.” He paused, and then let the full force of his level eyes rest on the oilman’s face. “And Kent,” he added, “I want you to keep what I’ve just told you under your hat. Don’t talk to anybody about it. If it becomes common knowledge that you’ve learned what you did today, you may come up missing some dark night.”

Kent looked decidedly startled. “What the devil do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean,” Slade told him, “that there’s something very strange going on in this section. Just what it is I don’t know, but I’m convinced that whoever is back of it will stop at nothing including murder to keep from being thwarted in whatever they have in mind. And I have a feeling that Blaine Richardson’s activities down on the desert in some way ties up with the business.”

Bob Kent shook his head in a bewildered fashion. “I can hardly follow just what the devil you’re talking about,” he admitted, “but dang it, you’ve got me scared.”

“Stay scared and the chances are you’ll last longer,” Slade advised. “Right now I don’t believe you are in any personal danger, but a few careless words reaching the wrong pair of ears may mark you for elimination. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t,” Kent promised. “From now on I ain’t even going to talk in my sleep.”

“A good notion,” Slade chuckled.

“But what about you?” Kent asked.

“Oh, I hope nobody hereabouts is aware of what I know,” Slade replied cheerfully. “Don’t see any reason why they should be.”

Kent shook his head again. “You’re a funny feller for a wandering cowpoke,” he said.

“Perhaps, for a wandering cowpoke,” Slade agreed with a smile.

But despite what he said to Kent, Walt Slade knew well that he himself was marked for death and did not relax his vigilance.

A little later he headed back for the Walking M, riding the Chihuahua Trail that edged closer and closer to the hill slopes as it trended north.

Slade continuously studied those wooded slopes, carefully noting the movements of birds and the little animals that scuttled through the growth. Abruptly his attention centered on a bristle of growth a little ways up the slope past which he was riding. Over the thicket several birds were wheeling and fluttering and uttering sharp cries. What had disturbed them, he wondered.

His eyes dropped to the dark clump of growth where each outer branch and twig shimmered in the sunlight. Even as a spurt of whitish smoke wisped from the brush he was going sideways from the saddle. He struck the ground on the far side of his horse and lay motionless just beyond the outer edge of the trail, half hidden by the short grass. The hard, metallic clang of a rifle shot slammed back and forth among the cliffs.

Shadow trotted on a few paces, then paused to glance back inquiringly at his master’s huddled form.

F
OR LONG MINUTES NOTHING HAPPENED
. Slade still lay sprawled in the grass. The birds that had flown higher at the sound of the shot were again swooping and crying over the topmost branches. Otherwise the thicket was devoid of sound or motion.

Then abruptly there was movement in the growth. The branches parted and a horseman rode cautiously into view; he was followed by another. Slowly, bending low in their saddles, rifle barrels jutting forward, the drygulchers descended the slope. They could just make out the body of their victim lying motionless beside the trail.

What they hadn’t seen was Slade drag his Winchester from the saddle boot as he fell. Now he lay with his cheek cuddled against the stock, his eyes glancing along the sights.

On came the drygulchers, walking their horses. They relaxed a little. One turned his head to speak to the other. Slade lay utterly motionless.

Nearer and nearer drew the slowly pacing horses. Slade counted off the distance — three hundred yards, two hundred and fifty, two hundred. His finger tightened on the trigger. And abruptly one of the killers sensed that something was not just right. He straightened in his saddle, clamped his rifle butt to his shoulder. Slade pulled trigger.

The report of the heavy rifle rang out like thunder in the stillness and before the echoes slammed back, the foremost drygulcher threw up his hands and pitched headlong. His companion yelled with fright and fired wildly, the bullet hissing over Slade’s body.

A second time the Winchester spoke. Two riderless horses galloped off a little ways and paused snorting and blowing, staring back with rolling eyes at the two sprawled shapes on the ground.

