Death's Corral: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

      “Yep, I’ll get in touch with Doc Cooper, the coroner, and we’ll hold one after we pack in those other two bodies,” Crane said.

      “I’ll look up the undertaker—I think he’s playing cards over at the Regan House bar—and arrange to have the body prepared for a decent burial,” Arista remarked. “Poor Vergara left no relatives to my knowledge. May drop in at the Branding Pen a little later, if you figure to be there.”

      “Chances are I will be for a while,” Crane replied. “Be seeing you.”

      Arista hurried off on his sorrowful errand. The sheriff headed for the Branding Pen at a leisurely pace.

      4

      MEANWHILE IN the saloon, Bert, the young deputy, had proven talkative and thoroughly conversant with conditions in the section. Slade found his remarks interesting and let him ramble on. He noted that Hardrock Hogan, the owner, was eyeing them speculatively. After a bit, he strolled over to the table. Bert performed the introductions and Slade invited Hogan to have a chair.

      “Something happened?” he asked as he motioned to the waiter to bring drinks. “I saw Sheriff Crane and Arista have their heads together.”

      Bert glanced at Slade. “Any reason why I shouldn’t tell him?” he asked.

      “None that I can think of,” the Ranger replied. “He’s bound to hear about it eventually, and he might as well get the straight story while he’s at it.”

      Bert proceeded to relate Slade’s account of the happening, vividly and true as to detail. When he paused, old Hardrock reached a big paw across the table to Slade.

      “Son, you did a good chore, a mighty good chore,” he declared. “Betcha those two sidewinders were part of the bunch that’s been making trouble hereabouts of late. And Arista blames the Cross W? Rats! Those young hellions are good at getting into ruckuses and starting a fight at the drop of a hat, but when it comes to chasin’ a man and shootin’ him in the back, I don’t believe it. Old John Webb is a salty hombre and ready to pull on you if you’re standin’ up to him, but when your back is turned you’re plumb safe. Arista wouldn’t shoot a man in the back, either, so he had oughta give the other feller credit for being as square as he is. But when a feller gets his mad up he just nacherly ain’t got any brains that are in workin’ order.”

      Slade smiled and didn’t argue the point. There was truth in the old saloonkeeper’s homely philosophy, and shrewd common sense. He regarded Hardrock Hogan as something of a character, which he was.

      Although it was past midnight, the Branding Pen was still going strong. Even stronger, in fact. The bar was crowded, as was the dance-floor. All the gaming tables were occupied and at several Slade decided the stakes were rather steep. He noted that there were quite a few Mexicans, well-dressed young fellows, and wondered if they were members of Pancho Arista’s carting outfit, deciding that they very likely were. Cowhands and railroaders were in the majority, however, and some gentlemen whose antecedents and present status, Slade felt, were dubious.

      Hardrock ordered another drink for Slade and Bert and stood up.

      “Mind if I tell the boys what happened?” he asked of Slade.

      “No reason why you shouldn’t,” the Ranger replied. “And you might pass the word that when he brings in those two bodies tomorrow, Sheriff Crane would like to have the folks look them over on the chance they might be recognized by somebody.”

      “I’ll do that,” Hardrock promised and returned to the end of the bar, where he engaged a constantly augmented crowd in conversation.

      As Hardrock continued to speak, Slade noted that the young Mexicans and several equally young Texans dressed as cowhands were gathering in a tight group, talking together with compressed lips and frowning brows. Bert noticed the direction of his gaze and answered an unspoken question.

      “The Mexicans are some of Arista’s cart drivers, the Texans his outriders,” Bert said. “Reckon they ain’t feeling very happy over what happened. Vergara was a good man to work with and was popular with the carters and riders. Could be trouble in here before the night is over.”

      Slade was inclined to agree and watched the group closely.

      “Oh, good gosh!” Bert suddenly exclaimed. “Here comes the Cross W bunch; must have been holed up someplace else. Now look out!”

      The newcomers, seven in number, were young, swaggering, and boisterous and appeared the worse for wear from having looked upon the wine when it was red or some other color. They made their way to the bar not far from where the carters stood and ordered drinks. Now Slade watched both groups.

      Nobody, except Walt Slade, seemed to know just how the fight started. Later, the carters swore they didn’t start it. The cowboys maintained just as vigorously that they didn’t start it. Anyhow, somebody hit somebody and the ruckus was on, to the accompaniment of shouts, curses, screams from the dance-floor girls, soothing yells from the bartenders. Tables were overturned, chairs smashed, bottles and glasses broken. It was a wild melee of hitting, wrestling, kicking, and gouging.

      “Keep out of it,” Slade snapped to Bert. “They won’t do one another much damage and Hardrock and his floor men will soon break it up.”

      Bert, who had started to rise, settled back in his chair.

      Slade, whose eyes were everywhere, saw the three men edging swiftly toward the swinging doors. He saw their eyes glint in his direction. Two barged through the doors. The third whirled toward him, his hand streaking to his holster. Slade went sideways out of his chair, drew and shot in a single ripple of motion. There was a howl of pain and a gun clattered to the floor. Its owner dived for the outside. Slade blasted three more slugs into the swinging doors and bounded across the room, gun ready for instant action.

      But there were excited and bewildered men in his way, an overturned table and a smashed chair. By the time he reached the door and peered cautiously out, there was nobody in sight. He turned back to the rising tumult of the saloon.

      The fighting had stopped for the moment but seemed likely to resume at any instant. Slade’s great voice rolled in thunder through the room, striking all to silence.

      “Stop it! We’ve had enough foolishness for one night!” The muzzle of his cocked Colt gestured to the carters and the cowhands.

      “You fellows get back to the bar and behave yourselves,” he told them in tones like steel grinding on ice. “Do you understand?”

      Under the threat of that rock-steady muzzle, with the terrible eyes of El Halcón behind it, they understood. Both groups, muttering and growling but making no further hostile move, shuffled to the bar. Slade holstered his gun, returned to the table, and began rolling a cigarette. Bert gazed at him, and the young deputy appeared slightly dazed.

      “That hellion you winged made a try for you, didn’t he,” he stated rather than asked.

      “He did,” Slade replied, finishing his brain tablet without spilling a crumb of tobacco and touching a match to it. “Guess he was a mite slow, though.”

      “He didn’t ’pear slow to me,” Bert declared. “But you made him look slow as a snail climbing a slick log. Gentlemen, hush! Now I believe it.”

      “Believe what?” Slade asked.

      “ ‘The fastest gunhand in the whole Southwest,’” Bert quoted. “Yep, I was sorta wonderin’, but I ain’t anymore. Gentl-l-lmen, hush!”

      Slade smiled. “Go over there and see if you can find his iron,” he directed. “I think it’s on the floor somewhere close to the door.”

      Bert did so, returning a moment later with the drygulcher’s gun, or what was left of it, one butt plate being missing and the lock smashed by Slade’s bullet.

      “Blood spots on the floor, too,” he announced. “Reckon you took part of his hand off.”

      “I