Maverick Showdown (3 page)

When they entered the Trail End, they saw Griswold at a big table with a companion.

“That’s Clifton Hart, the Boojer-H owner, Keith Norman’s new neighbor to the southwest, the other newcomer I was telling you about,” said Carter. “Sorta nice-looking jigger, don’t you think?”

Slade did think so. Clifton Hart was an even bigger man than Griswold and, Slade judged, some twenty years younger. He had a big-featured face, a firm mouth, and black eyes of unusual brilliance. In contrast, his complexion was of blonde coloring, deeply bronzed by wind and sun, and his hair was tawny. Its close cropping seemed to accentuate his virile appearance.

Griswold waved his hand. “Come and squat,” he called. “I had Swivel-eye save the table for you. Everything on me tonight. Gotta sorta make up for my misdoings. Mr. Slade, I want you to know Clifton Hart. Guess the sheriff has mentioned him to you.”

“Very glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Slade,” Hart acknowledged the introduction. “Mr. Griswold has been telling me some mighty good things about you.”

“I fear Mr. Griswold tends to exaggerate,” Slade smiled as they shook hands.

“The sheriff’ll back up every word I said,” declared Griswold, jerking his head toward Carter, who nodded emphatic agreement.

As Slade started to sit down, a hand waved from the bar and he spotted a familiar face.

It was young Joyce Echols, one of Keith Norman’s riders, in whose company he had experienced adventures in the course of a former visit to Amarillo, incidentally, saving Echols’ life in the course of them. He walked over to the bar to shake hands with the cowboy.

“Fine to see you again,” said Echols. “Jerry and the Old Man will be plumb pleased to know you’re in town. I’m heading back to the spread as soon as I finish this snort. Came in to place an order for supplies. Guess you can look for ’em both riding in tomorrow.”

“Hope so,” Slade replied. “I’d sure like to see them both. How’s everything been, Joyce?”

“Okay, except we’ve been losing cows,” the hand returned. “The Old Man is about fit to be hogtied. Reckon he’ll feel better when he learns you are on the job again.”

“Hope I won’t disappoint him,” Slade answered smilingly.

“You won’t,” Echols said, with conviction. “Got a notion business is sure going to pick up hereabouts.”

After a few more words, Slade returned to the table and his neglected drink. One of the deputies had paused at the bar and was evidently regaling an ever-increasing crowd with an account of the day’s happenings. Slade was the recipient of admiring glances, and several prominent citizens came over to shake hands and congratulate him.

“Such fame, well deserved, must be invigorating, Mr. Slade,” chuckled Hart.

“Fame is fleeting,” the Ranger returned. “Ten minutes from now they’ll be discussing something else.”

“A comforting philosophy although one might say, under the circumstances, a trifle casuistic,” Hart said.

“I didn’t intend to sound cynical,” Slade disclaimed. “Just stating an obvious fact.”

Hart smiled, and let it go at that.

In the kitchen, the Mexican cook was preparing a repast fitting to the honored guest. Shortly, a line of waiters appeared, bearing the various dishes to which all present did full justice.

“Like to eat in the young hellion’s company,” remarked the sheriff, pushing back his empty plate and hauling out his pipe. “When he’s here the cook sure stirs his stumps.”

“Which is perhaps the greatest compliment of all,” said Hart.

“Anyhow, the most satisfying one,” agreed Carter.

Hart and Griswold began discussing ranch matters. Both claimed to be short-handed and bemoaned the fact that the chuck-line riders they managed to hire would never stay put in one place for long.

Listening to their talk, Slade suppressed a smile. Seemed the owners were afflicted with the same disease; they couldn’t stay put, either. Griswold had mentioned owning a spread in the Red River County, far to the east. He had sold out and moved to the Trinity River country, sold again, and finally squatted in the Panhandle on his present acres.

Hart had gotten his start not far from the Sabine River in southeast Texas. His next stop was on the Colorado River, then west and north to take over the Boojer H.

