Maverick Showdown (11 page)

Still muttering cuss words, he returned to the lobby. He had failed to note the bullet holes in the wall, which Slade had not called to his attention. Let whoever eventually discovered them do a little guessing.

Entering his own room, he extinguished the light and resumed his chair by the window.

Yes, a very nice try, and only the fact that he had sat down on the bed to remove his boots, causing it to creak as it would if he were lying down, had saved him. The killer had waited a little, possibly to make sure he was asleep and had then emptied his gun through the thin partition.

As the sheriff would say, it looked like his pet devil had been on the job and looking after him. Oh, well, as he had said before, if your number isn’t up, nobody can put it up. The philosophy of
El Halcon!
He pinched out his cigarette and went to bed.

It seemed to Slade that he had been asleep but a few minutes when he was aroused by somebody hammering on the door. Opening it, gun in hand, revealed Sheriff Carter and a young cowboy.

“This hellion has something to tell, I figure you should hear,” Carter said. “Woke me up to tell me.”

“Come in and shut the door,” Slade replied. “Wait till I make a light.”

He touched a match to the lamp and turned expectantly. The sheriff jerked his head to the puncher.

“Go ahead, tell him what you told me,” he directed.

“I ride for John Skelton’s Forked S, across from Tascosa,” the hand announced. Slade nodded; he was familiar with the spread.

“I was coming to town to do a chore for Mr. Skelton,” the puncher continued. “Decided to make a night ride ‘cause it would be cooler. A few miles this side of the bridge, I saw a horse poke its nose out of the brush. The bit was out, but it wore a rig. Looked like maybe somebody had fell and got hurt, so I unforked and browsed around a bit. Found a feller layin’ just inside the brush. He was dead. Had a bullet hole in his breast, so I figured the sheriff oughta know about it pronto. I hightailed to town. Got in just a little while ago. Swivel-eye Sanders told me where the sheriff lived.”

“You did right, even though you did bust up my night’s rest,” Carter told him. “Okay, reckon the Trail End is still open. You might as well go corral yourself a snort. Much obliged for coming to me like you did.”

“Always glad to lend a hand,” the cowboy said and departed. Slade shut the door and locked it.

“Well, what do you think?” Carter asked of Slade. “The same as you’re thinking,” the Ranger replied. “The one of Frayne’s bunch I saw slump in the hull during the ruckus by the reservoir. Evidently I got him better than I thought.”

“Correct,” said the sheriff. “Guess he finally toppled out of the hull, dead or dyin’. The other two devils shoved him into the brush, flipped out the horse’s bit and hightailed for town. Reckon they figured they didn’t have any time to waste if they hoped to get here before daylight.”

“Just about the size of it, I expect,” Slade agreed. “Glad that young fellow took a notion to look around. Otherwise we might never have known that Frayne now has only one hellion left, which might work to our advantage. That one, however, is no snide and something to reckon with.”

“How’s that?” Carter asked.

In reply, Slade pointed to the bullet holes in the partition and explained how they got there. The sheriff had quite a few things to say.

“And you mean to tell me after what happened you went to sleep in that bed?” he asked incredulously.

“Of course,” Slade answered. “It’s the only one in the room.”

“I don’t believe you’ve got a nerve in your body,” Carter declared. “Me, I’d have spent the night settin’ up with a gun in each hand. You’re the limit! Well, guess I got another ride ahead of me, to fetch that carcass. I think it’s in Potter County. Anyhow, I’d like to put it on exhibition here.”

“I’ll accompany you,” Slade said. “But there’s no sense in riding in the dark. He’ll keep. Go back to bed. I’ll see you later.”

“A notion,” the sheriff agreed. “Young feller said he stripped the rig off the horse, so it’ll be all right. Good night, morning, afternoon, or whatever the hell it is; I’m all mixed up. Be seeing you.”

With the sheriff on the way to knock off a little more shut-eye, Slade resumed his own interrupted slumber and didn’t awaken until the morning was fairly well along.

