The Hate Trail: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

of two evils and would be glad to pit El Halcón, “the singingest man in the whole Southwest, with the fastest gunhand,” against the devilish Sosna whose name was a byword throughout the Texas Panhandle country for ruthlessness, devilish ingenuity and sadistic cruelty. And, as the sheriff said, if the hellions did for each other, well—

      Not that he really believed the old peace officer was that callous where human life was concerned. Just a subconscious assumption that in such an event his troubles would be lessened.

      Due to his habit of working under cover whenever possible and often not revealing his Ranger connections, Walt Slade had built up a peculiar dual reputation. Those who knew the truth insisted vigorously that he was not only the most fearless but the most capable of the Rangers. Others, who knew him only as El Halcón, were wont to declare just as vigorously that he was just a blasted owlhoot too smart to get caught but who would get his comeuppance sooner or later.

      Captain Jim McNelty, the famous Commander of the Border Battalion of the Texas Rangers, knew well that the deception laid Slade open to grave personal danger at the hands of some triggernervous marshal or deputy, to say nothing of professional gunslingers out to get a reputation by downing the notorious El Halcón and not above shooting in the back as a means to their end.

      But he was forced to admit that the deception paid off at times, that outlaws, doubtless believing they had but one of their own brand and a lone wolf seeking to horn in on somebody else’s good thing to deal with would at times grow careless, to Slade’s advantage. Also that avenues of information were open to him that would have been closed to a known Ranger. So Captain Jim would growl and fuss but not actually forbid his lieutenant and ace man to continue the deception, allowing Slade to go his own cheerful way with little thought for the danger involved and with confidence in the future.

      Among those who did not know the truth, Slade had champions as well as detractors. “Sure he’s cashed in a lot of hellions, but just show me one that didn’t have a killing long overdue. That’s a chore for the sheriffs and marshals, you say? Huh! it’s a chore for any decent and law-abiding citizen. More power to him!”

      And the Mexican peons would say, “El Halcón! the friend of the lowly, of all who are wronged or sorrow or are oppressed. El Halcón, who walks in the shadow of God’s hand!”

      And Walt Slade felt he could presume to no higher accolade than that.

      Sheriff Carter circulated for some time before returning to the table. Drawing up his chair, he beckoned a waiter and ordered a couple of snorts.

      “Well, I think I learned something,” he said. “Seems those six jiggers came in and lined up at the bar. Civil spoken and quiet and looked to be well behaved. After a bit a couple of them started watching a poker game and were invited to sit in. There were a couple of tinhorns in that game who’ve been hanging around here for a spell, and I’ve a notion one of ’em did pull something off-color. Anyhow, a row started and guns began to smoke. Swivel-eye Sanders, the owner, told me that one of the men at the bar, a big, tall and broad jigger with bright black eyes, did most of the shooting. Swivel-eye said he never saw such gun handling. Said it looked like to him that the big feller didn’t shoot to kill, just to cripple.”

      “A wounded man can kick up more confusion than a dead one,” Slade interpolated. “And throw more folks off balance.”

      “Guess that’s right,” the sheriff agreed. “Well, Swivel-eye said the big feller let out a beller and all six headed for the door, shooting over their shoulders. Guess everybody was too busy ducking to shoot back much. Out they went and piled onto their bronks, still shooting back over their shoulders. I got here just about then and cut loose with my scattergun, but the range was over-great for a sawed-off and I reckon I didn’t do much good. Those two tinhorns, incidentally, after Doc Beard patched ’em up, they didn’t come back here. Which makes me think they really did do a little chore of cold-deckin’. They picked the wrong crowd to try and slide one over on. What do you think?”

      “I think,” Slade replied slowly, “that it really was Sosna and some of his bunch; that shooting only to wound sounds like a bit of the Sosna quick thinking—he always seems to do the right thing. Did Swivel-eye or anybody mention what the others of the bunch looked like?”

      “Uh-huh, the bartender said they struck him as having Indian blood.”

      Slade nodded. “Some of the Comancheros, I’ve a notion,” he said. “Most all of them have a dash of Comanche.”

      “And the Comanches are the toughest and smartest of the Texas Indians,” growled the sheriff. “Mean Indian and mean white! What a combination!”

      “Yes, they seem to have inherited all the vices and none of the virtues of both races,” Slade commented. Suddenly a thought struck him.

      “I believe you mentioned the big fellow shouting an order,” he remarked.

      “Uh-huh, Swivel-eye said he let out a beller,” the sheriff nodded.

      “Call Swivel-eye over,” Slade suggested. “I’d like to ask him a question or two.”

      Carter stood up, caught the owner’s attention and beckoned.

      Sanders, big and bony and burly, lumbered over to the table and Slade realized how he came by his peculiar nickname. His eyes were quite remarkable. One eyelid hung continually lower than the other, thus lending to his otherwise rather saturnine face an air of droll and unexpected waggery. He seemed to glower with one eye and leer jocosely with the other. But he had a good nose and his mouth was well shaped. Slade figured him to be okay.

      “This gent would like to ask you a question, Swivel,” said the sheriff.

      “Shoot,” replied Swivel, one eye regarding Slade seriously, the other with whimsical humor.

      “Mr. Sanders,” Slade said, “I believe you mentioned to Sheriff Carter that you heard the tall member of the bunch who started the trouble here shouting an order to the others. Do you recall anything peculiar about his voice?”

      “Yes, I did,” Swivel-eye conceded. “Sorta unusual voice—sounded like it had bells in it.”

      “Thank you,” Slade said and did not comment further.

      “I’ll send over a snort,” said Swivel-eye and headed back to the far end of the bar.

      “Well?” the sheriff asked, gazing curiously at El Halcón.

      “It was Sosna, all right,” Slade said. “He has the kind of a voice that once you hear you never forget. Swivel-eye described it quite aptly when he said it sounded like it had bells in it. It does have bell tones. Yes, as I said before, that antic, if it’s the right word for it, had the Sosna touch.”

      Just about that time, had the sheriff and Slade known it, another “antic” was building up that most certainly had the Sosna touch.

      THREE

      A STAGE COACH ran from Tascosa to Amarillo—Tascosa, the former “Cowboy Capital of the Plains,” before the hoped-for railroad bypassed it. A dying town that before many years would be little more than a memory.

      But Tascosa wasn’t dead yet, quite a ways from it, and its shops and saloons still did plenty of business. In consequence, the stage often packed quite a considerable sum of money in a locked strongbox, bound for an Amarillo bank.

      With the Canadian Valley, a terrain favorable to the depredations of outlaws, crossed without mishap, and Amarillo not many miles ahead, the stage rolled along blithely, approaching one of the few stands of thick chaparral, with occasional trees, that flanked the trail. Beyond the chaparral was the open, treeless prairie.

      On the high seat, an alert guard sat beside the driver, shotgun across his knees. A rifle leaned against the driver’s knee. Both were conscious of the strongbox inside the locked coach; there were no passengers today, but that strongbox packed a hefty sum of dinero. Now, however, nearing Amarillo as they were, guard and driver relaxed a bit,