Range Ghost (5 page)

The XT bunch headed back to their spread shortly after noon the following day.

“Work to do,” said old Keith. “That is if the blasted wideloopers have left us anything to work with. Be seeing you, Slade.”

“And you’ll be out to the place before long, won’t you, dear?” Jerry asked.

“Yes, I’ll be there shortly,” he promised.

“I’ll be waiting.”

After they rode away, Slade repaired to the sheriff’s office for a confab with Carter.

“What’s your next move?” said the sheriff.

“I think I’ll give the Canadian Valley a once-over,” the Ranger decided. “I know some folks there who might be able to give a line on something. Somehow I figure that Valley is the key to the rustling activities, and that it is the same bunch that’s been responsible for the robberies and killings that have recently happened.”

“And you figure that if you can drop a loop on the rustlers, you’ll clean up the whole mess?”

“That’s the way I regard it,” Slade conceded.

“John Fletcher, a good part of whose holding lies to the north of the Valley, and who has lost a lot of stock, ’lows he believes the hellions do run them by way of the Canadian and not north to Oklahoma as some folks think,” the sheriff remarked reflectively.

“He may well be right,” Slade replied. “I’m of the
opinion it could be done. Folks who live in the plazas there, mostly Mexicans, are reticent and not much on talking about what they see, fearing reprisals, and if the wideloopers can stay well to the north when they pass Tascosa they can very likely make the run without detection or interference. The run to Oklahoma is a straight one but it has its drawbacks in that it’s vulnerable to pursuit. Flat prairie and no cover. A stolen herd could be sighted a long ways.”

“Guess that’s so,” the sheriff agreed. “But sure looks to me like somebody would sight the devils making that long run through the valley and across into New Mexico and the hills. Farther south the hills are closer.”

“But then they would have to cross the desert without water, that is so far as anybody knows. Ranger Captain Arrington and his men made it across by the Lost Lakes that were not supposed to exist, but they entered the desert by way of Gaines County, far to the south of here. Arrington thought the lake he named Ranger Lake was in Gaines County, Texas, but of course we know now that all the lakes are in New Mexico. However, it would be impossible to run a stolen herd south through Texas for such a distance without it being detected. So that route is not to be considered. If by any chance they do cross the desert a short distance south of the Valley, there must be water somewhere about half way across, and so far there has never been a report of any.”

Slade paused for a moment to roll and light a cigarette. His eyes grew thoughtful.

“But the Indians knew things we don’t know,” he added. “Perhaps there is hidden water out there
somewhere; it is not beyond the realm of the possible. Nor altogether impossible to discover it, that is, if it really does exist.

“And as I said, there are people in the Valley who will talk to me; they have been of assistance to me before. So I’m going to chance a sashay into the Valley and see if I can’t learn something. Doesn’t appear to be anything to learn here, at the moment. Be seeing you.” With which he headed for Shadow’s domicile and got the rig on the big black.

“Time for a little leg-stretching,” he said. Shadow snorted cheerful agreement.

Wishing to reach the Valley as quickly as possible, Slade rode almost due north at a good pace. It was a beautiful afternoon, the prairie flooded with golden sunshine, and the air held an autumn crispness. Already the grass heads were turning ameythst and the shallow hollows were bronzed with the fading ferns. The blue bowl of the sky pressed down upon the land in a perfect circle, with the ever retreating horizon holding its perfect curve into infinity, or so it seemed to the horse man who rode across the flat expanse with never a hill or a tree in sight and only the whisper of the wind in the grasses to break the all-pervading silence.

Some fifteen miles to the north of Amarillo, the monotonous expanse was cut by a valley, rough and broken, several hundred feet lower than the plains north and south of it, down which flowed an eccentric river that at times was but a mere trickle, at others a raging flood wallowing over treacherous quicksands. The valley was grown with scrubby cedar and mesquite and bushes and occasional tall trees, and grass that came belly-high on a horse. It
was a welcome relief to the endless vista of fl atness that hemmed it in on either side.