When he entered the Trail End in search of something to eat, he found the sheriff already at breakfast, with him the Forked-S cowhand who had taken care of his chore and volunteered to lead them to where the body lay.

“It’s pretty well covered by brush and you might have trouble finding it,” he said, apropos of the dead outlaw. “Horse is liable to have wandered off somewhere. If it hadn’t been for the horse, I wouldn’t have spotted it myself. Yes, I knocked off a couple of hours sleep after the Trail End closed. All I need to hold me.”

After finishing eating, they cinched up and rode out of town, a deputy with them leading a mule upon which to pack the body.

“Anyhow, it’s a darn nice day, and that helps,” Carter remarked. “Could be worse, and I’ll sorta enjoy this chore. Hope I get a chance to do the same for a couple more.”

The cowboy looked puzzled and shot him an inquiring glance, but the sheriff did not see fit to elaborate.

Slade was watchful as they neared the spot where the puncher said the body lay, although he thought it hardly conceivable that the two remaining outlaws, all he believed were left of the bunch, would attempt anything against them. However, Erskin Frayne was a most unpredictable character and it was best not to underestimate him.

They had no difficulty locating the body and the rig, but the horse was nowhere in sight; doubtless it had either been picked up or had wandered off in search of better pasture.

The body was secured into place and they parted company with the cowhand.

“Give my regards to Mr. Skelton,” Slade requested. “I think he’ll remember me.”

“Doubt if he could very well forget you, or your horse, either,” the puncher replied, with an admiring glance at both.

“Nice young feller,” Carter remarked as he rode away. “Yep, he’s all right. Did a good chore. Well, guess we might as well amble; don’t see anything else we can do around here.”

Without mishap, they reached Amarillo sometime past sunset. The body was placed on exhibition and all hands adjourned to the Trail End for something to eat, where they found Jerry Norman and old Keith awaiting them.

“I knew very well there was no depending on you or when you’d show up,” she told Slade. “So I came looking for you; guess I’m not the waiting kind. I’m hungry!”

“She always is,” grumbled the sheriff. “She’d eat a man out of house and home.”

“Have to keep my strength up or he’d
leave
home,” Jerry returned. “Call a waiter!”

“And I guess I’d better have another snort,” said Carter. “Watching folks eat always makes me thirsty.”

“You can find more excuses for drinking than Walt can for not being around when he should,” Jerry declared.

The sheriff didn’t contest the point and ordered the snort.

“Here comes Mr. Griswold,” Jerry announced a few minutes later.

The sheriff waved his hand and beckoned.

“Come on over, Josh,” he called. “You look like you need a mite of stimulating.”

“Startin’ to rain,” Griswold said as he sat down. “And the way my rheumatics are acting up, it’s liable to be a sock-dollager. They’re darn good weather prophets. When they begin to twinge, look out!”

“Why’d you sashay from home with the weather threatening?” Carter asked.

“To meet a feller who’s coming in on the morning train,” Griswold replied. “I’m dickering with him for a hunk of land he owns over to the west. Would sorta round out my holding and keep some other galoot I might not like from moving in against me. If I can talk the price down right, the chances are I’ll take it.”

Carter nodded his understanding, and ordered another round of drinks.

Soon the rain was pelting down hard, the big drops splashing against the window. Slade walked to the door and looked out.

“Coming from the northwest, too,” he announced. “Liable to start the Canadian on another rampage. Well, guess there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“I like rain,” said Jerry. “So nice when it stops.”

Griswold planned to return to his spread after meeting with the man from whom he hoped to make his purchase, but the weather ordained otherwise. For three days the rain, a regular drencher, continued, and he didn’t feel like bucking it.

The owner of the land did return to his holding, despite the rain. He and Griswold arranged to meet in Tascosa after the weather cleared up, the land in question being recorded in Oldham County, to close the deal.

The Panhandle was throughly water-logged. Every depression, every buffalo wallow, and every stream in the entire watershed were filled to overflowing. The Canadian River was a roaring, raging torrent. The great wagon bridge crossing the stream from Tascosa rocked and quivered under the impact of the flood waters, and there were grave doubts as to its safety.