“Managed to hire three jiggers a few weeks back,” observed Griswold. “Good workers and know their business, but always looking toward the sunset. Just a matter of time.” His eyes grew speculative.

“Wonder what it’s like in Arizona?” he added. Slade let the smile take over.

The recent heavy loss of stock was touched on, both expressing concern, which Slade felt was justified, were their claims accurate.

“Maybe it’ll let up a bit now,” Griswold said, glancing hopefully at Slade.

“Got a notion you can plumb depend on it,” said Sheriff Carter.

Hart glanced at the clock. “A round on me and then I’ll have to be moving,” he said. “Work to do.”

“Nope, you can’t buy,” old Josh said. “Everything on me tonight, atoning for my sins.”

Hart laughed and did not press the point. He tossed off his glass, said good night, and walked out, his step springy, his long arms hanging loosely by his sides, the hands, Slade felt, giving the impression of spear points.

A little later, Slade glanced out the darkening window and stood up.

“I’m going to take a walk down to the Washout,” he announced. “Want to say hello to Thankful Yates.”

Privately, he hoped he might be able to learn something of interest. The Washout was almost as big as the Trail End and well appointed, but usually more turbulent, being favored by the younger and rowdier cowhands and others of like persuasion. Sheriff Carter also insisted vigorously that it was the hangout of questionable characters. This, Slade knew, was sometimes the case.

All of it, aside from the business angle, held a certain attraction for a young man with lusty life coursing in his veins and a liking for adventure.

Slade did not hurry on his way to the Washout but strolled along in a leisurely fashion, alert and watchful nevertheless. He paused to gaze in shop windows, listened to scraps of conversation, studied faces. Nearly an hour had elapsed when he reached the point where the railroad curved around the lake, the final outskirts of the lower town, and halted in front of a wide window of plate glass across which was legened in staring red letters:

The Washout

With a chuckle, he pushed through the swinging doors and into the crowded, noisy and fairly well-lighted room.

A glance told him that much the same motley gathering as on his previous visits was present. There were cowhands, railroaders, teamsters, and gents in “store clothes,” doubtless representative of the mercantile establishments in the vicinity.

Also a sprinkling of gentlemen who were harder to catalogue but whom
El Halcon
felt might bear a little watching.

Thankful Yates, the proprietor, big, fiercely mustached, keen eyed and portly, spotted him immediately and let out a whoop of welcome.

“Well, well,” he chortled as he shook hands with vigor. “Come back to us, eh? Fine! Fine! Hope you coil your twine permanent this time. We’ll have a drink together and you can tell me about yourself and what you’ve been doing the past months.”

Thankful led the way to a table near the dance floor and they talked together for quite some time, until Thankful had to return to the bar to replenish stock from the back room. Slade sat on at the table, smoking, sipping a cup of hot coffee, and studying the occupants of the room. The hour was getting along to a bit past midnight and he was thinking of returning to the Trail End.

Suddenly the babble of talk fell flat, and everybody stared, including Walt Slade.

A young lady had pushed through the swinging doors. She wasn’t very big, but beautifully shaped. She wore “Levis,” a soft blue shirt, open enough at the throat to be interesting, and very small and very trim spurred riding boots. A serviceable-looking gun swung from her belt.

But the really incongruous and startling article of her costume was a heavy veil that hung from the brim of her “J.B.” to almost hide her face, certainly to make it unrecognizable.

As she walked across the room, Slade felt there was something familiar about the seductive sway of her hips. He leaned forward in his chair, staring harder.

Straight up to Thankful Yates, who was standing with his mouth hanging open, she walked.

“Mr. Yates,” she said, her voice soft and musical, “have you an opening for another girl?”

“Why — why — I — I — that is — I — ” stuttered Yates, thoroughly taken aback.

“If Mr. Walt Slade recommends me?” she interrupted.

Yates recovered his aplomb. “Why, Ma’am, if that’s so you’re hired,” he exclaimed heartily. “Get back to the dressing room and take those clothes off.

