Gunsmoke Talk: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott
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of the small saloon owners in El Paso have been approached,” Slade said.
“So I heard, in a roundabout way,” replied Serby. “But I can’t get anybody to admit it. I do know that in one place down by the river a row started just about closing time and the joint was virtually wrecked. A bartender shot. It was rumored that the owner had been sounding off against the Starlight Riders and saying what he would do to them if they tried to hold him up for protection money. As to that, I can’t say for sure, but it sounds sorta reasonable. No, we’ve never had anything of the kind hereabouts so far as I ever heard. It’s got me buffaloed.”
“Not here, perhaps,” Slade conceded, “but it is not new to the West. Take the Brocius gang over in Arizona, for example. With a tight organization and some political pull, they worked it for quite a while. The ranchers of the section paid for protection, or else. No, in one form or another, it is not new. The Doc Skurlock and the Bowdrie outfits plied the same trade, and some mighty big owners came across to safeguard their stock. Handled expertly, there’s more dishonest money in it than an occasional stage or bank robbery provide. Hundreds of farmers, grape growers and small owners in the valley and over to the east. With each paying, the take could be mighty big.”
“No argument there,” agreed Serby.
Slade was silent for a few moments, then he asked, “Any notion where their headquarters is?”
“I’ve a notion,” Serby replied, “that it might be in El Paso. Can’t say for sure. We’ve got a pretty good-sized town, you know, with comings and goings and new faces showing all the time. The hellions could squat right under my nose, and I wouldn’t know it. Chances are they have a hole-up somewhere in the hills, too, but I got a hunch that whoever directs operations hangs out in El Paso most of the time.”
“Logical to agree you’re right,” Slade conceded.
“I think I’ll have a bite to eat, and then we’ll give those carcasses a once-over,” Serby said.
“A good notion,” Slade agreed. He smoked and sipped coffee while the sheriff put away a hefty surrounding. Then they repaired to the stable.
Serby’s examination of the bodies was productive of no results. He could not recall ever seeing them in life. Which, however, Slade did not consider remarkable. He repeated Cardena’s opinion that the unsavory pair had visited his cantina.
“Looks like the devils might aim to branch out a bit,” the sheriff ’lowed, with which Slade was in agreement.
Motioning the stablekeeper to cover the bodies, Serby glanced at his watch.
“There’s a passenger-and-freight due here from the east at about five-thirty,” he announced. “I think I’ll have them loaded on that for El Paso. Suppose the coroner will want to hold an inquest tomorrow. You and Cardena had oughta be there; if you can make it.”
Slade arrived at a sudden decision. “Tell you what,” he said, “perhaps you can arrange to have a stall car hooked onto that rattler to accommodate my horse. If you can, I’ll ride with you on the train. Imagine Cardena will go along, too.”
“I figure I can do it,” replied Serby. “I’ll wire Alpine, and I expect they can arrange for a stock car at Van Horn. I know the division superintendent at Alpine. Yep, I’ve a notion I can do it. Let’s head for the railroad station.”
With the aid of a couple of messages back and forth, the arrangements were completed. After which they returned to the cantina to consult with Cardena, who had just arrived on the job.
“Sure I’ll go along,” the mayor said. “Wouldn’t mind having a night in the big town. Anyhow, it’s big when compared to Clint. Five-thirty, you say? I’ll line things up here and be ready. Sit down and take it easy for a while; I’ll send over drinks.”
“They don’t come any better’n Tomas,” said Serby. “A plumb gentleman and a fine judge of wine and whiskey.”
“Of coffee, too,” added Slade, taking a sip.
The combination train arrived on time. Shadow, who was an old hand at rail travel, did not object to being loaded into the stall car and provided with a helping of oats. Slade, Cardena and the sheriff took seats in the coach behind the express car, which was next to the engire. The bell rang, the exhaust boomed and the train headed for El Paso. The three companions smoked and talked. The combination was not noted for speed and would take nearly an hour to complete the twenty-odd mile run to El Paso.
Sunset was not far off when they passed through Ysleta with a dozen more miles to go, and the shadows were growing long. The locomotive chugged along blithely, picking up a bit of speed.
Suddenly the booming exhaust snapped off. Brake shoes screeched wildly against the wheels. The coach bucked and jumped.
“Hang on!” Slade shouted. “We’re going to hit something!” He gripped the back of the seat in front with all his strength and braced himself.
There was a prodigious crash. The coach leaped in the air, came down with its front wheels off the iron, teetered crazily and came to a grinding halt. The express car was slewed around at a thirty-degree angle.
The coach resounded with the screams of injured and frightened passengers who had been spewed into the aisle Thanks to Slade’s instant grasp of the situation, he and his companions, although badly jolted, remained erect in their seats.
From in front came a squall of steam escaping from broken pipes. The air quivered to a sudden boom which was followed by a crackle of gunfire. Bullets whizzed through the shattered windows.
“It’s a holdup!” bellowed Serby.
5
SLADE LEAPED into the aisle, hurdling the passengers sprawled on the floor, Serby and Cardena floundering after him. He reached the door and whisked out onto the open vestibule. A slug fanned his face.
The next instant he was on the ground, both guns blazing. Yells and curses and a scream of pain arose from the more than half-dozen masked men who had streamed from the brush flanking the right of way. Bullets stormed about Slade. He fired again and again, saw a man fall, a second, a third reel, flounder and slump to the ground.
Now Sheriff Serby was in action. A fourth raider fell. The three who remained on their feet whirled and streaked back into the brush. Slade’s gun hammers clicked on empty shells.
Reloading as he ran, he sped down the low embankment and raced to the brush, but as he reached it he heard a clatter of hoofs drumming away. By the time he had forced his way through the chaparral, the three wreckers had disappeared from sight.
“The blankety-blanks!” raved the sheriff, who was crowding behind him. “I wonder if they killed anybody?”
“May have,” Slade answered as he led the way back to the train. “Locomotive’s turned over, and I think they threw dynamite against the express car door. We’ll see.”
A scene of wildest confusion greeted their eyes as they emerged from the brush and met Cardena who, though unarmed, was coming looking for them. Yelling and cursing men were streaming from the coaches. The shrieks of frightened women filled the air, with the bellowing of escaping steam adding to the bedlam.
The locomotive lay on its side. The express car was jammed sideways against the tender. All about were scattered boulders and crossties that had been heaped on the track just beyond the apex of a curve.
Slade hurried anxiously to the overturned engine. His fears for the engine crew were relieved when he saw both engineer and fireman, burned and bleeding, but alive and out of the smoldering cab.
The conductor came loping forward, bleeding from a cut head but able to swear fluently.
“Did you get the rest of the blankety-blanked hellions?” he shouted. “No? Well, anyhow you did a prime job on four of them. They’ll never wreck another train!”
“How about the express messenger?” Slade asked.