The Hate Trail: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

driver hauled back hard on the reins. Directly in front, the motionless body of a man lay face-downward across the middle of the trail. Nearby stood a saddled and bridled horse that gazed at the prostrate form and held up one foreleg.

      The stage jolted to a halt, the prancing lead horses almost on top of the body. Overhead a tree arched its heavy branches and thick foliage across the trail.

      “Cayuse has a busted leg—must have fallen and pitched the jigger on his head!” the guard exclaimed excitedly. “Looks like his neck’s busted. I’ll—” he glanced up as a slight rustling sounded over his head. An instant too late.

      From the screen of leaves overhead whisked two tight loops. They encircled the shoulders of guard and driver and were instantly jerked taut. The unfortunate pair were snaked from the seat, shotgun and rifle clattering to the ground, and hung yelling and cursing and kicking, but helpless.

      From the encroaching growth bulged three masked men. The “dead man” in the trail leaped erect and also proved to be masked.

      “Stop your blasted kicking and be still if you don’t want to stay still forever,” boomed the taller of the group. The double click of a cocking gun emphasized the order.

      The driver and the guard hung rigid, hardly daring to breathe, swaying gently back and forth like spiders on a web-thread. Two more masked men slid down the tree trunk, chuckling and casting derisive glances at the hogtied pair.

      A couple of shots smashed the stage’s door lock. The strongbox was hauled out. A couple more shots opened it, revealing packets of bills and rolls of gold coin.

      Two of the robbers dashed into the brush to return a few moments later with saddled and bridled horses. The money was transferred to saddle pouches. The “dead man” cut the thin cord that had held up his horse’s front hoof to simulate a broken leg. All six mounted and turned their horses west.

      The tall leader lingered a moment, gazing speculatively at the shivering guard and driver and fingering his cocked gun. Then he uncocked and holstered the iron.

      “Hang aound for a while, gents, and enjoy the scenery,” he said with sardonic humor and galloped after his companions.

      It took the furious pair some little time to free themselves and drop to the ground. They retrieved their fallen arms, climbed onto the seat and, raving and cursing, sent their rifled vehicles roaring to Amarillo.

      Slade and the sheriff were still sitting in the Trail End, discussing cups of steaming coffee, when the driver and guard stormed in and business came to a standstill.

      “The blankety-blank-blanks!” howled the driver. The guard mouthed incoherent profanity.

      “What the devil’s the matter with you two?” shouted the sheriff. “What’s wrong—what happened?”

      The story came out, vividly spiced with cuss words. Sheriff Carter outs wore them both.

      “Did you ever hear tell of such a pair of terrapin-brains?” he demanded of Slade, after he had caught his breath.

      “An old trick, but it works,” the Ranger replied. He turned the full force of his cold gray eyes on the excited pair and they fell silent.

      “How far from Amarillo were you when it happened?” he asked.

      “Just a few miles,” replied Prate, the driver. “Took us less than half an hour to get here; we came fast.”

      “But not fast enough so far as you’re concerned, I’d say,” Slade remarked to the sheriff. “If they headed west, they’re in Oldham County by now, the chances are. So I guess you’d better wire ahead and send word to Sheriff Davenport telling him what happened and to be on the lookout for the hellions. Not that it’s likely to do him much good; chances are they’ll slide into the Canadian Valley and make for a hole-up somewhere. Sosna knows the Valley like the palm of his hand.”

      “I’m sure hoping for a chance to get my hands on him,” growled the sheriff, “It happened in my bailwick.”

      “Maybe you will,” Slade comforted him.

      “Any notion how much they got?” he asked the driver.

      “I don’t know, but I figure it was plenty,” Prate replied.

      “Shipment to the bank here?”

      “That’s right.”

      “Better notify the bank officials, too, without delay,” Slade said to Carter.

      “I will,” replied the sheriff. “Come along with me?”

      “If you wish me to,” Slade agreed, rising to his feet.

      “Take care of you later, Swivel,” the sheriff said. They left the saloon together.

      “Say, who is that big feller?” asked Prate, the driver, as he accepted a drink. “He seemed to take charge of things right off, told Carter what to do and everything.”

      “Don’t you know?” asked Swivel, glowering with one eye and leering with the other. “That’s El Halcón, the outlaw.”

      “Huh!”

      “That’s right,” said Swivel. “The notorious El Halcón. Looks like a hawk, don’t he? Like one of those big gray mountain devils that’ll give an eagle his comeuppance. Yep, name sorta fits him.”

      “But how come him and Sheriff Carter are so chummy, if he’s an outlaw?” demanded Prate.

      “Oh, Slade—that’s his name, Walt Slade—always takes sheriffs in tow,” Swivel explained airily. “Reckon they figure it’s best to have him close so they can keep an eye on him.”

      Outside the saloon the sheriff paused, glancing questioningly at Slade.

      “Telegraph office first,” the Ranger decided. “Then we’ll visit the bank president or cashier and notify them of what happened.”

      The message for Sheriff Davenport of Oldham County was sent.

      “May be an answer,” Slade said to the operator. “If so, hold it for the sheriff.”

      Next they repaired to the home of the bank president, on Pierce Street. That official did a very good job of swearing himself, for a bank president, when informed of what had happened.

      “The so-and-so’s made a good haul,” he growled. “I can’t say as to the exact amount, but there must have been something between thirty and forty thousand dollars in that box, judging from what’s usually sent to us.”

      “Insured?” Slade asked. The banker nodded.

      “We won’t lose anything, but it’ll hit the express company hard,” he said. “Up will go their premiums. Maybe the insurance people will drop them and they’ll have trouble getting another to take them on. What you going to do about it, Carter?”

      “I’m hanged if I know, Bob,” the sheriff replied wearily. “It happened in Potter County, but Slade here is of the opinion that by now they are over in Oldham County and perhaps down in the Canadian Valley.”

      The banker shot Slade a shrewd glance. “That’s the way you figure it, eh?” he asked.

      “I’m not committing myself absolutely,” the Ranger replied quietly. “I merely voiced an opinion, a little while ago.”

      “Hmmm!” said the bank president. “And you might possibly change your opinion?”

      “Not beyond the realm of possibility,” Slade conceded. Another shrewd glance from the banker, but when he spoke it was to the sheriff.

      “Got a notion it wouldn’t be a bad idea to listen to him, Brian,” he said. “Got a notion.”

      The sheriff nodded but did not further commit himself one way or the other.

      Outside the banker’s residence