The Hate Trail: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

      “Well, there’s an old saying,” Slade returned, “ ‘Set a thief to catch a thief.’ ”

      Sheriff Carter chuckled again. “You may have something there, son,” he admitted. “Well, got anything to suggest?”

      “I have,” Slade replied. “That is, if you’re willing to follow a hunch that has very little on which to base it other than what I’ve learned from experience, some of it not pleasant, just how Veck Sosna is liable to operate.”

      “I’ll follow anything that promises results,” the sheriff replied. “Right now I’m on something of a spot, and there’s an election coming up this fall. Bob Evans, the banker, ain’t feeling very good about this business and he packs considerable influence. Let’s hear what you have to say.”

      Slade answered with a question. “How many deputies have you?”

      “Three, all good men.”

      “Can you round them up in a hurry?”

      The sheriff nodded.

      “Three with you and I will be enough,” Slade said. “Get hold of them and we’ll ride west; you can swear me in as a special, if you care to.”

      “West?” repeated the sheriff.

      “That’s right, on the chance that the hellions will turn and head back this way, which I’m of a notion they’re doing just about now.”

      “You mean to say you think they might come back to Amarillo?” the sheriff demanded incredulously.

      “Why not?” Slade countered. “Their faces were not seen. Neither the driver nor the guard could identify them. They’d be perfectly safe in Amarillo, so far as they know.”

      “How about the row they kicked up in the Trail End?” said the sheriff. “They’d be recognized as doing that, all right. Why couldn’t I throw them in the calaboose for disturbing the peace?”

      “What row they kicked up in the Trail End?” Slade answered. “I listened to the talk at the bar. Everybody was pretty well agreed that those two tinhorn gamblers started the row. You can be sure they are not going to sign a complaint. With everybody confident that they pulled a little chore of cold decking, they’ll be out of sight for a while. You can sometimes get by with a killing, but not with an engineered misdeal. They know it You’d just get yourself laughed at. Sosna knows that and is not in the least worried about trouble being made for him because of that little rukus in which nobody was cashed in and the possible complaining witnesses not present. But there is another angle. . . .”

      “What?” asked Carter.

      “Just this,” Slade replied. “I don’t think that Sosna knows I’m in this section. Otherwise, knowing I am quite conversant with his methods, he’d very likely not try it. As it is, I figure it’s just the very thing he’s likely to do. It would relieve him and his bunch from possible suspicion; nobody would suspect a bunch of stage robbers would be so brazen as to show up here in town in but a few hours after pulling a holdup. And that’s just the way Sosna works.”

      “Dadgum it! you’ve sold me a notion against my better judgment,” the sheriff said querulously. “How the devil did you do it?”

      Slade laughed, and did not explain.

      During the course of the conversation they had been walking to the sheriff’s office. A light burned within and they found the three deputies whiling away the time at cards. They stared at the man whose exploits, even though some of them might be regarded as questionable, were the talk of the Southwest, when Sheriff Carter performed the introductions.

      Briefly, Carter explained what he had in mind. “It’s Slade’s idea,” he concluded, adding gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye, “He don’t like for other owlhoots to horn in.”

      “I can understand that,” observed Deputy Bill Harley, a lanky individual whose leathery countenance was as impassive as a green hide. “Johnny Davenport gets ringey when you start working on his side of the county line. A feller should stay in his own bailwick. Live and let live is the right notion.”

      “Get the rigs on your bronks, and come loaded for bear,” ordered the sheriff. “We’re going up against a salty bunch.”

      “And if we do come up with them, be ready to shoot fast and shoot straight,” Slade interpolated. “They’re desperate men and I doubt if they’ll surrender without a fight. I don’t know about the others, but Sosna is a dead shot. Very likely the others are also handy with their irons. We can’t afford to take chances.”

      The deputies nodded soberly and hurried out. Ten minutes later the posse was riding west at a fast pace.

      There was a nearly full moon in the sky, that was cloudless, and the prairie was flooded with silver light, which worked well with Slade’s plan. For he had a definite objective in view and believed he would be able to attain it—the belt of chaparral where the holdup occurred. He reasoned, knowing how Sosna’s mind worked, that the outlaw leader would have been in no hurry to ride east. Better to let things cool down a mite before approaching Amarillo, then slip into town unobtrusively. He felt that the last thing Sosna would expect was a posse riding from the east after the driver and guard told of him riding west. Which was doubtless his reason for allowing the pair to live; Sosna usually left no witnesses.

      All of which the Ranger had carefully considered before urging Sheriff Carter to head west with his posse on the chance of intercepting the outlaw band. He believed his hunch was a straight one and that there was a good chance to put an end to Veck Sosna’s career of robbery and murder once for all.

      Not that he was sure—he’d had too much experience with the Comanchero leader’s uncanny ability to wriggle out of what appeared to be a tight loop. His hairtrigger mind plus his perfect coordination of brain and body had enabled him to more than a few times escape from what seemed an absolutely hopless situation. Veck Sosna was a formidable opponent for even El Halcón.

      El Halcón versus Veck Sosna! A saga of the West that would be talked about for many a year.

      Suddenly the sheriff exclaimed, a trifle apprehensively, “Suppose’n we just run into a bunch of cowhands coming to town for a bust? Starting a corpse-and-cartridge session with them would be a fine howdy-do.”

      “Law-abiding citizens don’t get trigger-nervous when called upon to halt by a peace officer who announced himself,” Slade pointed out. “You don’t need to worry on that score.”

      “Guess that’s right,” Carter agreed, in relieved tones.

      Slade himself was doing a mite of worrying. He felt confident that he had sized up the situation correctly and that they had plenty of time to reach the belt of chaparral before Sosna. But suppose he had guessed wrong and the outlaws would get there first and from its shadow spot the posse riding blithely across the moon drenched prairie? Sosna’s quick mind would instantly understand and react accordingly. The thought made Slade feel a bit cold along his backbone.

      Finally they sighted the chaparral belt, which was very broad to the north, running almost to the downward plunge of the wild Canadian River Valley. Slade instinctively slowed the pace a little and his eyes probed the shadows ahead.

      It was an uneasy business, riding into what might well be a sudden blaze of gunfire. A blaze they would see but not necessarily hear, lead travelling somewhat faster than sound. His right hand hovered close to his gun butt as they drew near the dark and silent growth.

      It was with a sigh of relief that, riding slightly ahead, he reached the stand of growth without anything happening. Again he slowed the pace.

      “Easy now,” he told his companions. “We want to find a good spot to hole up and wait.”

      He led the way until they came to where a tall tree stretched its branches across the trail, effectually shutting out the moonlight for the space of a dozen yards or so. Directly ahead, some twenty paces