“And put on a dance-floor costume,” he added hastily.

“First let’s find out if Mr. Slade approves,” the girl said. She led the way to Slade’s table, the flabbergasted owner trailing after her. When she reached it, she whisked off her hat, veil and all, and tossed it aside, to reveal an elfinly beautiful little heart-shaped face, glossy dark curls, very red lips and astonishingly big and darkly blue eyes!

“Jerry Norman!” Slade exploded. “You’re the limit!”

“Am I?” she replied. “Sounds nice. Joyce Echols told me you were in town. I knew Uncle Keith would ride in tomorrow — he’s visiting a friend tonight — but why wait until tomorrow? And here I am!”

“You
are
the limit!” Slade repeated. “Taking a ten-mile ride alone across the prairie in the middle of the night.”

“Wasn’t the middle of the night when I started out,” she returned blithely. “And I had my gun, which you know I can use, and my horse didn’t make anything of ten miles. Well, aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Of course I am,” he answered. “How could I be otherwise? But some time you’re going to cause me to suffer a stroke or something by your impish antics.”

Thankful Yates, who knew her well, led the laughter that rocked the room. Slade, trying to look dignified and failing utterly, pulled up a chair and she sat down, smiling at him.

“Her favorite wine for Miss Norman,” Thankful chuckled and hurried to the back room.

“When I reached town, I registered for a room at the hotel on Tyler Street where I always stay and went to the Trail End where Uncle Brian Carter told me you were,” Jerry explained. “So I decided I’d try and have a little fun with you. Happened to have that crazy veil in my saddle pouch; comes in handy when the dust is flying. It worked all right; looked for a minute like Mr. Yates might have one of the strokes you keep talking about. You see, I figured you’d stay in town tonight, but heaven only knows where you might be gallivanting off tomorrow, and I didn’t want to chance missing you.”

“Glad you didn’t, even though you threaten me with heart failure,” Slade replied.

“Do I?” she giggled. “I’ve almost feared it once or twice; but you always survived.”

“Imp!”

“I’m still trying to be a nice one,” she said. “Now tell me about yourself and what you’ve been getting into since last I saw you. Never mind all your women; you can skip them.”

“What women!”

“Oh, as I’ve told you before, I don’t mind,” she replied gaily. “Safety in numbers, you know, and I think I can hold my own against the field.”

“You can,” he said, with emphasis that caused her to blush.

Thankful Yates reappeared, bearing a bottle, and crystal goblets he kept stowed away for special occasions.

“And I’ll have one with you,” he announced. “This is a
day!
More coffee, Mr. Slade?”

“I still like this place fine,” Jerry said. “Rather more peaceful tonight, though, than the first time you brought me here.”

“I’m glad it is, with you here,” he replied. “Flying lead doesn’t play any favorites.”

“In here wasn’t the first time I heard it flying past,” she reminded him.

“It certainly wasn’t,” he returned with feeling, recalling how her steady nerves and straight shooting had saved him from death at the hands of the outlaws who attacked them in the Canadian Valley. “Imp though you are, you’re a girl to ride the river with.”

“Thanks for that compliment,” she said. “Only one brought up on the rangeland can appreciate that to the full.

“I stabled my horse and shook hands with Shadow before I went looking for you,” she added. “He remembered me and didn’t try to take my arm off when I reached to him.”

“He never forgets,” Slade said. “You were properly introduced to him the first time you met, and he never forgets that, either.”

Thankful Yates chuckled, and poured wine.

“New place opened up the street a little ways,” he observed. “Seems to be a pretty nice place, and doing plenty of business.”

“You don’t mind the competition, Mr. Yates?” Jerry asked.

“Not at all,” Yates replied. “Plenty of business for everybody, and more pouring in all the time. I have my crowd and they’ll stick with me. Drop in at a new place out of curiosity, but always come back to me. Frayne, that’s the feller’s name, he calls his place the Open Door, gets a lot of the young farmers from over to the west, along with cowhands. They ‘pear to be all right, but I’ve a notion they could be plenty salty if need be.”