This was the Canadian Valley, an oasis in a “desert” of grass.

Walt Slade liked the prairie, but he liked the rugged valley better, where grew wild choke berries, plums, wild gooseberries, and grapes, where birds made music in the thickets and little animals went about their various businesses cheerfully and without fear, and the living water made its sprightly song and chuckled to itself over outlandish and doubtless ribald secrets of its own.

The Valley had always attracted “little people” who found food, shelter, and happiness here—which was perhaps why El Halcon liked it so well.

There were ways to enter the Valley with its precipitous sides and walls of rock, some well known, some otherwise. The best known and easiest crossing was where several creeks converged on the north side of the river and there were broad meadows of spring-fed grass. Here for ages the buffaloes and other wild animals crossed to the south plains, pausing to feed on the luxurious grass. The Indians and the white explorers followed their trails.

Here, on the north bank of the bridged Canadian River grew the town of Tascosa, for many years the legendary Cowboy Capital of the Plains, around which was waged the struggle between the “little” men and the cattle kings of the rangeland empire of Texas.

However, Slade’s goal was not Tascosa; there he would be able to learn little more than in Amarillo. It was the dwellings of the little men he sought, where he believed he could garner valuable information
relative to the widelooping activities in the section.

The Valley was not always peaceful. Here rode the cow thief and the outlaw, and bloody battles were fought amid the cedars and the mesquite.

After the first ten miles, Slade veered a little more to the west and when he reached the Valley he turned due west, riding along the lip of the great trough. He knew of a little-known descent into the Valley that was so hidden by straggles of brush and tall grass as to be almost indiscernible from only a few yards distant. Without mishap he reached the spot and drew rein. For some minutes he sat scanning the prairie in every direction. It stretched lonely and deserted in the redding rays of the low-lying sun.

“Okay, feller, down you go,” he told the horse. “You’ve been here before.”

Just as he was about to begin the rather precipitous descent, he reined in again, studying the ground with his keen eyes.

“Darned if it doesn’t look like cows have been here, and not so long ago,” he remarked. Again he gazed across the rangeland and could discern no clumps of grazing cattle.

Guess they must have wandered off to better feeding grounds,” he said. “Let’s go!”

With only a protesting snort or two, the big black made it to the Valley floor. Now the sun was low in the west and the great bowl was growing shadowy.

When Slade reached the river, he turned upstream, following its course.

For several miles he rode steadily, with the Valley growing ever more darkening. It was still fairly light, however, when he rounded a bend and came
upon a cleared space where sat a small adobe surrounded by a flourishing garden patch. Nearby grazed a few sheep and goats. A window glowed golden.

“Looks like the old gent is still here, all right,” he remarked to Shadow and raised his voice in a shout.

After a moment the door opened and an old Mexican peered out questioningly. He stared, gave a glad cry and came hurrying forward.

“Capitan!”
he exclaimed. “Once again you return to old Estaban! Ha! and the beautiful
caballo!
I he knows at once. First to the stable,
Capitan,
where with my mules he partakes of the best. Then, coffee steams in the pot and meat sizzles in the skillet. The feast of celebration we shall have, even to the bottle of golden wine from my own grapes.”

With dispatch, Shadow was stalled in the comfortable stable with a pensive mule to keep him company, his feedbox filled with oats, and shortly afterward Slade sat down at a table loaded with appetizing food and drink.

There followed a period that was mostly busy silence. Finally, Slade pushed back his empty plate with a sigh of content and rolled a cigarette. Estaban poured a final cup of steaming coffee to go with the wine and manufactured a husk
cigaro.

For some minutes they smoked in relaxed and full-fed comfort. Then Estaban spoke.

“
Capitan
,” he asked, “what seek you? Never do you ride without a reason.”

“Cows,” was the laconic reply. “Stolen cows that I thought may have perhaps come this way.”

Estaban shook his head. “No
ganado
have come this way,” he answered, adding, “but they have entered the Valley but recently.”

“But if they didn’t come this way, where in blazes did they go?” Slade demanded.

