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

trigger-happy deputy, or some gunslinger out to get a reputation by downing El Halcón, ‘the fastest gunhand in the whole Southwest.’ Oh, go ahead! Go ahead! I get sore tonsils arguing with you!”

      So Slade continued to “go ahead” on the path of his choosing, satisfied with the present and giving little thought to the future.

      “Well, suppose we go hunt up Doc Price and let him have a look at your head,” Ross suggested. “You got a bad rap, and it shouldn’t be neglected.”

      “Guess you’re right,” Slade conceded. “I don’t think there is anything much to it, but it’s better not to take chances.”

      As they walked along the street, Slade gestured toward a big and sprawling building to the right.

      “Seems to me that one has acquired an addition since I was here last year,” he remarked.

      “It has,” said the sheriff. “Used to be one of old Shanghai Pierce’s slaughterhouses. Now it’s Eldon Parr’s packing establishment. Parr packs sheep meat.”

      “A good site for it, here,” Slade commented. “Plenty of sheep in this section.”

      “Parr mostly brings his woollies in by ship,” replied Ross. “Owns a couple of ranches over to the east, I understand. He bought local sheep when he came here, about four months back, but because of the blasted men of steel scare he can’t depend on local deliveries. He’s threatened to start a ranch hereabouts, which doesn’t set too well with the cowmen—quite a bit of open range here which they use but don’t own. They’re scared that if he does bring in sheep he’ll let them run wild over the range, and you know what that means. All the sheep in this section are owned by the Mexican herders down to the southwest, where the cowmen haven’t any holdings.”

      Slade nodded his understanding. He knew what carelessly handled sheep would do to rangeland. The prophet Ezekiel knew what he was talking about when he wrote:

      “Woe be to the shepherds of Israel .... Seemeth it a small thing unto you to have eaten up the good pasture, but ye must tread down with your feet the residue of your pastures? ...”

      That is just what sheep, carelessly handled, do. They kill more than they eat. They feed in compact masses, and their sharp chisel feet, driven by a hundred pounds of solid bone and flesh, cut even the roots of the grass to pieces. As a result, vegetation may be killed for years to come. The damage is even more serious in arid lands, where vegetation is essential to the conservation of moisture. Without vegetable life, rain is not absorbed but runs off the ground and cuts it into arroyos and ravines where nothing will grow. A range overstocked with cattle is in for trouble, sooner or later. With sheep, it is sooner.

      Which is the reason for the bloody range wars fought in the West because of the encroaching woollies.

      But Slade knew that experience had taught that sheep and cattle can be raised in the same section to the advantage of both; it is just a matter of proper handling. Steep and stony pastures that are worthless for cattle provide good grazing for sheep. Wise ranchers take advantage of this fact and profit thereby.

      The flock owners of Mexican descent, who had held their land for generations, knew how to handle sheep properly and did handle them properly, keeping their charges constantly on the move, never allowing them to eat the grass down to the roots or otherwise damage it.

      However, it was all too often different with unscrupulous owners out for quick profits and caring nothing for the welfare of others. So it was not remarkable that the cattlemen of the section looked askance on any plan to run sheep in and onto the open range.

      “Parr is quite a gent, and he sure knows the packing business,” Ross observed. “Well, here’s Doc’s place, and I reckon he’s in.”

      Old Doc Price, who also knew Slade well, shook hands warmly and gestured him to a chair.

      “Nicked again, eh?” he remarked as he undid the bandage. “Keep up at this rate and your head will end looking like a patchwork quilt. Hmmm! Not so bad. You did a good chore of padding and bandaging. A cleansing, a couple of stitches and a strip of plaster, and you’ll be okay.”

      A few minutes later he stepped back and surveyed his handiwork.

      “There, that’ll hold you,” he said. “Pull your hat down on that side and it won’t even show. Fee? What fee? You go to hell!”

      “We were going over to the Post Hole,” admitted the sheriff. “Join us in a snort, Doc?”

      “Not a bad idea,” agreed Price. “Should be sort of exciting before the night’s over, with El Halcón in town.”

      “That’s what I’m scared of,” groaned the sheriff. “Trouble just naturally follows him around.”

      After the doctor had cleaned and put away his instruments, they set out for the saloon in question. Dusk was sifting down through the still air. The bay was smoldering purple flecked with flashes of rose and gold. Far out on the water a ship was heading for port, the tips of her tall masts catching the last dying sunlight and beaconing it back in rays of amber. Port Lavaca crouched expectantly on its low bluff and awaited the night.

      4

      THE POST HOLE WAS BIG, well lighted and boisterous. The bar was pretty well crowded, the orchestra already tuning up, the dance-floor girls gathered together, talking. Some of the gaming tables were occupied. A couple of roulette wheels were whirring, and the faro bank was going strong.

      “Sort of lively for so early in the evening,” Slade commented.

      “Payday for the spreads and for most of the other workers hereabouts,” Sheriff Ross explained. “They try to have ’em all hit together; good for business. Especially Doc’s.”

      “But not conducive to peace and quiet,” observed that worthy. “Well, here goes for that snort.”

      “And then something to eat,” Slade suggested.

      “I’m in favor of it,” said Doc. “I’m gaunt as a gutted sparrow. And Neale is always hungry—can’t get over his starvation days as a cowhand. Used to be so thin he couldn’t cast a shadow. Fat and sleek, now that he’s got his hand in the public till, but he still eats. Not that I’m complaining; I’m getting rich dosing him with stuff to take off some of the tallow. A pity he hasn’t got stronger arms.”

      “How’s that?” asked the sheriff, falling into the trap.

      “So you could push yourself away from the table before your belly shoves against it,” snorted Doc. “Fill ’em up, bartender.”

      The three repaired to a table, where they enjoyed a hearty meal. Afterwards they sat sipping coffee, and smoking and talking.

      Frog-lip Fogarty, the owner, came over from the end of the bar to join them. Ross performed the introductions, and Fogarty shook hands with a firm grip. An expression of perplexity crossed his good-natured, big-mouthed face as he regarded Slade.

      “Seems to me I ought to know you, cowboy,” he said. “I’ve either seen you before or heard of somebody who looks like you.”

      “Lots of folks look alike,” Slade replied noncommittally.

      Frog-lip did not appear impressed. “Anyhow, I’m sorry to see you in such bad company,” he sighed. “A sheriff and a doctor! All we need is an undertaker to make it perfect.”

      “And the chances are you’ll need all three in this rum-hole before the night is over,” the sheriff predicted. “I never knew it to fail.”

      “Could be,” admitted Frog-lip. “The boys are apt to get a mite rambunctious after a while, but I’ve a notion I can quiet them down if I have to. Well, enjoy yourself, gents, I’ll send over a drink.” He sauntered back to the bar, his step lithe and quick for so bulky a man.

      “Yes, he can usually quiet ’em down,” conceded the sheriff. “A nice jigger, but he can be plenty salty if