“She’s took floods before and always stood up, reckon she’ll take this one,” said optimists.

However, plenty thought otherwise, for the bridge was already severely damaged.

The rain ceased in the middle of the night. The day after dawned blistering hot without a breath of air moving, and grew worse as the sun climbed higher.

“Whee-ew! It
is
hot,” Slade remarked to Jerry Norman as they had breakfast together at the Trail End. “A regular scorcher.”

“I don’t mind,” Jerry replied. “Because it’s so hot, Uncle Keith decided not to ride back to the spread today, so I’ll have another day in town. But after we finish eating, I am going over to my room to change to something cooler. See you here later.”

After she departed, Slade strolled down to the Washout for a word with Thankful Yates.

“Mr. Griswold was here a little while ago,” Thankful remarked. “Wanted to leave word with me for his boys, who he figured would be riding in today for supplies. Wanted me to tell them, if they showed up here, that he was on his way to Tascosa to close his land deal. Had a satchel full of money he’d just drawn from the bank to pay for the land. I walked up to the Open Door with him. Wanted to leave word with Frayne, too. He told Frayne about the deal he was making. Said he figured to ride the valley trail, where it would be cooler.

“How long since he left?” Slade asked quickly.

“About two hours, I’d say,” Thankful replied. “Maybe a little more.”

Another word or so and Slade left the Washout and walked at a fast pace to the Open Door. When he entered, he did not see Erskin Frayne.

“Ambled out quite a while ago,” the bartender replied to his question as to whether Frayne was around somewhere. “Said he didn’t know for sure when he’d be back. ‘Peared to have something on his mind.”

Slade grimly suspected that Frayne did have.

Leaving the Open Door he headed for Shadow almost at a run.

“Feller, we’ve got to do some fast traveling or a good man is going to die,” he told the big black as he climbed up at top speed. “Okay, horse, let’s go, and hope well be in time.”

Ten minutes later, Shadow was racing across the prairie to the Canadian Valley, his rider constantly urging him to greater efforts.

“If we can just catch up with him before he enters the valley, everything should be okay,” he muttered. “But he’s at least two hours ahead of us, according to what Thankful said, and he rides fast.”

Anxiously he scanned the prairie ahead; there was no sign of Griswold, and as he neared the valley without sighting him, his fears for the rancher increased. He knew where Griswold would enter the valley, by a route favored by most riders, somewhat to the east of the one by which he, Slade, usually crossed the gorge. Today he would reach the floor by the same route as followed by the G-Square owner, then turn west.

Now no great distance ahead was the lip of the valley, and the rangeland stretched deserted. Griswold had already descended. Reckless of consequences, Slade sent Shadow plunging down the slope, reached the brush- and grass-grown floor. The trail that wound westward was also deserted for as far as he could see. He turned west and sent Shadow on at breakneck speed. He knew that he might very well run into an ambush himself, but he had to risk it. His only hope was to catch up with Griswold before the outlaws intercepted him.

Undoubtedly, Frayne had designs on the money in Griswold’s satchel, a large sum, and, should the murderous devil run true to form, it was highly unlikely that the cattleman would escape with his life.

Slade deduced that the outlaws would set their trap not far from Tascosa. After disposing of their victim and seizing the money, they would hole up and enter the town and cross the bridge under cover of darkness, then back to Amarillo. Unless Frayne had enlisted some more followers, which he thought not likely, the odds wouldn’t be too bad, two to one. He believed he could take care of that without difficulty, if he could just get the jump on the devils.

It was cooler in the valley than on the prairie above, but it was still plenty hot, the sun beating down through a slight haze that acted as a burning glass. At times Shadow splashed through a film of water where the river overflowed, but never at enough depth to really handicap a horse.

