Bullets for a Ranger: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

The barrels jerked up as Slade went for his guns. The air rocked and quivered to the reports. Even in that hectic moment Slade was astounded by what sounded like a clang of metal striking metal.

      Through the streams of orange fire and the fog of smoke gushing toward him, Slade saw one of the “men of steel” slew sideways and crash into a tangle of growth. He felt the wind of a passing bullet, heard the screech of another, which nicked his ear. Then two guns roared as one. Slade saw the dry-gulcher hurtle back, steady himself, fire again as the Ranger pulled trigger. A choking cry came from the dry-gulcher as he went down.

      But Walt Slade neither saw the fall nor heard the death cry. For at that instant the world about him exploded in scorching flame and blazing light through which rushed a cloud of utter blackness to wrap him fold on clammy fold. Three motionless forms lay amid the brush as the clouds thickened and blotted out the scene of death.

      2

      WHEN HE FINALLY regained something resembling consciousness, Slade knew he must have been completely out for some time. His face was caked with dried blood which had flowed from a bullet gash at the hairline above his left temple; his clothes were soaked by rain that had fallen. His limbs were stiff and he was cold. Fortunately, however, the night was warm, and a bit of movement would quickly remedy that condition. There seemed to be a great hammer beating with clanging strokes in his head. Waves of pain flowed before his eyes as he moved, and for a long moment he was deathly sick.

      Recovering somewhat, he propped himself on a shaking elbow. Overhead the sky was almost clear, although the wind still howled in intermittent gusts. Summoning his strength, he lurched to his feet to stand weaving and staggering. The effort reopened the wound, and blood trickled down his face. He wiped it away with a trembling hand and glared wildly about.

      Nowhere nearby was there any sign of movement. The tossing waves of the bay were silvered by the moonlight, and far out on the turbulent water showed a crawling gleam of light, evidently from a ship breasting the waves.

      “And she’d better stay out there,” he muttered, apropos of the passing vessel. “Get too close and some contrary current is liable to beach her, and she’d be pounded to pieces in no time.”

      Dismissing the ship, which could doubtless take care of itself, from his thoughts, he turned his attention to his more immediate surroundings. Shadowy amid the broken growth straggling the sand, he could just make out the sprawled bodies of the two dry-gulchers. He was anxious to examine them, but they’d have to wait.

      With fingers that still trembled, he explored the bullet crease. He was reassured in finding no evidence of fracture, a conclusion bolstered by the free flow of blood. Concussion might be another matter, but he did not think he had suffered any. Just the same, the blasted thing must be taken care of, and without delay.

      Stumbling and lurching, he made his way to where Shadow was waiting in patient disgust. He fumbled a jar of antiseptic ointment and a roll of bandage from his saddle pouch. After smearing the wound with the ointment, he padded it heavily and managed to bandage the pad into place. The activity warmed him, and he decided he was feeling a mite better despite the hammer blows inside his head, which were lessening to a degree.

      “Okay, feller, now for you,” he told the horse, and proceeded to loosen the cinches and flip the bit free so that the animal could graze in comfort on the sparse grass, which Shadow immediately proceeded to do. The task completed, Slade turned to search out a resting spot for himself. As he did so, his attention was attracted by a glow in the northeast, miles distant, steadily brightening against the sky. It quickly resolved to a flicker of flame tossing and billowing in the wind. He knew it was a beacon atop a hill to notify the coming ship that it was safe to veer nearer the land into a channel that would lead it to port.

      Still feeling far from good, Slade sat down with his back against a tree trunk, fished out his waterproof pouch of tobacco and papers and rolled a cigarette, his hands still shaking slightly. The blasted slug had hit him one devil of a wallop.

      “Guess I’m lucky at that, though,” he told Shadow. “Another inch to the right and I wouldn’t be here talking to you about it.”

      He smoked the cigarette slowly, down to a short butt, which he pinched out and cast aside. Feeling somewhat better, he got to his feet.

      “Now for a look at those gents in ‘armor,’” he said. He was very curious about the bizarre costume the pair affected and wanted to know just what it was that bore such a remarkable resemblance to what the iron men of Spain wore some centuries ago. He strode to the edge of the growth, from where he could see the bodies sprawled on the sand. Pausing, he glanced around, started forward again and halted in mid-stride.

      To the east the moonlit trail was visible for nearly a mile. Riding the trail and steadily drawing nearer the thicket were seven or eight horsemen. As they approached, Slade saw that the moonlight reflected from burnished headpieces and whatever the devil it was that covered their breasts.

      “More of the same brand!” he growled, eyeing the approaching riders.

      Just what would be best to do, he wondered. Quite likely they were coming to look for the two who had holed up in the thicket. They wouldn’t have any trouble spotting the bodies from the trail. But would they perhaps search the growth for a clue as to what had happened to them? That was a very serious question from the Ranger’s point of view. He was in no shape to take on odds of eight to one. And he certainly didn’t feel like being the quarry in a grueling chase. He had every faith in Shadow’s speed and endurance, but even the best of horses needs a guiding hand that is sure, and at the moment his hand was far from sure. The sensible thing was to stay holed up in the growth and hope for the best. He moved back a little to where he could see but not be seen, and waited.

      The approaching horsemen were looming large now, and as the wind lulled for a moment, Slade could hear the click of the speeding irons. A moment later, as they drew abreast of the thicket, an angry shout sounded and another. A gust of oaths followed as there was no answer to the hail. The horses clattered to a halt; several of the riders dismounted. Slade waited. There came a yelp of discovery, then a torrent of curses. The others dismounted hurriedly, and the whole bunch grouped around the two bodies. Strident voices bawled incoherent questions liberally sprinkled with appalling profanity. Slade’s hands dropped to his gun butts as several turned toward the thicket.

      However, they did not move in his direction. Instead, they hurried toward the far end of the thicket, to the east. A moment later there was another shout of discovery. Two saddled and bridled horses were led into view. The babble of voices rose to an incoherent uproar.

      “Dead! Drilled dead center!”

      “Who did it? What happened?”

      “Who the blankety-blank-blank knows who did it or what happened! They’re dead, ain’t they? Been dead quite a while, too! No wonder there wasn’t any blaze!”

      “What a night this has been! A nice haul gone to the blankety-blank-blank!”

      “Shut up! Rope ’em to the saddles and let’s get out of here. I don’t like this business.”

      Such were the solid peaks above the clouds of indecipherable bumbling. A few minutes later the band mounted and stormed west, the two bodies flopping grotesquely across the saddles of the lead horses, their “armor” reflecting derisive gleams of moonlight.

      Little less bewildered than the mysterious night riders, Walt Slade gazed after them until they dwindled from sight. He shook his aching head and returned to Shadow. The whole blasted affair just didn’t make sense. Well, he was in no shape to try to think things out. And he had a twenty-mile ride ahead of him.

      Not tonight! He doubted if he could stay in the hull for half that distance. So he got the rig off Shadow and gave him a rubdown, after a fashion. His blanket, rolled inside his slicker, was dry. He spread it on the ground, and with his damp saddle for a pillow was almost instantly asleep.

      With the full light of dawn he was awake. Aside from a sore head and a sense of frustration, he was about his normal self again. Also he was hungry, a good sign. That could be taken