Bullets for a Ranger: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott
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eggs carefully wrapped against breakage, and coffee, along with a small skillet and a little flat bucket. He recalled that only a couple of hundred yards west of his misadventure with the crows there was a trickle of water running down to the bay. So, very soon coffee was bubbling in the bucket, bacon and eggs sizzling in the skillet—all a man needed to banish the pangs of hunger.
After eating and cleaning up, he enjoyed a leisurely smoke, then took stock of his surroundings.
The thicket grew on the crest of a rise that was in the nature of a broad sand dune, the waters of the bay, now blue and placid, washing the base of its gentle slope some seventy feet lower down. There appeared to be nothing outstanding about the spot except that it afforded a good view for some distance across the bay, also along the trail to the east where it began to curve northward, following the contours of the bay.
He walked east to where the horses of the two night riders had been tethered. Here he discovered a big heap of twigs and dry branches. Looked like the band had planned to light a fire and cook a meal, the chore being assigned to the pair holed up in the thicket.
But why at such an isolated spot exposed to the full fury of the wind? The whole business just didn’t seem to make sense. Of course, there were sheep and cattle ranches farther west, and it seemed that wide-looping of both cows and woollies had been plaguing the section. And a mile or so to the west was a sheltered cove where a small vessel could put in safely when the weather was not too bad. Would have been risky last night, however.
Slade knew that many of the little coastwise ships that plied the bay and often put in at Port Lavaca were not above handling contraband and doing a bit of genteel smuggling on the side. There was nothing new about running wide-looped cows by water, and sheep would be even easier to handle that way. Perhaps that was the answer to the puzzle. He recalled one of the voices mentioning something about a blaze that wasn’t lit. Yes, quite likely that was the explanation. The bunch aimed to eat and hole up here until a bit later, then swoop down on some outlying flock or herd and run a few head to the water’s edge, where they would have been taken aboard by a vessel putting in at a given signal. But they picked one devil of a night to try it.
Well, he had been sent here to run down a few ghosts. Anyhow, he’d made a start, at the expense of a sore head. Two of the devils accounted for. Not so bad for his first twenty-four hours in the section. In a more cheerful frame of mind he got the rig on Shadow and headed for Port Lavaca and a bluff on the west shore of Lavaca Bay, an offshoot of Matagorda.
Where the trail curved to the north, he pulled up a moment and sat gazing at the bay. Here the coast was really bad, studded with jagged rocks, the water swirling and eddying over sunken reefs, currents that for seemingly unexplainable reasons ran in madly from the deep water far out. For several miles it would continue thus, to be replaced gradually by a deep and smooth channel along which a ship could sail safely to Port Lavaca. Where the channel began, the beacon had been lighted the night before, to guide the incoming vessel, warning it to stand well out to sea until the treacherous stretch of coast was passed.
Those currents interested Slade, indicating as they did a peculiar geological formation of some sort.
Shortly before the death of his father, subsequent to financial reversals that entailed the loss of the elder Slade’s ranch, young Walt had graduated from a famous school of engineering. He had planned to take a post-graduate course in special subjects to round out his education and better fit himself for the profession he determined to make his life’s work. This for the time being became impossible, and Slade was at loose ends, undecided as to just what he should do.
Captain Jim McNelty, understanding his predicament, made a suggestion.
“Why not come into the Rangers for a while, Walt,” he said. “You will have plenty of spare time to study. You did all right when you were working with me during summer vacations, and we can use you. What do you say?”
Thinking the matter over, Slade decided the suggestion was a good one. Which it turned out to be. Long since he had gotten more from private study than he could have hoped for from the post-grad, and he was eminently fitted to take up the profession of engineering.
But meanwhile Ranger work had gotten a strong hold on him, and he was reluctant to sever connections with the illustrious body of peace officers. Captain Jim smiled when Slade mentioned the fact, but he held his peace, allowing Walt to make up his own mind.
The final result of considerable soul-searching was Slade’s decision to stick with the Rangers for a while. He was young—plenty of time to become an engineer. Captain Jim smiled again and refrained from comment. He’d made a similar decision himself, long years ago.
Often Slade had found his knowledge of the principles of engineering of value in the course of his Ranger activities and had put it to use. So now he surveyed the turbulent water with the eye of a geologist.
Two currents interested him particularly. One—broad, turbulent, evidently deep—came storming in from the bay. It headed straight for the face of the beetling, clifflike rocks. The other, not far to the west, flowing outward, was much more placid despite the buffeting of the incoming tide.
“Tide’s at flood and this one here is just boiling in, but it doesn’t seem to smash the rocks with the force that would be expected,” he remarked to Shadow, musingly. “Interesting. Well, june along, horse, we’ve got things other than speculation over the vagaries of ocean currents to bother about. Let’s go!”
To the west and north was rangeland, on which herds of cows grazed. This section, not so long before, Slade knew, was part of Shanghai Pierce’s great holdings. Shadow splashed through several shallow bayous. To the west, Slade noted a number of rises, none of them very high, but rugged, with here and there spires of stone.
“Yes, an interesting section, geologically speaking,” he told Shadow. “Much weathered down. In the old days, ages before, when the shore of the bay was farther east, it must have been high and rocky. I’ve a notion that underneath the soil is still the original sedimentary limestone formation, no doubt honey-combed with caves and tunnels which once had openings above ground. Largely conjecture, however, horse, so we won’t bother our heads about it. No concern of ours, anyhow.”
Shadow snorted agreement, as much as to say, “Okay! Okay! But how about a helpin’ of oats before long? I’m more interested in that than limestone caves; oats don’t grow in caves.”
At least that was Slade’s translation of the initial snort, which was followed by a couple more. Who can say he was wrong?
3
IT WAS WELL PAST NOON when El Halcón rode into Port Lavaca, which reeked with the smell of fish and the unsavory aroma of packing houses.
Slade was familiar with the bay town’s colorful history, the present town being on the approximate site of Linnville, which was destroyed by enraged Comanches. Burning with anger over the slaughter of their leaders in the Council House fight in San Antonio, an army of five hundred Indians had laid waste to Victoria and marched on Linnville. The residents, believing them to be Mexican traders, took no precautions until it was too late. But before the town was completely surrounded, they realized what was up and took refuge in a big lighter out on the bay beyond arrow shot. The Indians stole everything they could pack away and burned what they couldn’t, loaded their loot on fifteen hundred captured horses and departed. Later on, Port Lavaca, “Port of the Cow,” rose on the ruins of Linnville.
The town was still a rather important place of entry, but the currents and tides of Matagorda Bay were already slowly choking the channel with silt and destroying the deep water facilities. Port Lavaca would know an era of stagnation until the development of oil and exploitation of recreation facilities would cause it to boom again.
However, it was still plenty lively and still making history when Walt Slade rode in late that beautiful afternoon.
After locating a suitable stable for his horse and making sure all his needs were provided for, Slade headed for the sheriff’s office, hoping that official would be in.
Sheriff Neale Ross was in, dozing comfortably