“Capitan,”
said the old Mexican, “came you to the Valley by your usual way?”

“Why, yes,” El Halcon replied. “I descended a couple of miles or so to the east, like before.”

“Well,” said Estaban, “by that way the
ganado
departed from the Valley, as did they who herded them.”

Slade stared at him. “I did spot cow tracks on top of the sag, but figured they were left by some grazing critters,” he said. “If they left the Valley by way of that crossing, where in blazes did they go from up top the slope?”

Estaban shrugged with Latin eloquence. “
Capitan
, that I do not know. Them I did not follow; it is not discreet to do so.”

“Decidedly not,” Slade agreed.

“I would presume,” added Estaban, “that they continued south. Much unlikely that they would turn east or west.”

“Darned unlikely,” Slade replied. “Well, this sort of tangles my twine for me. I was sure they would pass up the Valley and on to New Mexico and the hills.”

“That they did not,” insisted Estaban. “And I have heard that others crossed the Valley to the west of here and reached the outer plains by another little used route up the slope.”

“Which means,” Slade said slowly, “that they must have finally turned west to the desert. And no herd of beefs could cross that desert without water. A large portion of the first half of the drive would have to be made during the burning daylight hours. By nightfall the cattle would be completely exhausted, would have to be allowed to rest, and without water would perish.”

Estaban shrugged again. “
Capitan,
I know not the answer, but pass up the Valley they did not,” he declared.

For some minutes Slade sat silent, pondering this most puzzling bit of information. No more than Estaban did he know the answer. He could only conclude that if the widelooped cows were turned west south of the Canadian, there must be water somewhere out on that inferno of heat and sand and alkali dust. He recalled that oldtimers insisted that the Indians did use the desert route to run stock and that they knew where water was to be found—which Slade had always discounted. Explorers had crossed the desert on horse back more than once and all had reported it to be a waterless waste where, should a sudden windstorm arise, and they were frequent, even a man on a good horse took his life in his hands when attempting the crossing.

Well, he had to find the answer somehow. And meanwhile he was evolving a plan that, with a little luck, might be productive of results. It was an exceedingly hazardous plan and a little slip on his part could easily prove fatal. However, he felt the possible gain was worth some risk.

“Estaban,” he said, “when did the last bunch cross the Valley, do you know?”

“Si,”
the Mexican replied. “Five nights agone. There are those here who are curious and who, well hidden, have watched. None watch tonight, for it is a night of
fiesta
at the plazas and all attend to take part in the merrymaking.”

“Five nights since anything went through,” the Ranger repeated thoughtfully. “And last night was the payday bust, with most of the hands from the
spreads in town. I know nearly all of John Fletcher’s Diamond F bunch were, and tonight they will sleep soundly. Anyhow, I’m going to play a hunch. Yes, I’ve a notion the gents might try to pull something to night.”

“But why not last night when most of the
vaqueros
were in town getting drunk?” Estaban wondered.

“Because formerly payday night was quite frequently when raids were made, but of late the cattlemen have been taking added precautions on payday nights and have several riders patrolling the range. Whoever is heading the operations in this section has brains and would take that into consideration. Largely guesswork on my part, of course, but worth giving some thought to. Anyhow, I’m going to play the hunch.”

“You will be in great danger,
Capitan,
a lone man against many desperate
ladrones.
”

“Not too much, if I can work it so the element of surprise is my advantage,” Slade answered. “I’ll take it easy for a couple more hours and give Shadow a chance to catch his breath and then I’ll ride. By that time there will be a moon in the sky, which should help.”

“
Capitan,
let me accompany you,” said Estaban.

Slade shook his head. “No, I think I can handle this one better by myself. If it comes to a showdown and things get a mite too hot, I always have Shadow to depend on; he can show his heels to anything I’m likely to meet up with. You’ve already been a great help, providing me with the information I so sorely needed. And you have reversed my deductions as to where they run the cows. How they do it I still don’t know, but the knowledge that they do it is
highly important. Now I’ve just got to find out how, which shouldn’t be impossible.”