Bullets for a Ranger: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott
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smacking his lips with appreciation. Slade left his untouched for the moment. His gaze was fixed on a rather striking appearing individual who had just entered.
“That’s Eldon Parr I was telling you about,” said the sheriff.
Eldon Parr was a big man with wide shoulders and abnormally long arms that hung loosely by his sides. He was good-looking in a rugged way, with craggy features, a thin-lipped but well-shaped mouth, and eyes of very light blue. His stride was assured, his bearing also assured, to the verge of arrogance. He wore clean overalls and a blue shirt open at the throat, but, unlike most of the gathering, no gun belt.
As Parr neared the bar, a big cowhand, more than half drunk, detached himself from a group and accosted him. Slade could not hear what was said, but the effect on Parr was galvanic. His hand lashed out, and the flat of it took the cowboy across the mouth, sending him reeling back. He tripped over his own feet, slammed into a table and hit the floor amid a shower of bottles and glasses. Spitting blood and curses, he scrambled to his feet. His right hand flickered down and up; a black muzzle lined with Parr’s chest.
The room echoed to the crash of a shot. The cowboy gave a howl of pain and doubled up, gripping his blood-streaming hand between his knees. His gun, one butt plate knocked off, lay half across the room.
A long-barrelled Colt in each hand, one wisping smoke, Walt Slade swept the suddenly hushed crowd with his cold eyes. After one swift glance he holstered his guns with the same effortless ease with which he had drawn them, sat down and raised his brimming glass to his lips with a hand that did not spill a drop.
Sheriff Ross let out a bellow of wrath. “Parr!” he thundered. “What the blankety-blank-blank do you mean by coming in here and slapping folks around! And as for you, Hodson, you came mighty, mighty close to having a cold-blooded killing to your credit. Parr isn’t even heeled. You’d better both be thanking Slade here for what he saved you from. And if I hear any more out of either of you, I’ll lock you up and throw the key away.”
The words had a cooling effect on the antagonists. Sheriff Neale Ross was a cold proposition and known to be as good as his word.
“Guess you’re right,” groaned the puncher, tenderly cherishing his throbbing hand. “That big feller with you, too. But if you’d had half your teeth knocked loose, you wouldn’t have felt so good, either.” He shot a venomous look at Parr.
“I’m sorry, Hodson,” said the latter. “I shouldn’t have gone off half-cocked; but you shouldn’t have said to me what you did.”
“Guess that’s right,” conceded Hodson. “I’m sorry, too. And if you don’t mind taking the left one—” He held it out, hesitantly. They shook hands.
“That’s better,” said the sheriff.
Doc Price lumbered across to the cowboy. “Let’s have a look at that lunch hook,” he said. “Nothing to it—just a hunk of meat knocked loose. Frog-lip, fetch the bandages and stuff you always keep handy.”
A few minutes later the wound was dressed and bandaged. Somebody handed Hodson his fallen gun. He shook his head sadly over the smashed butt plate and holstered it.
“Both of you have one on the house and forget all about it,” suggested Frog-lip, who was looking Slade up and down.
He saw a tall man, taller even than Eldon Parr, with broad shoulders and a deep chest that slimmed down to a lean, sinewy waist, and a face that went well with the splendid form, a face dominated by long black-lashed eyes of very pale gray, cold but with little devils of laughter lurking in their clear depths. The rather wide mouth, grin-quirked at the corners, relieved somewhat the tinge of fierceness evinced by the prominent, high-bridged nose above and the lean and powerful jaw and chin beneath. The pushed-back “J.B.” revealed crisp, thick hair so black that a blue shadow seemed to lie upon it. An unusual and extremely handsome face, Frog-lip thought. The look of perplexity that he had worn was gone, replaced by one of understanding. He approached the table.
“Feller,” he said in low tones, “betcha a hatful of pesos you ride a black horse.”
“You’d win,” Slade smiled.
“I knew it!” sighed Frog-lip. “I knew it! Didn’t I say all this table needed was an undertaker to make it perfect. I’ll send over another drink.”
“Caught on quick, eh?” chuckled the sheriff as Frog-lip walked away. “Suppose somebody else will, too. Listen to the talk, will you!”
Slade had already overheard some of the remarks running from table to table and along the bar.
“Did you ever see such shooting! Those irons just happened in his hands. Hodson had already lined sights, and that feller pulled and blasted the hogleg clean across the room ’fore he could squeeze trigger! Who the devil is he, anyhow?”
“Dunno, but he’s somebody. Huh! What’s that? Are you sure? Wheee-e-w! The fastest gunhand in the whole South-west! Now I believe it. Gentl-l-lemen, hush!”
The sheriff grinned. Doc Price chuckled. “Can’t hide your light under a bushel, or a barn,” he misquoted.
“So it would seem,” Slade replied.
“Anyhow, you sure saved Eldon Parr’s bacon,” observed Ross.
“I’m not so sure,” Slade said. “I think he would have missed the first shot, and Parr would have been all over him before he could pull trigger again. He’s quick as a cat.”
“Uh-huh, but I doubt he’s that quick,” said Ross.
Suddenly, from a table where heads were drawn together, came a bellow.
“And the singingest man in the whole Southwest, too! Hey, feller, give us a song. You don’t have to shoot us, just sing us one and we’ll crawl!”
Other voices took up the plea, until the room resounded with a chorus of requests. Sheriff Ross shook with laughter.
“Looks like you’re elected, Walt,” he chuckled. “Come on, give us one, and make everybody in here your friend for life. Here comes the orchestra leader, with a guitar. Those Mexicans of his all know you, but they’re good at keeping tight latigos on their jaws and never would have given you away till you put the okay on it.”
The orchestra leader was at the table, bowing and smiling and holding out the guitar.
“Please, Capitán,” he pleaded. “When El Halcón sings, the stars pause to listen.”
“Well, if you can stand it, I reckon I can,” Slade acquiesced. He stood up.
Strutting proudly, the leader led the way to the little raised platform that accommodated the orchestra. With a low bow, he handed Slade the guitar and stepped back.
Slade ran his slender fingers over the strings of the instrument with crisp power. He glanced about, saw that the majority of the expectant crowd were cowhands. He smiled, flung back his black head and sang them a gay but wistful love song of the range:
Night! and the sky’s wide glory.
A whisper of wind in the sage!
With the high stars telling a story,
As plain as the printed page!
Night! and the gray trail flowing
Under the moon’s pale beams!
The light of the campfire glowing;
Night! and a girl—and—dreams!
And as the great golden baritone-bass pealed and thundered, a cathedral hush fell over the crowded saloon. No drink was poured, no card turned. The roulette wheels hung motionless. The dancers paused and stood almost at attention, in impulsive salute.
Just a simple little song of simple words, composed beside some lonely campfire or around a restless herd, but rendered into a thing of sublime beauty by the magic of a great voice.
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