Gunsmoke Talk: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

barrel over his head and get in touch with me or Sheriff Serby pronto,” Slade replied.

      “We’ll do it,” voices declared. “We ain’t going to knuckle under to a bunch of hyderphobia skunks. We’ll do it.”

      Cardena grinned and chuckled. “You’ve got ’em,” he whispered to Slade. “They’ll follow where you lead, come hell or high water. How in blazes do you do it? They were scared silly a minute ago.”

      “They just thought they were,” Slade answered with a smile. “Now let’s dispose of those carcasses so Doc can get to bed.”

      “Uh-huh, I’d better get a mite of rest while I’ve got a chance,” said Tredway. “With you in the section, I figure to be a busy man for a while.”

      “There are a couple of stretchers in my barn,” Cardena said. “Some of you fetch ’em, and we’ll pack the carcasses back to the barn. Tell Pedro, the keeper, I sent you; he’ll understand.”

      The crowd, which was constantly being augmented by new arrivals, filed out to attend to the chore. Slade and Cardena were left alone with the doctor.

      Old Doc twinkled his eyes at Slade, cast a questioning glance at Cardena. Slade nodded.

      “How’s McNelty?” Doc asked. “Haven’t seen him in a coon’s age.”

      “He’s fine,” Slade answered. “Will be glad to hear from you.”

      “Jim’s all right,” said the doctor. “And he sure knows how to pick ’em. Sends us El Halcon, the notorious outlaw, to uphold the law. As the British band played at Yorktown when Cornwallis surrendered, ‘The World’s Upside Down’!”

      Slade and Cardena both laughed at the sally. Old Doc chuckled creakily.

      “Now what?” he said.

      “Everything appears to be under control here, so Tomas and I will head for the railroad telegraph office and send Sheriff Serby a wire,” Slade decided. “After that, I’m going to bed.”

      “You’ll sleep at my casa, you’ve been there before,” said Cardena. “Take the room you had last time—first at the head of the stairs. My criados will let you in—they never go to bed. Then I’ll amble back to the cantina before the barkeeps rob me blind. They won’t put anything over on the customers, but they figure I’m fair game. Let’s go!”

      “See you tomorrow, Doc, and tell you about the run-in I had with that pair, down on the trail,” Slade said.

      “He knew you right off but didn’t let on a mite,” Cardena remarked as they left the office.

      “Yes, he didn’t know for sure how much you knew,” Slade replied. “I met him first over in Pecos—he’s always on the move. How long has he been here?”

      “Four or five months,” Cardena replied.

      “About time for his feet to get itchy,” Slade laughed. “He’ll stay so long as things are lively here, though. Thrives on excitement, and he’s seen plenty in his seventy-odd years. Fine old fellow, a real square shooter with plenty of sand in his craw.”

      “Yes, he’s all of that,” agreed Cardena. “Say, wonder what became of that fellow you believe those hellions wounded?”

      “I wish I knew,” Slade answered. “Perhaps we’ll learn something relative to him, before long, if he managed to survive and get in the clear. I wish, too, that I knew where the third member of the bunch is; he wasn’t hurt, so far as I could see.”

      “If he was in town and heard what happened to the other two, I’ve a notion he made himself scarce pronto,” Cardena predicted. “Chances are about now he’s telling a mighty angry yarn about you to some others of the bunch, if they happen to be anywhere around. Well, here’s the railroad station. I’ll send the wire, and then you head for a session of ear pounding; you look tired. And Pete knows you’ve had enough excitement for one day to satisfy even you.”

      4

      IN A COMFORTABLE BED, Slade slept soundly until midmorning, arising much refreshed after the first real night’s rest he had enjoyed for some days.

      “The patron, who still sleeps, ordered that you be not awakened,” said the smiling young Mexican who served him an excellent breakfast. “Word by the telegraph came from the sheriff that he would arrive on the noon train and await you in the cantina,” he added, pouring Slade more fragrant coffee.

      After a leisurely cigarette, Slade repaired to the stable for a word with Shadow, whom he found chipper and looking forward to action.

      “Take it easy,” his master advised. “Your legs will likely be worn down to stumps before we finish this chore.”

      The blanketed bodies of the dead outlaws lay peacefully against the far wall, awaiting the arrival of the sheriff.

      “And even now, if retribution prevails, their souls taste of the fires of infierno,” the old keeper observed cheerfully. “El Dios is just.”

      Not liking to interfere with true piety, Slade did not argue the point. He bestowed a final pat on Shadow and headed for Tomas Cardena’s cantina.

      Fortified with coffee and a cigarette, he settled himself comfortably to while away the time until Sheriff Serby would arrive.

      Shortly after the whistle of the noon train blew the sheriff—lean, lanky, with a weatherbeaten face that did not move a muscle, but a keen blue eye that twinkled—strolled in. He shook hands with Slade, occupied a chair and ordered drinks.

      “So, still collecting ’em, eh?” he remarked.

      “Collecting them?”

      “Uh-huh, bodies. When the undertaker heard you were in the section again he went out and bought a brand-new hearse. Said he figured to need it.”

      “I fear he’s too optimistic,” Slade smiled.

      “I doubt it,” said Serby, “he’s got a good eye for business. Okay, tell me about it.”

      Slade told him, starting from his ruckus with the three riders on the trail. Serby listened in silence until the account was finished.

      “Looks sorta like the Starlight Riders, all right,” he commented when Slade paused.

      “Trevis,” the Ranger asked, “just what do you know about the Starlight Riders?”

      “Not much,” the sheriff admitted. “An owlhoot bunch, all right, but headed by somebody with more brains than average. We’ve had some robberies, and stolen cows. That’s nothing out of the ordinary for this end of Texas. But extortion is a new wrinkle in this section, and extortion is just what it is.”

      “How do they operate?”

      “Mighty shrewd. Some fellers will ride up to one of the farmhouses, or to a man working in the fields. They’ll tell him it would be a good notion to kick in a few pesos for protection against outlaws working the section. If he refuses, they don’t make any threats. Just say okay and ride off. Then a few nights later his barn is afire, or some of his horses shot. Or when he’s working in the fields, a coupla slugs whistle past his head, mighty close. Doesn’t take much of that sort of thing to scare heck out of the farmers and grape growers, and even some of the small ranchers over to the east.”

      “Looks like somebody could identify the hellions,” Slade remarked.

      “Uh-huh, if you could get ’em to talk. You can’t. I know darn well a lot of ’em are paying—how many I don’t know—but you can’t get ’em to admit it; they’re scared. As Cardena may have told you, two came to me for help, two grape growers who lived alone. Three nights later their house burned down. Their bodies were found in the ruins.”

      “Snake-blooded killers of the worst sort,” Slade commented. “Well, we’ll see.”

      Regarding