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

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СКАЧАТЬ cart drivers, the Texans his outriders,” Bert said. “Reckon they ain’t feeling very happy over what happened. Vergara was a good man to work with and was popular with the carters and riders. Could be trouble in here before the night is over.”

      Slade was inclined to agree and watched the group closely.

      “Oh, good gosh!” Bert suddenly exclaimed. “Here comes the Cross W bunch; must have been holed up someplace else. Now look out!”

      The newcomers, seven in number, were young, swaggering, and boisterous and appeared the worse for wear from having looked upon the wine when it was red or some other color. They made their way to the bar not far from where the carters stood and ordered drinks. Now Slade watched both groups.

      Nobody, except Walt Slade, seemed to know just how the fight started. Later, the carters swore they didn’t start it. The cowboys maintained just as vigorously that they didn’t start it. Anyhow, somebody hit somebody and the ruckus was on, to the accompaniment of shouts, curses, screams from the dance-floor girls, soothing yells from the bartenders. Tables were overturned, chairs smashed, bottles and glasses broken. It was a wild melee of hitting, wrestling, kicking, and gouging.

      “Keep out of it,” Slade snapped to Bert. “They won’t do one another much damage and Hardrock and his floor men will soon break it up.”

      Bert, who had started to rise, settled back in his chair.

      Slade, whose eyes were everywhere, saw the three men edging swiftly toward the swinging doors. He saw their eyes glint in his direction. Two barged through the doors. The third whirled toward him, his hand streaking to his holster. Slade went sideways out of his chair, drew and shot in a single ripple of motion. There was a howl of pain and a gun clattered to the floor. Its owner dived for the outside. Slade blasted three more slugs into the swinging doors and bounded across the room, gun ready for instant action.

      But there were excited and bewildered men in his way, an overturned table and a smashed chair. By the time he reached the door and peered cautiously out, there was nobody in sight. He turned back to the rising tumult of the saloon.

      The fighting had stopped for the moment but seemed likely to resume at any instant. Slade’s great voice rolled in thunder through the room, striking all to silence.

      “Stop it! We’ve had enough foolishness for one night!” The muzzle of his cocked Colt gestured to the carters and the cowhands.

      “You fellows get back to the bar and behave yourselves,” he told them in tones like steel grinding on ice. “Do you understand?”

      Under the threat of that rock-steady muzzle, with the terrible eyes of El Halcón behind it, they understood. Both groups, muttering and growling but making no further hostile move, shuffled to the bar. Slade holstered his gun, returned to the table, and began rolling a cigarette. Bert gazed at him, and the young deputy appeared slightly dazed.

      “That hellion you winged made a try for you, didn’t he,” he stated rather than asked.

      “He did,” Slade replied, finishing his brain tablet without spilling a crumb of tobacco and touching a match to it. “Guess he was a mite slow, though.”

      “He didn’t ’pear slow to me,” Bert declared. “But you made him look slow as a snail climbing a slick log. Gentlemen, hush! Now I believe it.”

      “Believe what?” Slade asked.

      “ ‘The fastest gunhand in the whole Southwest,’” Bert quoted. “Yep, I was sorta wonderin’, but I ain’t anymore. Gentl-l-lmen, hush!”

      Slade smiled. “Go over there and see if you can find his iron,” he directed. “I think it’s on the floor somewhere close to the door.”

      Bert did so, returning a moment later with the drygulcher’s gun, or what was left of it, one butt plate being missing and the lock smashed by Slade’s bullet.

      “Blood spots on the floor, too,” he announced. “Reckon you took part of his hand off.”

      “I thought I winged him, not seriously, however, from the way he skalleyhooted,” Slade said as he examined the damaged gun.

      Hardrock Hogan came over to the table; his face was serious.

      “Mr. Slade, it looks like you made some enemies today,” he said as he settled his ponderous bulk in a chair. “Possibly,” El Halcón conceded.

      “I saw what happened,” Hardrock said. “Happened to look toward the door right at that minute. Do you figure that fight was staged as a cover-up?”

      “It was,” Slade replied, “but not by the carters or the Cross W bunch. I saw one of those sidewinders hit one of the Cross W hands from behind. He naturally figured it was one of the carters and swung on the one nearest. I didn’t realize what it meant, at first, thinking it was just an over-zealous amigo of the carters perhaps resenting something that was said. But when the three of them headed for the door once the ruckus was under way, I thought it looked a mite funny and watched them.”

      Hardrock shook his head in wordless admiration. “I think you should have another drink,” he said. “I’ll send one over before I help the boys clean up that mess of busted furniture. I oughta make the hellions pay for it, but I won’t.”

      “I think I’d prefer a cup of coffee, thank you,” Slade answered.

      Hardrock snorted. “Okay, okay,” he said. “If I was in your place right now, I’d hanker for a double snort to stop me shakin’.”

      He lumbered off to the kitchen, still wagging his big head. Bert chuckled.

      “I watched you roll that cigarette,” he remarked. “You sure weren’t doing any shaking I could spot. Haven’t you any nerves at all? Right now I’m still jumpy as a rabbit in a hounddog’s mouth. Here comes Crane.”

      The sheriff came hurrying across the room, his face mirroring concern.

      “I’d stopped at Stampler’s place for a minute,” he explained. “Heard there was trouble over here and a shooting. Knew darn well you were mixed up in it some way. What happened?”

      Slade told him. The sheriff swore. “Figure it was somebody with a grudge against El Halcón?”

      “Could be, of course, but somehow I don’t think so,” Slade replied. “Remember, there were five men chasing Vergara. I met two men riding the other way and presume they were part of the bunch that killed Vergara. For some reason two returned to the canyon, perhaps to get rid of the body, or possibly ‘discover’ it. If so, that would leave three unaccounted for. I feel that the three continued to town. There’s just a chance that the three who attempted to drygulch me are the identical three. After listening to Hardrock tell the story of what happened in the canyon, they may have decided that I should be eliminated. Just conjecture, of course, but that’s the way I’m inclined to view the incident.”

      “Think you would recognize those three horned toads if you happened to see them again?” Crane asked.

      “I would,” Slade answered. “However, I’m of the notion that they’ll steer clear of me for a while, realizing that I would very likely recognize them.”

      “Or wait for СКАЧАТЬ