Curse of Texas Gold: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ target below. Again he saw a man leap sharply in his saddle and knew he had scored another hit. But before he could line sights a third time, the group sent their horses charging around a bulge of the canyon wall and were out of sight.

      “Guess that will even up for peppering me with hunks of rock!” El Halcon growled as he lowered the smoking Winchester. “Don’t know what this is all about, but gents who throw lead take the chance of getting some thrown back.”

      For long minutes Slade stood with his gaze fixed on the bulge, but the dark edge discovered nothing of movement. Evidently the horsemen had kept going, with two of their members winged but not seriously.

      “What the devil is this all about?” Slade wondered aloud.

      Neither Shadow nor a querulous crow circling about overhead was able to answer the question. Slade glanced at the sun, then into the shadowy gorge which grew less shadowy as the sun climbed the long slant of the eastern sky. Coming to a decision, he mounted Shadow and rode swiftly down the trail. He had to back-track almost five miles before he could enter the canyon. The semblance of a trail snake-slithered among the rocks and straggles of growth. Slade followed its tortuous course and finally reached the wrecked wagon.

      The vehicle was smashed to splinters, the horses to pulp. All around, the ground was littered with beans, flour and grain spilled from the burst sacks. To all appearances the wagon had been packing provisions, probably to some outlying ranch. But Slade suspected it had also packed something else decidedly more valuable.

      The bodies of the unfortunate occupants of the wagon were battered almost beyond human resemblance, but not battered enough to obliterate the bullet holes puncturing the chest of each. Slade was of the opinion that they were dead when they went over the cliff, which under the circumstances was a merciful blessing. Gazing at the horribly disfigured faces, he strove to reconstruct the tragedy.

      The rifleman who had tried to kill him had ridden along the rimrock cresting the far wall of the canyon, from where he had a clear view of the trail. With three accurately placed shots he had killed the wagon’s occupants. The driver had not yet set the brakes before dipping down the steeper grade. The wagon rolled against the wheelers and set them running, which was very likely what the drygulcher figured they would do and had held his fire till just the right instant. Meanwhile the group in the canyon had ridden for the hairpin turn which they knew the uncontrolled equipage would never take. The drygulcher riding the rimrock had spotted him, Slade, at about the same time the bunch in the canyon did and had cut loose on him with his rifle. Fortunately, opposite the bulge the canyon widened considerably and his aim wasn’t quite good enough.

      The important question, to Slade’s mind, was why had the bunch wanted to send the wagon off the cliff, which they indubitably planned to do? Seeking the answer, he went over the canyon floor with the greatest care, following a widening circle with the wreckage its center. After some minutes of searching he unearthed a smashed rifle and an equally smashed sawed-off shotgun. The picture was beginning to clear up.

      All three dead men were armed with six-guns that had remained in their holsters despite the fall. The additional weapons indicated that the wagon had been manned by a driver and two guards. Undoubtedly it had packed something of value, probably a gold shipment from Sotol consigned to Boraco, the railroad town.

      Slade turned out the dead men’s pockets in hope of finding some clue as to what the wagon had carried, but he discovered nothing of value. Replacing the various articles, he mounted Shadow and rode across the canyon, splashing through a small stream that ran down its center, and approached the west wall. Here he dismounted and after more searching located the body of the drygulcher. It was not pretty to look at after its nearly a thousand-foot tumble.

      The man’s face was too badly marred to retain any significant features or expression. All Slade was able to learn was that he was short and slightly built. There was nothing about his nondescript range costume to set the wearer apart from other riders of the prairie or wastelands. Nor did his pockets show anything of significance.

      But the man’s hands interested Slade. By some singular chance they had been neither broken nor badly bruised by the terrible fall. They were smooth, well-kept, the nails delicately pointed. Slade could not be absolutely sure, but he was of the opinion that the fingertips had been rubbed with very fine sandpaper.

      Those hands bespoke a card dealer. The nails carefully pointed to leave an almost impreceptible mark on the back of a card, the sandpapered fingertips sensitive enough to detect the marking as the cards were shuffled and dealt. Yes, beyond dispute, in life the man had been a crooked dealer or gambler. That he also had been a crack shot with a rifle was just as undeniable, as Slade was unpleasantly aware.

      He would have liked very much to get a look at the horse the drygulcher rode, but getting to the rimrock of the west wall was impossible from where he stood, and very likely the cliffs continued to be unclimbable until the hills miles ahead, where the canyon evidently ended, were reached. He dismissed the notion as impractical.

      It would be equally impractical to try and follow the horsemen who had fled the canyon. They would be familiar with whatever ways led through the hills and he was not. Even if he were able to trail them, he could not hope to reach them before dark when everything would be in their favor. Also, as the canyon appeared to run almost due north, it was reasonable to believe that they were headed for Sotol, where perhaps he would run into them again, under more favorable circumstances. He mounted Shadow and rode back to the wagon.

      He did ride up the canyon a short distance and with satisfaction noted an occasional blood spot on the stones. Anyhow, the hellions had something by which to remember him. But the spots were not frequent enough to indicate that the two punctured gents had suffered serious injury. With a last glance at the grisly scene of snake-blooded murder, he rode back down the canyon, regained the Mojo Trail and resumed his interrupted journey to Sotol, the sleepy cowtown that almost overnight had undergone one of those startling metamorphoses peculiar to the Southwest.

       Chapter Three

      FROM WHERE THE CHIHUAHUA TRAIL crossed the old Spanish Trail, northwest to the eastern fringe of the Guadalupe Mountains, is a region that has never been—and doubtless never will be—disturbed by the plough. It is a land of canyon and mesa, of desert and chimney rock. Here the prevailing vegetation is greasewood, coarse chino grass, sotol and other yucca, white and yellow mescal and thorny brush.

      Here, too, however, are great reaches of splendid grazing land where the tall grasses of the prairie region grow, needle and wheat grasses, the coarse bunch grass the Panhandle calls buffalo grass and the curly mesquite rich in the distilled spirit of the blazing Texas sun and the sweet rain of the dry country.

      It is a land of the deer, the javelina, the panther and the bear. It is a land, too, of men, many of whom have gathered unto themselves the attributes of the fierce, wild, treacherous but courageous creatures with whom they share the danger and the beauty, the loneliness and the grandeur of the desolate wastes which are their home.

      It is a land of legends and stories, of lost mines, of fabulous “mother lodes”, of hidden treasure grimly guarded by bones of murdered men. It is the home of the vicious little sidewinder, the pygmy rattlesnake of the desert that strikes without warning, lashing out in the blurry sideways motion from which it gets its name. The home, too, of the giant rattler of the mountains, its cheeks fat with venom that drips like brown ink from its curved fangs. Here is seen the vingaroon, a large whip scorpion that smells like old vinegar when alarmed and which is popularly supposed to be exceedingly venomous, but isn’t. The evil looking little hellion is often the prey of the Gila Monster whose bite really is as poisonous as its orange and black “wampum” coat is beautiful.

      Among СКАЧАТЬ