Gunsmoke Talk: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

exploded to a bellow of gunfire.

      Back and forth gushed the orange flashes, paled by the lamplight. The smoke clouds rolled and swirled. A gurgling scream knifed through the turmoil. A slug ripped Slade’s sleeve. Another burned a red streak along the side of his neck. He staggered, recovered, shot with both hands. Then he lowered his smoking Colts, peered through the fog at the two motionless forms sprawled on the floor and began ejecting the spent shells from his guns and replacing them with fresh cartridges.

      Cardena came back through the door, his face white as a sheet. The doctor got creakily to his feet and glowered at them both.

      “Why in blazes couldn’t you show up a little sooner?” he demanded. “I wasted a whole roll of bandage.”

      Despite the grisly scene on the office floor, Slade chuckled; the old gent was okay.

      “We’ll make ’em pay for it from what we find in their pockets,” he said. “You all right, Doctor?”

      “Bruised my elbow but to heck with that,” replied the old fellow, vigorously massaging the injured member. “Come here, you, and let me have a look at your neck.”

      “Just a scratch,” Slade deprecated the injury.

      “Shut up! I’m the best judge of that,” growled the doctor. “The bullets that sort use might be pizened. Come here!”

      Slade obeyed, grinning. The doctor examined the slight crease, from which a few drops of blood were oozing.

      “I’ll smear some salve on it and it’ll be okay,” he said, and proceeded to do so.

      “There, that’ll hold you,” he remarked. “You were darn lucky, though. Another inch to the right and you’d be there on the floor with those other blankety-blank-blanks. What you young squirts doing here—something wrong?”

      Slade gestured to the bodies. “We came on the chance that you might have treated that pair,” he said. “Hardly expected to run into what we did. Suppose you tell us just what happened.”

      “I was sittin’ at my desk when that pair came through the door, one of them hobbling on one foot, the other with his hand inside his shirt,” the doctor replied. “Both were holding guns on me and demanded to be patched up. Of course I’d have had to treat ’em, guns or no guns—Hippocratic Oath, you know—but them guns decided me to get busy pronto and ask no questions. Was mighty glad to see you gents amble in. A mean soundin’ pair, and their eyes didn’t look good glintin’ through those holes. Was wondering if they mightn’t pay my fee with a gun barrel or a sticker, to keep me quiet till they got in the clear. Had been up to some hellishness, is my guess.”

      “Good guess,” Slade nodded. “Tell you about it later.”

      The bodies lay face downward. Slade turned them over on their backs.

      “Got the one that yelled through the neck,” commented the doctor. “Caught the other hellion dead center. Good shooting, son! Mighty good shooting!”

      Ripping the masks free revealed rather grubby faces with nothing particularly outstanding about them. Except that the glazed eyes, Slade thought, hinted at better than average intelligence.

      Cardena leaned close. “I’ve seen them both before,” he announced. “They were in my place a few nights back. Got to talking with one of the bartenders. Said something about riding for a spread over to the east. He told me they asked him quite a few questions—if the place was doing all right, and so on.”

      Abruptly he ceased speaking and shot Slade a questioning glance. The Ranger nodded; they were both thinking the same thing—that Cardena might be in for an “approach,” or would have been had the two devils stayed alive long enough.

      Slade began turning out the dead men’s pockets, revealing various odds and ends of no significance and a rather large sum of money.

      “Hellions been doing all right by themselves.” he remarked. “Never earned that much following a cow’s tail.” He shoved the dinero to the doctor.

      “Help yourself,” he invited.

      “Reg’lation fee for treating gunshot wounds,” the old doctor replied cheerfully, pocketing a couple of bills and shoving the rest back to Slade.

      “That should be your divvy, son,” he added. “You earned it.”

      “Sheriff Serby can take charge of it when he shows up,” Slade answered, stuffing the bills and coins in one of the pockets.

      The doctor snorted disapproval. “My name’s Doc Tredway, Joe Tredway,” he said. “Don’t believe I caught your handle.”

      Slade supplied it, and they shook hands.

      “Tomas, what shall we do with the bodies?” he asked the mayor. “We’ll send Serby a wire right away, but there’s no sense in them cluttering up Doc’s office.”

      “I’ll have them packed to my barn,” answered Cardena. “Listen!”

      Excited voices were sounding outside, drawing nearer.

      “Guess folks heard the shooting and are trying to locate where it came from,” he said. “Shall we let them in, Slade?”

      “Might as well,” the Ranger replied. “They can pack the bodies to the stable, and there’s no reason for secrecy about what happened. They were forcing Doctor Tredway to treat them, at gunpoint, and started shooting when we entered. Naturally, I had to shoot back.”

      “Slight understatement, but it’ll pass,” chuckled Doc Tredway. He stepped to the still open door.

      “All right, you loafers,” he shouted. “This way.”

      Another moment and half a dozen men crowded into the office, with more to follow. They stared, volleyed questions. Mayor Cardena did the answering. Suddenly somebody voiced a remark that struck the gathering of curious to silence—

      “Betcha they belonged to the Starlight Riders.”

      Furtive glances were exchanged, and one or two began edging toward the door. Then abruptly a big fellow stepped up to Slade and stuck out his hand.

      “Feller,” he said in a deep and growling voice, “put ’er there! My name’s Hodges, John Hodges, and I’m here to say you did a raunchin’ good chore. And if those two skunks belonged to the blankety-blank Starlight Riders, you did a still better one. Them’s my sentiments and I aim to back ’em up. Put ’er there!”

      Slade “put ’er there” and supplied his own name. They shook hands vigorously.

      “Thank you, Mr. Hodges,” he said, and turned the full force of his pale, cold eyes on the silent gathering.

      “Gentlemen,” he said, “You cannot stamp out evil by fleeing from it. If you display fear, you strengthen the grip it would appear a criminal organization has on this section. I have good reason to believe that the Starlight Riders, as they are called, plan to move into your town, as it would seem they have already moved into El Paso. If you knuckle under, you will ultimately find yourselves helpless to combat their depredations. But honest men who show a bold front always come out on top, sooner or later. Tell the Starlight Riders to do their damndest and go jump in the Rio Grande. That will give them pause, and I promise you I’ll do all in my power to help you fight this thing.”

      “And that’ll be puhlenty!” rumbled Hodges. “What you say, boys, goin’ to crawl for that bunch of mangy sidewinders? Or are you goin’ to string along with Mr. Slade, here, like I’m going to do?”

      Faces were hardening, those who had edged toward the door halted, turned back.

      “Men,” Cardena put in, “your fathers and grandfathers, and mine, fought the Apaches and Comanches and bandits from south of the River to a standstill and made this valley a decent place to live in. I figure we’re not showing much respect to their memory if we don’t keep it that way. Who’s with us to fight