“Folks who pull up stakes and emigrate a couple of thousand miles in the hope of bettering their condition usually aren’t the sort it’s easy to push around,” Slade commented. “I gather most of those people are from the Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee hill country, and those sections are a mite turbulent, too, at times.”

“So I’ve been told,” conceded Thankful.

Jerry glanced at the clock. “Really, it’s late,” she said. “The girls have left the floor. You’ll escort me to my hotel, Mr. Slade?”

“Well, seeing as we’re both going in the same direction, I suppose I might as well,” Slade agreed. Jerry turned to Thankful.

“That doesn’t sound very romantic, does it, Mr. Yates?” she said.

“Wait,” Thankful replied sententiously, “wait!”

Terry giggled. “Guess I’ll have to,” she said. “But they say all things come to one who waits — long enough!”

Old Thankful chuckled delightedly as they left the saloon together.

They took their time on their way uptown, walking slowly under the bloom of the stars. There were not many people on the streets now, but music, talk, and laughter still blared over the swinging doors; Amarillo never really slept.

With nothing happening, they reached the hotel, entered the lobby. The old desk clerk usually on duty was not present. Behind the desk was a rather swarthy individual with quick dark eyes. He nodded a greeting.

“Where’s old Tally?” Slade asked, his glance flickering over the register and the ink stand. He noted the man behind the desk had one hand under the counter.

“I’m spellin’ him while he’s gettin’ a bite to eat,” the fellow replied. “Got your keys?”

“Yes, we have them,” Slade replied. He and Jerry turned to the stairs,
El Halcon’s
head slanting a little to one side, his eyes glinting over his shoulder.

Suddenly he spun around, hurling Jerry away from him in the same ripple of movement. Two guns blazed almost as one.

Almost, but not quite. Slade’s Colt gushed fire a split second before the man behind the desk squeezed the trigger of the iron he had jerked from under the counter. His slug whizzed over Slade’s shoulder and thudded into the wall. The gun dropped from his hand as he reeled sideways and fell, a blue hole between his eyes.

Jerry gave a choking cry, but just the same she had her own gun in her hand as she ran to Slade whose eyes were fixed on the closed door of the room behind the desk.

“Hold it,” he told her. “I think everything’s under control.”

Despite the tenseness of the moment, he could hardly suppress a chuckle, for she had her cocked gun trained on the form half hidden by the desk.

“Don’t have to bother about him,” he said. “And I don’t think there’s anybody holed up in the back room. Wait a minute.”

He glided forward, rounded the desk, and reached a cautious hand to the door knob. Jerry was right beside him, the muzzle of her gun jutting forward. Slade slipped in front of her and flung the door open with a quick jerk. Nothing happened.

But on the floor of the room, outlined in a beam of light streaming through the door, was another body, its grizzled head lying in a pool of blood that had flowed from an ugly gash just above the right temple. Slade instantly recognized old Tally, the room clerk.

“Is — is he dead?” gasped Jerry.

“Don’t think so, but he may be badly hurt,” Slade replied and knelt beside the unconscious clerk finding his heartbeat fairly strong. He probed the vicinity of the wound with sensitive fingertips.

“No indications of fracture, so far as I can ascertain,” he reported. “But he received a hard blow.”

Upstairs was a thumping of boots, a gabble of voices. Cautious heads peered at the stair landing, the owners of the heads in all stages of half dress. Several dance-floor girls who lived in the hotel also appeared, in something less than half-dress.

“Why, it’s Mr. Slade,” somebody called. “What hapened, Mr. Slade?”

“Fellow there on the floor knocked out the room clerk and took over,” Slade replied. “Looks like we arrived in time to thwart a robbery.

“That will do for them,” he whispered to Jerry and stood up.

“Somebody try and locate the doctor,” he directed. “And see if you can find Sheriff Carter. Very likely he’s at the Trail End.”

