Range Ghost (7 page)

The piano crashed its vibrating chords, and was still. Slade flashed the irresistible smile of El Halcon at his audience and left the stool. And old Keith repeated what had been said before—

“Why the devil does he ever have to shoot anybody? All he needs to do is sing to them and owlhoots turn into little harmless puppy dogs!”

“Ai,”
murmured old Pedro, the cook. “He sings as sang the Heavenly Host. But when he sings, some evil one will weep!”

Prophetic words.

As he and Carter and the deputy started for town, leading the grimly burdened mules, Fletcher following with the retrieved cows, Slade turned and gazed westward to where loomed Tucumcari, the mountains that looked like the breasts of a sleeping woman, and Mt. Capulin, the last of the active volcanoes of the southwestern United States. Somewhere on the gray desolation between the fertile rangeland and those shadowy peaks lay the answer to the tantalizing riddle that defied him. Somewhere out there was water, or all signs failed. Well, it was up to him to find it and by so doing smash the widelooping bunch that was plaguing the section. He turned back in the saddle, the concentration furrow deep between his black brows, a sure sign El Halcon was doing some hard thinking.

Did the devils confine their activities to cow stealing it wouldn’t be too bad; but they undoubtedly also went in for such nice sidelines as robbery and murder.

The mystery of the hidden water was intriguing, but a much more important problem confronted him, that of learning the identity of the head of the outlaw organization, who made the plans and directed operations. Slade felt pretty sure he was somebody thoroughly familiar with the section and its possibilities. According to old Estaban, the Valley dweller, he knew of a crossing other than the one utilized
the night Fletcher’s cows were stolen, one that Slade himself did not know about. Also, Slade shrewdly suspected he was somebody in a position to garner information and take advantage of opportunities thus provided. Once again the new type of criminal that was invading the West, employing the methods of big city malefactors, staying in the background as much as possible and directing operations from under cover.

Slade wondered if he had been one of the widelooping bunch whose plans he had frustrated. Somebody had certainly spoken with authority when the order to get the blankety-blank out of there was shouted. That denoted fast and accurate thinking, for unless a chance shot had downed him, holed up in the brush as he was with his targets in the brilliant flood of the moonlight, he would have killed every member of the bunch did they remain in the open and endeavor to shoot it out with him. Somebody realized that and reacted accordingly.

Well, he had gone up against that sort before, and so far had always come out on top. He rode on with a tranquil mind.

Progress with the laden mules was slow and the afternoon was well along when the cortege reached Amarillo. The XT hand who, the day before, brought the word to Sheriff Carter had spread the tale around and very quickly a crowd of the curious and the interested trailed along to the sheriff’s office. The latter included several cattlemen who had recently lost stock and their satisfaction was great. One and all they shook hands with Slade and showered him with congratulations.

“Carter’s been needin’ a deputy like you for quite a spell, now,” one oldtimer remarked. “Ain’t the first
time you’ve been in this section, is it? I recall hearing what you did to some rapscallions the last time you were here. Keep up the good work!”

Among those who visited the office was big, irascible Neale Ditmar, who had recently bought his Tumbling D spread, and of whom Sheriff Carter did not overly approve. He looked Slade up and down with his arrogant eyes, then solemnly shook hands.

“Be seeing you again,” he said, and left. The sheriff’s gaze followed him.

“I can’t make that hellion out,” he confided in an undertone to Slade. “He sorta makes a feller feel that he’s laughing at you, inside. Sure don’t talk much. Nobody knows for sure just where he came from. From over east is about all he’s ever said.”

Slade himself had not made up his mind relative to Neale Ditmar. He was something in the nature of an enigma, and enigmas always interested El Halcon, although it had been his experience that they usually turned out to be on the commonplace side. He reserved judgment on Ditmar until he learned more about him and had a chance to study him a bit.

A more congenial visitor was Tobar Shaw, the Bradded H owner to the west of Keith Norman’s holding. After complimenting Slade, he chatted amicably with the sheriff.

“I just got in town and heard of Mr. Slade’s exploit,” he observed. “It was good hearing to me. I’ll have to admit that of late I’ve been getting a mite worried. Big fellows like Fletcher and Norman can take it, for a while, but the little fellow, like myself, can’t. Did I lose a shipping herd, I’d find myself in straitened circumstances. Even a small bunch now and then hurts.”

