The Hate Trail: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

Trail End and something to eat.

      “Now who the devil is he?” Clint asked of the unresponsive Shadow as the door closed on Slade’s broad back. “Looks like a chuck-line-ridin’ cowhand, but I’ll bet my bottom peso he ain’t. Oh, well, we’re getting all sorts hereabouts of late and I reckon one more won’t hurt. I’m putting a snort in your water—goes well with oats. Don’t do it for everybody, but you and him both are a mite out of the ordinary.”

      TWO

      THE TRAIL END proved to be a typical cowtown saloon, bigger and better appointed than most. There was a long bar, a dance floor with a small raised platform to accommodate the orchestra, poker tables, two roulette wheels, a faro bank, a lunch counter, and tables for more leisurely diners.

      Although it was still only midafternoon, the bar was well crowded, mostly with cowhands, and everybody appeared to be excitedly discussing the recent gunplay.

      Sitting at a nearby table putting away a surrounding was Sheriff Brian Carter. He intercepted Slade’s glance and beckoned.

      “Sit down there where I can keep an eye on you,” he ordered as Slade drew near. “Where’d you say you came from?”

      “I didn’t,” Slade replied, accepting the vacant chair, “but if you’re real anxious to know, I rode in from the west.”

      “So!” the sheriff exclaimed. “Got chased outa Oldham County and decided to give Potter a whirl, eh?”

      “Well, the sheriff over there did think it might be a good idea for me to move on,” Slade replied smilingly. He refrained from mentioning that the sheriff of Oldham County was an old friend who thought that Slade’s “reason” for being in the section might possibly be hanging around Amarillo.

      “I don’t doubt it! I don’t doubt it!” Sheriff Carter agreed heartily. “That hellion over there is always sending me trouble.” He beckoned a waiter.

      “Fatten him up so he can’t slip between the bars,” he directed.

      “I’ll do that, Sheriff,” the grinning waiter promised, adding sotto voce, but not too sotto to Slade, “Try and get him to lock you up, feller. We send over the meals for the prisoners and fellers have been knowed to spit on the sidewalk just for a chance at getting free helpin’s from the Trail End.”

      “You’ll get a chance at some free helpin’s if you don’t keep your thumb outa my bowl of soup!” the sheriff declared. The waiter chuckled, took Slade’s order and hurried to the kitchen.

      “Learn any more about who started the shindig and why?” Slade asked. The sheriff shook his head.

      “Best I can gather, somebody made a misdeal,” he replied. “Those six hellions came in here together. A couple of ’em got in a poker game. There was a row and the other four, who were at the bar, joined in. I ain’t sure just which side really started it. Card players are usually close-mouthed and you can’t get ’em to talk. Prefer to settle their differences themselves.”

      Slade nodded thoughtfully. He wished he had gotten a look at the six riders who hightailed out of town.

      “Aiming to coil your twine here?” the sheriff asked suddenly.

      “Maybe, if you’ll promise not to throw me in the calaboose just for the fun of doing it,” Slade answered, with a smile.

      “I ain’t promising,” said the sheriff. “Every stranger who ambles in of late either ends up there or ought to. It is a good section for cowhands, though. The spreads hereabouts are always short of help.”

      Slade knew that the shrewd old peace officer, despite the persiflage in which he indulged, was covertly studying him and doing a bit of probing. Well, one couldn’t blame him. The Cowboy Capital was a trouble spot. There was no town organization and the affairs and laws of the community were administered by the county officials and it was up to them to try and keep something resembling order. Which was no easy chore and it was not unnatural that all strangers were to an extent suspect.

      Slade’s meal arrived and there followed a period of busy silence. Finally the sheriff pushed back his empty plate with a sigh of contentment. He hauled out a black pipe and stuffed it with tobacco. When the steamer was going to his satisfaction, he spoke—

      “So John Davenport sent you over here, eh? Why?”

      Slade regarded him for a moment. He liked the old fellow’s looks, felt that he was trustworthy, not exactly stupid and could keep a tight latigo on his jaw. He decided to take him into his confidence, to an extent.

      “Sheriff,” he said, “did you ever hear of Veck Sosna?”

      The sheriff’s eyes widened. “Why, I reckon I have,” he admitted. “He was the pack leader of the Comachero outlaws who raised heck in the Canadian River Valley and up around the Oklahoma Border a few years back. Yep, I heard of him; I was a deputy in those days. Why?”

      “Because,” Slade replied, “I have reason to believe that Sosna has returned to his old stamping grounds and has organized a following—he’s a genius at that.”

      The sheriff jumped in his chair. “The devil you say!” he sputtered. “As if I didn’t have enough on my hands! I—” his voice died away and he stared at Slade. Then he glanced around, leaned forward and lowered his voice.

      “I’ve got you placed at last!” he said. “Been trying to figure it since I first clapped eyes on you. Now I’ve got it. You’re El Halcón!”

      “Been called that,” Slade admitted composedly.

      The sheriff gave a hollow groan. “Trouble, trouble, trouble!” he lamented. “Why’d you have to come here? Everybody knows trouble just follows you around.”

      “Perhaps you’ll have less by the time I’m ready to leave,” Slade replied.

      “That’s plumb sure for certain,” the sheriff declared, with fervor. “Yes, sir, sure as the sun rising in the morning. And you’re looking for Sosna?”

      “Well, I’ve chased him all over Texas and Mexico,” Slade said. “Thought a couple of times I’d gotten rid of him for good, but he’s got more lives than a cat and has always managed to survive.”

      “Uh-huh, I’ve heard of the feud between you two hellions,” growled the sheriff. “Maybe you’ll finish each other off,” he added hopefully.

      “I hope you’re wrong about that,” Slade smiled. “I’d sure hate to have to keep on chasing Veck Sosna through eternity.”

      Sheriff Carter chuckled. “Reckon you must feel sort of that way about it,” he conceded. “But mavericking around as El Halcón, an owlhoot too smart to get caught, will end up getting you in trouble. Oh, I know there are no reward notices out for you—I’ve heard that discussed—but give a dog a bad name—”

      “First you have to drop a loop on the dog,” Slade smiled.

      “Oh, you’re too darn smart for me to arg’fy with,” snorted the sheriff. “But about Sosna, you really think he might show up here in Amarillo?”

      “I’ve been wondering if he hasn’t already shown up,” Slade answered.

      “Now what the devil do you mean by that?” demanded Carter.

      “Nothing much, except I wish I’d gotten a good look at those hellions you chased out of town,” Slade said. “Somehow it seemed to me that antic had the Sosna touch; I just can’t help wondering a mite.”

      Sheriff Carter tugged his mustache and frowned. Abruptly he stood up.

      “You stay right here,” he said. “I’m going to mosey around and see if I can learn anything.” He stalked to the bar and engaged the head bartender in conversation. Slade relaxed comfortably in his chair and rolled another cigarette.