Death's Corral: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

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      “Interesting,” Slade commented, his eyes thoughtful.

      “And darn irritatin’,” Crane growled. “Well, here’s our helpin’; let’s eat.”

      A period of busy silence followed. Finally the sheriff pushed back his empty plate with a sigh of satisfaction. Slade ordered more coffee and rolled a cigarette.

      “Imagine the carting business is lucrative, is it not?” he observed.

      “You’re darn right it is,” Crane replied. “They’re doing all right by themselves, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they do a little offhand smuggling on the side, which also helps. Yep, it’s a worthwhile business.”

      “Then doubtless some of the carts at times pack a valuable cargo easily disposed of,” Slade pursued. Crane nodded.

      “So,” the Ranger remarked, “it wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility that your bunch might make a try for the carts.”

      “Guess so,” agreed Crane, “but it would take considerable doing to pull it off; would have to be a mighty slick scheme. Those carts are guarded by outriders who are always on their toes. Say, there comes one of my deputies; can use him about now.”

      He beckoned to the tall young man who had just pushed through the swinging doors. Slade ordered a drink.

      The deputy came over and joined them, accepting the drink with thanks.

      “Slade, this is Bert Ratcliff,” the sheriff introduced. “Bert, when you finish your snort, go try and locate Pancho Arista and bring him here. Tell him it’s important.”

      “Certain,” replied Ratcliff. He tossed off his drink, nodded to Slade, and departed.

      “Arista has got to know about what happened to Vergara, and the sooner the better,” Crane said. “He’s going to hit the ceiling, but I hope I can quiet him down. Pretty sure you can.”

      “I’ll try,” Slade promised.

      Sheriff Crane’s brow was furrowed and he kept shooting glances to all parts of the room.

      “Trying to spot an outlaw?” Slade asked jokingly.

      “You’ve got me all confused with your talk of outlaws not looking like outlaws,” complained the sheriff.

      “Well,” Slade said, “I’ve sure known quite a few who didn’t. For example, over at El Paso, a few months back, I had a set-to with one that looked anything but an outlaw and yet he was one of the coldest killers I ever contacted. Called himself Juan Covelo, although his real name was Hansen, Gus Hansen. Built up the Covelo myth and had everybody in the section jumpy. Quiet, well-spoken, fine-looking. As Hansen, he ran a respectable saloon and restaurant; as Covelo he robbed and murdered. Seemed to take pleasure in killing. His father was a Scandinavian seaman, his mother the daughter of a Yaqui chief. He inherited his fair complexion, yellow hair and very dark blue eyes from his father. As Covelo, he wore a hooded cloak to hide his yellow hair and make his blue eyes appear black. So everybody was looking for a swarthy, black-haired, black-eyed half Yaqui. Took me quite a while to catch on to him. With the aid of Sheriff Arch Hart of El Paso County, I managed to clean out his bunch, but Covelo gave me the slip. Dived off a cliff into a creek and swam in the clear. And I’m ready to wager that right now he’s operating somewhere. No one would think, to look at him and observe his attitude, that he was an outlaw, but he is, one of the worst Texas has ever known. In fact, there was only one thing about him that might be considered off-color. When something riled him, to employ the expression of one of Hart’s deputies, his eyes were like the eyes of a mad cat. Which of course could mean no more than that he had an ungovernable temper.”

      “And he’s unfinished business for you, eh?”

      “That’s right,” Slade conceded.

      “Well, by the time you’re through with him he’ll be ‘finished’ business, I’ll bet on that,” declared Crane. “I ain’t forgot Veck Sosna, the panhandle owlhoot. He was unfinished business, for a while.”

      “But sometimes I think Covelo is worse than Sosna was—more brains,” Slade remarked gloomily. “Oh, well, you can’t win ’em all.”

      “Never heard of you losin’ any,” chuckled the sheriff. “Hello! Bert worked fast. Here he comes with Arista.”

      Pancho Arista was a strikingly handsome man. Tall, broad-shouldered, he had black hair streaked with gray, piercing black eyes, and a firm but kindly mouth. His eyes widened slightly as they rested on Slade’s face, but he acknowledged the sheriff’s introduction with a courtly bow. When he spoke it was in colloquial English without a trace of accent.

      “Understand you have something to tell me, Tom,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

      “Sit down, Pancho,” the sheriff replied. “I’m scairt I’ve got bad news for you. No sense in beating about the bush—Rafael Vergara was killed today.”

      Arista’s eyes widened, he looked dazed.

      “Killed!” he repeated. “Where . . . why . . . how. . . .”

      The sheriff gestured to Slade. “You tell him, Walt,” he suggested.

      Slade did so briefly, but omitting no detail. Arista’s face flushed darkly, his eyes glared.

      “The Cross W hellions!” he spat. “Could have been nobody else! I’ll—”

      “Mr. Arista!” Slade interrupted. The carter jumped in his chair at the change of his voice. “Mr. Arista, it is not commendable for a man of your standing in the community to make wild and unfounded charges. No matter what you may think because you have had a difference with the Cross W, there is not one iota of proof that the Cross W had anything to do with Vergara’s killing; and unless those bodies are recognized as former members of the outfit, or some unexpected development occurs, there will still be no proof of guilt against the Cross W.”

      “But if not the Cross W, who?” countered Arista. “I have no enemies capable of such a deed.”

      “Vergara was killed, not you,” Slade pointed out. “Vergara may have had enemies unbeknownst to you. It is seldom, no matter how closely one may be associated with another, that one knows all the details of the other’s private life. There are many ways in which a man may make enemies. Sometimes because of a business deal in which the other party feels he has been taken unfair advantage of. Sometimes through a difference of personal opinion, or a misunderstood act. Mr. Arista, I would like to ask you a question. Answer or not, as you choose: did Vergara possibly carry a large sum of money?”

      Arista hesitated and glanced at the sheriff, who nodded.

      “It is possible that he did,” he admitted. “He rode to Stockton to contact certain buyers and it is not illogical to believe that he made some collections.”

      “I see,” Slade nodded. “And the chances are he would have packed the money in his saddle pouches. And, as I said, his horse was nowhere in evidence. So robbery must not be ruled out as a motive. This, I gather, would tend to eliminate the Cross W outfit as suspects.”

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