For long minutes Slade lay motionless, his glance shifting from the bodies of the drygulchers to the thicket above. He saw the irritated birds settle into the growth. They did not rise again and he cautiously got to his feet. Cocked rifle ready for instant action he climbed the slope to where the two bodies lay; as he neared them he lowered the hammer of the rifle. He had gotten both the fanging sidewinders dead center. But he knew well that if he hadn’t noticed the way the disturbed birds were acting up and seen the sunlight glint on the rifle barrel as it was shifted to line sights, he would have gotten it dead center.

The two drygulchers were hard looking specimens, even in death. One had a vaguely familiar look but Slade could not place him at the moment. Their pockets discovered nothing of significance, they wore regulation rangeland garb, each packed a heavy sixshooter in addition to the rifles lying nearby. The rigs on the horses were ordinary and the animals bore meaningless Mexican skillet-of-snakes brands.

Suddenly Slade jumped a foot as a raucous bray burst from the thicket above. He whirled about, gun in hand, but the thicket produced nothing more. With a last look around he scrambled up the slope, pushed the growth aside and found himself in a small grass grown clearing that was hidden from the trail below. A tiny spring bubbled from under a rock and beside the spring were the ashes of a fire, some tumbled blankets, a bucket and a skillet and a store of staple provisions. Nearby a haltered mule surveyed him amiably.

Slade stared at the mule and abruptly recalled Bob Kent’s remark that Blaine Richardson and his two drillers had a pack mule with them when they headed for the desert the day before and that Richardson returned minus the drillers and the mule. He wondered could this possibly be the same mule, and were the dead men farther down the slope the drillers in question. He hadn’t forgotten that it was one of Richardson’s hands, Nate Persinger, who had endeavored to kill him in the Black Gold saloon. Began to look like an interesting bit of coincidence, to say the least.

The significance of the mule and the provisions was now plainly apparent. The drygulchers had made a camp here in the thicket and preparations to hole up for quite a while if necessary. Doubtless they had reasoned that sooner or later he would be riding to town and had planned their campaign of murder accordingly.

“And if I’d happened to have ridden the Chihuahua this morning instead of over to the east, I’d have very likely gotten it,” he muttered. “Patient and persevering sidewinders! But maybe somebody slipped a little this time; we’ll try and find out.”

He loosed the mule and led the docile creature down to the trail. He had no trouble catching the two well-trained horses that were cropping grass nearby. Before securing the bodies to the saddles he examined the dead men’s pockets with care and was rather surprised to find no trace of oily grit in the linings. Doubtless, however, the pair had changed clothes before starting on their drygulching expedition. Mounting Shadow and leading the burdened horses and the mule he headed back to town.

A crowd quickly gathered, following at a discreet distance, as the grisly procession clicked down the main street of Weirton. Just as Slade reached Deputy Hawkins’ office, Bob Kent came running up, volleying questions. The deputy, aroused by the tumult, stepped from the office to add his queries to the oilman’s.

“Tell you about it later,” Slade returned briefly. He unloaded the bodies and placed them on the ground.

“Ever see these jiggers before, Bob?” he asked expectantly.

Kent looked blank and shook his head. “Never did, so far as I can recall,” he replied.

Slade’s eyes narrowed a little; his lips tightened. It appeared his nicely built up theory was neatly scrambled.

Deputy Hawkins was peering at the dead faces. “I’ve seen this short one before,” he exclaimed. “He used to ride in from somewhere every now and then and loaf around the saloons. Never seemed to have anything to do but always had plenty of money to spend. I didn’t like his looks and kept an eye on him, but he always behaved himself. Don’t think I ever talked with him.”

Slade nodded but did not otherwise comment.

“Won’t you please tell us what this is all about?” the deputy begged.

Slade told them, in terse sentences. Hawkins swore with feeling as the tale progressed.

“The snake-blooded hellions!” he stormed. “They were out to even for that widelooping chore you busted up for them, eh? You did a good chore, Slade, a dang good chore. Wish you’d done for a dozen like them. We’ll hold an inquest tomorrow. Drop around if you’re a mind to, but don’t go to any extra trouble. The law can stretch a point where such scum is being set on; there won’t be any trouble about a verdict.”

