Gunsmoke over Texas (14 page)

Slade never quite lost consciousness. Numb, dazed, his whole left side seemingly paralyzed by the terrific blow of the creasing bullet, he clung tenaciously to the pommel, leaning against his shivering horse while the hot sand drifted down in clouds.

H
OW LONG HE STOOD THERE
, Walt Slade never knew; but when his senses began functioning something like normal, his hat brim was sagging with the weight of the accumulated sand. The numbed fingers of his left hand still gripped his empty gun. He holstered it and with trembling fingers traced a ragged furrow just above his left temple, from which blood still oozed sluggishly. He shook some of the sand from his hat and glanced about dazedly. Nearby was something vague and distorted in the shadows, which he finally recognized as Ballard’s sorrel horse. But all around him save for the moan and roar of the wind and the whispering of the sands was a vast silence.

Deciding he could stand without support he released his hold on the saddle horn and after a moment of uncertain weaving stumbled forward, reeling but keeping his feet till he fell over some object. Doggedly he got to his hands and knees and saw what had tripped him was the body of a man already partially mounded over. He scraped away some of the sand and peered into Wade Ballard’s dead face. In death it looked strangely peaceful, the shadow of his perpetual smile still on his lips. Slade experienced a feeling of regret that a man of such ability had ridden a crooked trail to die in the lonely wasteland. He wondered dully if he could pack the body to town and give it a decent burial, but realized it was impossible; a deadly nausea was sweeping over him, his head was pounding, his eyes refusing to focus properly. He struggled to his feet and stumbled to where his horse stood. After several unsuccessful tries he managed to climb into the saddle. He turned and called to Ballard’s horse, his voice a mere rasping croak. The exhausted animal followed, shambling after Shadow.

The details of that frightful ride remained forever blurred and unreal to Walt Slade. At times he knew he was muttering and gabbling with delirium. Twice he started to slide from the saddle and only saved himself by a frantic clutch at the horn. Finally he leaned forward onto the horse’s neck and twined his fingers into the coarse hair of its mane.

He was aroused from the deadly apathy by the clash of Shadow’s irons on stone. He raised his head and saw a huge dark mass looming before him. It was the wall of the mesa rising from the desert floor. And here the air was a bit clearer, the heat not quite so intense. His mind cleared somewhat. Which way should he turn to reach the trail and the only way to the crest? After a moment of deliberation, his plainsman’s instinct told him to turn to the left. Hugging the jagged wall, he sent the tired horse forward, the sorrel lurching along behind. After what seemed an eternity he saw the gray ribbon of the trail winding up the slope. A few more minutes and they were in clear air and Slade revived quickly, He knew that a little stream meandered across the mesa not far from its lip, and made for it. The horses, scenting the water, quickened their pace to a shambling trot. They reached the creek bank and thrust their noses into the water. Slade tumbled from the saddle and drank all he dared. He forced the animals away from the stream, removed the bits and allowed them to graze. After a while he permitted them more water and drank a little more himself. Then he bandaged his wounded head and his bullet-cut arm.

“Okay, fellers,” he told the horses, “let’s head for where we can get some real chuck.”

Mounting Shadow he rode to Weirton and a livery stable where with the help of a keeper he gave both animals a good rubdown.

“Let them have some oats and water with a little whiskey in it,” he directed. “I’ll be back for mine after a while.”

“Okay, Ranger,” the keeper answered, gazing curiously at the star on Slade’s breast. “Hardly anybody left in town right now; they’re all up at the oil strike on Tom Mawson’s land. Understand there’s a gusher what is a gusher up there.”

Feeling uncommonly hungry, Slade repaired to the Black Gold, which he found practically deserted, and ordered a meal. He was eating when old Tom Mawson came hurrying in, his face anxious. He raised a shout of relief when he spied Slade.

“Been looking for you all over,” he said. “I figured maybe you’d be down this way. What the devil happened?”

Slade told him, briefly, for he was very tired and didn’t feel much like talking. Old Tom listened, shaking his head and tugging his mustache.

“The noise the well made coming in woke everybody up,” he said. “We hustled down there and found the bodies of Richardson and Persinger. They were sort of busted up by stuff that fell on them but we saw the bullet holes and knew you must have had a showdown with them. All the oilmen are up there trying to cap the well. I never heard such cussing. The boys and everybody else who can get hold of a pick or a shovel are building a reservoir to hold the oil that’s spilling all over the place. She’s sure a whizzer. Bob Kent says he never saw anything like it. Looks like you were right on all counts.”

“I reckon,” Slade smiled wearily. “Now I’m heading for the ranchhouse and bed. I feel as if I’d been drug through a knothole and hung on a barbed wire fence to dry.”

On the way home they paused at the spouting well, where the blaspheming riggers were toiling furiously to anchor the cap valve while a swarm of willing workers labored to deepen and widen and embank the reservoir that received the overflow.

“We’ll have her under control before dark,” said oil-smeared Bill Ayers. “She’s a lulu just as I always said she’d be when she came in.” Quales grinned and winked at Slade.

“And now, son, I suppose you’ll be pulling out,” remarked old Tom as they rode away. “You sure did a wonderful chore down here. Everybody was out gunning for everybody else and trouble in every direction. Now everybody’s working together and plumb peaceful. Wade Ballard’s got himself a nice cozy resting place under the sand and Richardson and Persinger will be planted tomorrow. Yes, a mighty good chore. I heard today the railroad has already started building south and Weirton Valley and everybody aims to be happy and prosperous. We’ll sure hate to see you go. But we won’t say good-bye, we’ll just say
hasta luego
, like the Mexicans do.”

“Yes,” Slade nodded, “till we meet again!”

“What about the drillers and riggers who worked for Richardson?” Mawson asked.

“I figure they were just hired hands and didn’t take a really active part in the trouble,” Slade replied. “Put them to work and forget about them.”

“Yep, that’s a good notion,” agreed old Tom. “That’s just what I’ll do.”

Two days later Walt Slade rode away from the Walking M. “I’ve got to get back to the post and report to Captain McNelty,” he told Mary. “The chances are he’ll have another little chore lined up for me by the time I get there.”

On the rimrock he pulled Shadow to a halt and for some moments sat gazing back toward where Weirton huddled beneath its smoke cloud. All around the town stretched the emerald and amethyst billows of the rangeland. In its beauty Walt Slade envisioned a promise of peace, prosperity and content.

El Halcon smiled and turned away. Along the crest of the hills he rode, his eyes dream-filled, to where duty, danger and new adventure waited.

THE END.

This edition published by
Prologue Books
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.prologuebooks.com

Copyright © 1956 by Leslie Scott. Copyright © renewed 1984 by Lily Scott. Published by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency. All rights reserved.

Cover Images ©123RF/Alan Poulson

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 10: 1-4405-4967-2
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4967-0
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4965-6
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4965-6