Several men darted out to take care of the errands.

“Did that hellion try to shoot you, Mr. Slade?” a voice asked.

“He missed,” was the laconic answer. Chuckles ran through the crowd that was constantly augmented by new arrivals.

“And I guess you didn’t miss, eh?” said the former speaker.

“Had the luck not to,” Slade replied. “Stay here,” he told Jerry. “I want to take care of that head just in case they have trouble locating old Doc, although he’s usually up and in his office reading at all hours.”

With which he hurried up the stairs to his room and secured medications from his saddle pouches.

Very quickly he had the wound smeared with antiseptic ointment, padded and bandaged.

“That should hold him till the doctor gets here,” he said. “I’ve a notion he’ll be coming out of it before long; Doc will give him a stimulant if necessary.”

He drew Jerry aside from the chattering crowd. “A very nice try, and strictly original,” he told her.

“How in the world did you catch on?” she asked.

“Fellow made a few of the little slips that kind is prone to,” Slade replied. “The register was turned around to the front, the pen was in the inkstand, but there was no name written under yours, the last on the register, just a small blot. As Tally bent over the register, handing him the pen, the fellow hit him. He slumped forward into the register, leaving a couple of little blood stains on the paper, which the devil neglected to wipe away.

“Also, I noticed that while I was facing him, the fellow had his hand under the counter, holding, of course, the gun he had hidden there. That was enough to make me a mite suspicious of the whole business.”

“Is there anything you don’t notice?” Jerry sighed.

“All that was quite obvious,” Slade deprecated his amazingly instantaneous grasp of details and their meaning.

“Here comes the doctor!” somebody shouted.

Old Doc Beard strolled in, satchel in hand. He and Slade were friends of long standing. He took in the situation, at a glance.

“So,” he remarked. “Somebody clipped him, eh? See everything is taken care of. Why’d you have to bother me?”

He knelt beside the injured clerk and also explored the wound.

“Nope, no fracture,” he agreed with Slade’s diagnosis. “Got a skull like a hunk of granite; couldn’t dent it with anything less than dynamite. Yes, I’ll give him a needle that’ll bring him out of it.”

He proceeded to do so. Snapping his satchel shut, he glanced expectantly at
El Halcon
.

In low tones, Slade told him exactly what happened. Doc nodded his white head.

“Won’t the sidewinders ever learn not to try such shenanigans on
El Halcon
,” he commented. “Look, he’s beginning to roll his head and mumble. Leave him right where he is for the present. When he really clears up, we’ll put him in a chair and he can tell us just how the horned toad worked it. Figure your notion is about right.” He raised his voice.

“One of you or your loafers fetch some hot coffee,” he ordered. The chore was quickly taken care of.

A few minutes later, Tally was sitting in a chair, a cup of hot coffee in one hand, a cigarette Slade had rolled for him in the other, declaring that he felt fine aside from a headache. His explanation of what happened tallied with Slade’s surmise.

“Yes, I was bending over the register, after handing the devil the pen when he walloped me,” he said. “Don’t remember anything after that.”

“Okay,” said Doc Beard. “To bed with you, or go get drunk if you’re of a mind to. Chances are it’ll do you good.”

“I always obey the doctor’s orders,” Tally replied cheerfully. “I’ll do just that.”

At that moment, Sheriff Carter entered, old Josh Griswold accompanying him. He glowered at Slade. “Never a minute’s peace with you around,” he growled. “Just what happened?”

Slade told him. Carter nodded and turned to the crowd that filled the lobby.

“Take a look and see if you can remember anything about that wind spider,” he directed. A moment later one of the dance-floor girls volunteered:

“I’m sure he was in the Washout tonight. Yes, I danced with him. He left right after the dance. Seemed to be all right and very nice while we danced.”

“He would be there,” snorted the sheriff. “That rumhole attracts ’em like sugar does flies. Okay, some of you coots, fetch a shutter or something and pack the carcass to my office and put it alongside the other one there.”