Slade had one more card to play. “Bob,” he said to the oilman, “you should know where the livery stables are located. I’d like to try and get the lowdown on this mule. The horses don’t mean anything, but the mule might.”

“Sure I know where they are, there are only three,” Kent replied. “Come along, I’ll show you.”

The first stable they visited was barren of results, the keeper hadn’t stalled a mule in a month, but at the second the owner wrinkled his brows as he inspected the long-eared animal.

“Mules all look alike,” he said, “but I’ve a notion I’ve had that critter here. I think it is the one brought in by a couple of fellers day before yesterday, a tall feller and a short one. They put it up with their horses and yesterday they took it out again. Nope, I don’t know where they went with it; I didn’t pay any attention to them after they left.”

“Well, put it up again and keep it till Deputy Hawkins calls for it,” Slade told him.

“And that’s that,” he remarked to Kent as they left the stable. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

From force of habit, Kent led the way to the Black Gold. The news of the drygulching had evidently gotten around and Slade was the target for many stares when they entered the saloon. Wade Ballard came over to the table, smiling as usual.

“Well, Slade, you seem to have been seeing plenty of action since you coiled your twine here,” he observed. “And now it would appear you are the recipient of attention from the outlaw fraternity. I’d say you’re able to hold your own, but don’t underestimate ‘em; those hellions are bad, plumb cultus. You’ll do well to keep your eyes skun. I’ll send over drinks.”

“Wade is quite a feller,” Bob Kent remarked.

“An unusual character,” Slade replied as his eyes followed the saloonkeeper across the room.

After eating, Slade resumed his interrupted ride to the Walking M ranchhouse in no very affable frame of mind. What had appeared to be a promising lead had petered out. Either his conclusions had been erroneous or he had been nicely outsmarted; he wasn’t sure which. If Richardson or someone of his outfit had engineered the deal, they had covered up beautifully. Doubtless right now the two drillers were down by the well Richardson was sinking in the desert. Perhaps the mule was the same Bob Kent saw the drillers leading out of town, but then again perhaps it wasn’t. And if it was, the drillers could have later delivered the provision laden animal to the drygulchers. He wished that he had thought to ask Kent to describe the two drillers. One of them might have been tall, the other short. All conjecture, of course, but it appeared that at the moment conjecture was about all he had to go on.

Of course Deputy Hawkins might be right in his surmise that the drygulching was in retaliation for his frustration of the widelooping. But Slade didn’t think so. It had displayed the same careful planning that characterized the attempt on his life in the Black Gold. The similarity of pattern was a bit too striking to write off as just coincidence.

What puzzled Slade most was the apparent anomaly that was Blaine Richardson. Unless his estimate of the man was surprisingly inaccurate, Richardson was just not the type to originate and put into practice such subtle and devious schemes. Slade felt that his methods would be much more likely to parallel those he attributed to old Tom Mawson: they would be direct and in line with the man’s undoubted impulsiveness. He began to wonder if Richardson might be much more crafty than showed on the surface.

Wade Ballard also puzzled Slade more than a little. Ballard appeared to make a studied effort to pass as a rough, almost uncouth westerner of little education or culture. But in moments of abstraction his use of words was a bit surprising. Slade hadn’t forgotten his comment at the burning well: “… and the corollary is that the fire could be extinguished with an arrow.”

The use of the words corollary and extinguished appeared definitely at variance with the character the man assumed. Slade was developing an uneasy feeling that Ballard might well be mixed up in the baffling affair in one way or another. But how, where or why he had not the slightest notion.

He had also not forgotten that it was Ballard, according to Bob Kent’s version of the matter, who had relayed to the oilman the agreement of the engineer from the Spindletop oil field with Richardson’s theory that the desert had once been the real bed of the inland sea. Either the engineer, if he was an engineer as he claimed to be, had deliberately lied, or Ballard had passed on to Kent a perverted version of what he had said. Slade swore wearily and settled himself in the saddle for the long ride home.