The miles flowed back, Tascosa drew closer and closer, and Slade began to grow acutely uneasy. Seemed he should have sighted his quarry before now. But the trail wound on, silent, deserted, with little animals and birds going about their businesses without showing signs of alarm or disturbance. Maybe he had made a slip of some sort, although what he couldn’t imagine. He rode on, watchful, alert, straining eyes and ears.

On rushed the great black horse, dodging boulders and bushes, sloshing through water, never slackening his racing speed. He slugged his head above the bit, snorted joyously, and poured his long body over the ground, his irons clashing on the stones.

Now Tascosa was less than two miles distant and they were traversing a barren stretch where nobody lived. They rounded a stand of thicket and Slade saw, some two hundred yards ahead what he had expected to see all along, if he was just in time.

Josh Griswold sat his motionless horse, hands in the air. Approaching him from the encroaching brush were two masked riders holding guns. One was tall and lank, the other, partially hidden by Griswold and his horse, Slade instantly recognized by his build and carriage, despite the mask, as Erskin Frayne.

Both turned in his direction as they heard the beat of Shadow’s irons. A gun blazed, the slug coming close. Slade slid his Winchester from the boot, flung it forward. The muzzle gushed fire and smoke.

The tall outlaw spun from his saddle to lie motionless. Frayne whirled his mount and raced west. Slade could not line sights with him because Griswold and his horse were in the way.

“Trail, Shadow, trail!” he shouted. The great black redoubled his efforts. Frayne was splendidly mounted on a tall bay, but Slade was confident Shadow would overtake him. He divined the outlaw’s intentions, to reach the bridge and cross it and find refuge in the wild land to the west.

“But you won’t outrun old Shadow,” Slade muttered.

And then it happened. As they reached where Griswold, looking dazed, still sat his horse, the dead outlaw’s cayuse plunged forward, squarely in Shadow’s path. The two horses met shoulder to shoulder. The ground was wet and slippery and both lost their footing.

Slade hurled himself from the saddle as Shadow went down. He managed to get in the clear, but hit the ground with stunning force and for a moment lay gasping and writhing.

By a mighty effort of the will he regained his feet, Griswold dismounting to assist him. Shadow was on all fours, snorting profanity, as was the outlaw’s horse, each blaming the other for what happened.

“You all right?” Griswold asked anxiously.

“Fine,” Slade answered, flinging into the saddle. “I’ll get the devil. Follow me.”

Again Shadow surged forward. Ahead of him was a race such as he loved. Far to the front the tall bay was speeding, and the blankety-blank-blank had no business being in front. Well, he’d take care of that.

He proceeded to do so, slowly but surely closing the distance. From time to time, Frayne glanced back. He had discarded the mask, doubtless feeling it might attract attention and possible earn him a slug from some quick-witted observer. Being recognized didn’t matter any more; if he managed to escape, he was heading out of the section to the New Mexico hills and mountains, where there was sanctuary for hunted men.

Now Tascosa was in sight, appearing much the worse from wind, rain and flood. The bridge still stood, jerking and swaying. With his pursuer thundering little more than fifty yards in his wake, Frayne swerved onto the approach and went pounding up the slant. Slade fingered the butt of his rifle, but decided not to use it just yet. Frayne was nearing the level crest of the span.

Slade still held his fire, for he earnestly wished to take Frayne alive. A little more distance gained and he could place his shot exactly where he wished, to disable not kill. He deduced what the outlaw had in mind. At the lower end of the far slant he would pull up until his pursuer afforded a fine target as he loomed against the downward slant.

On both raced, the weakened bridge jerking and rocking from the vibrations of the hoofbeats. Slade drew his Winchester, leaned forward in the saddle.

There was a terrific splintering and cracking and rumbling. Down surged one whole span of the bridge. Shadow screamed with terror as his footing disappeared before his eyes. One front hoof plunged over the splintered edge and for an instant Slade thought they were both done for. But by a miracle of agility, Shadow recovered and lunged back.

Down rushed the shattered span, to strike the water with a tremendous splash. And after it, sitting his falling horse lance-straight, Erskin Frayne rode grandly into eternity.