Death's Corral: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott
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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.”
“You make a good case for Webb and his hellions,” Arista sighed. “But I fear I’ll have difficulty altering my opinion.”
“That’s your privilege, but to voice your opinion without a foundation of fact is an abuse of that privilege,” Slade instantly retorted.
Arista looked bewildered and apparently at a loss about how to reply. The sheriff created a diversion.
“Like to take a look at what’s left of poor Vergara?” he asked.
“Yes, I would,” Arista replied, evidently glad of the chance to end a conversation in the course of which his position was becoming more and more untenable.
“I’ll stay here and talk with Bert, if you don’t mind,” Slade said to Crane. He knew very well that Arista was anxious to speak with the sheriff alone and decided to provide him with the opportunity.
“Okay,” said Crane. “See you when we get back—we won’t be gone long.”
Outside, Arista turned to the sheriff. “Know who we’ve been talking with?” he asked.
“Yep,” Crane answered. “Name’s Slade, as I told you—Walt Slade.”
“And he has another name,” Arista remarked meaningly, “El Halcón; I recognized him at once.”
“Guess that’s so,” Crane admitted.
“There are people who say he’s an outlaw,” Arista snapped.
“That so?” the sheriff returned cheerfully. “Ever see a reward notice for him?”
“No, nor anybody else,” Arista exclaimed exasperatedly. “They say he’s too blasted smart to ever get caught. He’s got a lot of killings to his credit.”
“To his credit is right,” replied Crane. “Like the two devils he did for today.”
“How do we know he’s telling a straight story about the killing of Vergara?” Arista demanded.
“Because he told it,” Crane replied, with finality. Arista threw out his hands in an expressive gesture.
“I give up,” he said. “You always seem to know what you’re talking about when it comes to people. I hope you’re not making a mistake this time.”
“I am not,” the sheriff stated. “And Pancho, I’ll tell you something. Walt Slade is a mighty good man to have for you, and a mighty bad one to have against you. Right now I believe he’s for you, so don’t do or say anything that might cause him to change his attitude.”
“All right,” Arista said resignedly. “I’ll tighten the latigo on my jaw and keep my thoughts to myself.”
“A darn good notion,” agreed Crane. “By the way, I believe your cook is a Mexican, ain’t he?”
“He is,” Arista answered. “I never forget that my forebears came from Mexico and I like to provide opportunity where possible for the people from south of the Rio Grande. As you know, I have quite a few Mexicans in my employ. Why did you ask?”
“Because I want you to ask your old cook about El Halcón and listen to what he has to tell you,” Crane replied. “He’s pretty apt to know of El Halcón, and what he has to tell you may surprise you a mite. Okay, here we are.”
A moment