Which Slade knew to be true. Even the big owners
could not for long withstand a steady drain on their resources. Organized widelooping had forced more than one rancher to the wall, and not always the small ones.

“A nice sort of feller,” Carter remarked after Shaw had left the office. “We could use more of his sort in place of some we’ve been getting of late.”

Slade did not argue the point pro or con, although he admitted that Tobar Shaw made a good impression. As in the case of Ditmar, he had not formed a definite opinion relative to Shaw; he was not in the habit of exercising snap judgment where anybody he met was concerned, having learned from experience that men are not always what they appear to be. Neale Ditmar might be all right despite his somewhat forbidding exterior, but then again he could be just the opposite.

The crowd had pretty well dissipated, only a few curious stragglers remaining. The sheriff shooed them out and shut the door.

“Suppose we amble over to the Trail End for a surrounding?” he said to Slade. “Nobody will admit knowing those two hellions there on the floor and there’s no sense in sticking around longer right now.”

Slade was agreeable and they made their way to Sanders’ place, where Swivel-eye had an uproarious welcome for them.

“One out of my private bottle!” he boomed, waving said bottle in the air. “This calls for a mite of a celebration. So you hit those wind spiders where it hurt, Mr. Slade?”

“Guess two of ’em got sorta ‘hurt,’ and I’ve a notion another one ain’t feeling any too good about now,” the sheriff observed dryly. “A Winchester slug sorta discommodes you no matter where it nicks
you. Much obliged, Swivel-eye. Yep, I can stand another one.”

While they were eating, Neale Ditmar came in accompanied by three of his hands, one hobbling along with the aid of a makeshift crutch. Sheriff Carter stared at him.

“Where do you figure you hit that sidewinder the other night?” he asked Slade.

“Now don’t go jumping to conclusions,” the Ranger cautioned. “Lots of ways a man can hurt his leg.”

“Uh-huh,
lots
of ways,” grunted Carter, biting savagely on a hunk of steak.

After they finished their meal and a smoke, Slade said, “Suppose we pay Doc Beard a visit?”

“Okay by me,” replied the sheriff, giving him a curious glance but asking no questions.

They found the doctor in his office cleaning some instruments. He waved them to chairs.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Carter seein’ snakes again? The last time it was centipedes with chilblains.” Slade countered with a question of his own, “Treated any gunshot wounds lately, Doc?”

“Yep,” Beard replied. “That’s why I’m cleaning things up. Just a little while ago I worked on one of Neale Ditmar’s hands. Young hellion said he was cleaning his gun and it went off; drilled a slice through his left thigh.”

Sheriff Carter gave a derisive snort, and glanced significantly at Slade. El Halcon asked another question, “Did you happen to note what course the bullet took?”

“Yep,” Beard repeated, “it slanted sorta down, as was to be expected.” Carter shot Slade a puzzled look.

“Why the devil did you ask that?” he said.

“Because,” Slade replied, “you will recall that the other night I was standing on the ground, while the man I shot was mounted on a horse. Under such circumstances, the muzzle of my rifle would be tilted up a mite and it is rather unlikely that a bullet from it would take a downward course.”

“I see,” nodded Carter. “So that lets the jigger out, eh?”

“Not necessarily,” Slade replied. “A bullet can be deflected, say by a concha on a pair of chaps, or a holstered gun, and its course changed.”

“Dadblast it!” wailed the sheriff, “you’ve got me all mixed up. “First you make it look like Ditmar and his bunch are in the clear, then you make it look like maybe they ain’t. Come clean, now, do you suspect Ditmar?”

“Brian,” Slade answered, “circumstances being what they are in this section, everybody is suspect. In a court of law, a person is adjudged innocent until proven guilty. With a Ranger trying to solve a case, the reverse obtains. I have formed no conclusion relative to Neale Ditmar or anybody else, and I can’t until I have what I consider conclusive evidence of somebody’s guilt. Yes, right now everybody is suspect, even you and Doc.”

“I can speak for myself, but I’d rather not say about him,” Doc said cheerfully, regarding the sheriff with a disapproving eye. “Oh, I reckon you can rule him out; he’s too spavined and weighted down with years to pull a widelooping. Chances are he’d go to sleep and fall out of the hull.”

“I’ll watch a goose walk across your grave, you darned old decrepit fossil,” retorted the sheriff.

Having mutually affronted each other, they had a drink from a bottle Doc produced, while Slade settled
for a cup of coffee—Doc always having a pot steaming on his stove.

“Well, it ’pears we didn’t learn much,” Carter remarked as they headed back to the office.

“Nothing definite,” Slade agreed, “but no angle should be overlooked, nor anything that might possibly provide a lead.”

“That’s right,” said the sheriff. “So I guess we’d better open up for a while in case some more folks want to take a look at those carcasses. Just a waste of time, the chances are, but as you say, we mustn’t miss any bets.”

“Yes, it’s just possible that somebody might recall seeing them and with whom they were associating,” Slade agreed.

A few people wandered in after Carter opened the office, not many, and he was about ready to close up shop and call it a night when a man entered who Slade thought had a vaguely familiar look. He studied the bodies on the floor, then turned to El Halcon.

“Do you remember me, Mr. Slade?” he asked. “I served you a drink the other night in the Deuces Up, down by the lake.”

“Yes, now I do,” Slade replied.

“It was the night you had the ruckus with those three hellions who, I figure, came in with a killing in mind. Well, the big one there was one of ’em, the one you punched in the jaw.”

“Yes, I recognized him,” Slade admitted. “Do you know him?”

The bartender shook his head. “Nope, didn’t know either of them,” he said. “Well, they were in the place a while before you came in. I remembered them because somehow I didn’t like their looks. Behaved themselves, all right, stood drinking and talking
together and sorta watching the door. Another feller came in and had a drink with them and talked to them for a minute or so.”

“Did you know him?” Slade asked abruptly, much interested.

The barkeep again shook his head. “Didn’t remember ever seeing him before,” he answered.

“Remember what he looked like?” the Ranger asked.

“Didn’t pay much attention to him, was real busy at the time,” said the drink juggler. “Just remember he was a tall feller and sort of wide in the shoulders. He was better dressed than the other three; I figured him to be a ranch owner. Didn’t pay him much mind for, as I said, I was busy. He had one drink, said something or other to those fellers and went out. When I happened to look that way again, the other three were gone. A little later you came in and you know what happened next.”

“Remember anything more about them?” Slade queried.

“Nothing much,” the bartender said. “The boss had a swamper throw some water over them and they got their senses back—don’t think they were much hurt—and then he shoved ’em out. I wouldn’t have paid the whole business much mind—we ever now and then have a ruckus in the place—but as I said, I just didn’t like their looks.”

“And do you think you’d recognize the man who came in and talked to them, if you saw him again?”

Once more the bartender shook his head. “I doubt it,” he replied. “As I said, I was sorta busy at the time and just glanced at him as I poured his drink. I might, though, if he came in and ordered a drink the same way; can’t tell.”

“You say he was dressed like a ranch owner?” interpolated the sheriff.

“Sorta, I’d say,” the bartender agreed.

“And he was big and tall?”

“That’s the way I remember him. Uh-huh, I’m sure he was a sorta tall feller. Not as tall as Mr. Slade, but not short, either.”

“Hmmm!” said the sheriff. Slade smiled at the bartender.

“You may have been a big help,” he said. “Thank you, very much, for coming in.”

“I was just sorta curious,” said the other. “We get some purty rough characters in the Deuces Up every now and then, and I was just wondering if I’d seen these fellers in there. Well, got to get on the job. Be seeing you.”

“What do you think?” the sheriff asked Slade after the drink juggler had departed.

“I don’t know,” the Ranger admitted frankly. “There are a number of ranch owners in the section, and some of them are tall. Quite a few would answer to that vague description.”

“I can think of one it fits sorta well,” the sheriff remarked pointedly.

“Yes, but no positive identification, so take it easy,” Slade advised. The sheriff subsided to mutterings.

“Well, guess that was all,” he said, glancing around the empty room. “Suppose we amble over to the Trail End and then call it a day. I’m feeling a mite tuckered.”