The Hate Trail: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott
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bodies were laid out on the floor and covered with blankets. Several citizens and a couple of bartenders were convinced they had seen the unsavory pair in town quite recently.
With the recovered money safely in the office safe and the wounded men packed off to the doctor, Sheriff Carter shooed out the crowd and locked the door. After which he and Slade and the uninjured deputy, sardonic Bill Harley, adjourned to the Trail End and something to eat.
In the saloon they received more congratulations and the details of the episode had to be repeated. Slade let Carter and the deputy do the talking, and found Harley’s dry humor refreshing.
After finishing his meal he smoked a cigarette and announced, “I’m going to bed. See you in the morning, Sheriff. Suppose there’ll be an inquest?”
“Oh, I reckon Doc Beard will want to set on ’em,” Carter replied.
“He’s county coroner and figures he should do something to earn his pay. I’ve a notion he’ll be a busy man from now on, and so will the undertaker, if you run true to form. Take care of yourself, son, be seeing you.”
As was his habit, Slade approached the livery stable warily. Everything was peaceful, however, and after cleaning and oiling his guns he went to bed and slept soundly until midmorning.
After a sluice in the trough and a shave, he repaired to the Trail End for some breakfast. Next he dropped in at the sheriff’s office and learned that the inquest wouldn’t be held until two o’clock. With time on his hands, he decided to look the town over a bit.
In the three years since Slade had visited Amarillo, the new Cowboy Capital had grown more than a little. It was indeed a far cry from the original railroad construction camp that was its inception. In the beginning it was a collection of buffalo-hide huts that served as a supply depot and shipping point for the hunters, then sweeping the last of the great buffalo herds from the prairies. It boasted a hotel, the walls, partitions and roof made of buffalo hides. When dry, the hides became to a degree transparent; so there were not many secrets in Ragtown, as the settlement was called.
The passing of the buffaloes did not much affect the little community sprawled beside the railroad tracks. Some gentlemen of thrift and vision realized the commerical value of the buffalo bones bleaching on the prairies, and bone gathering became a thriving industry, to the emolument of Ragtown, for many thousands of tons of bones were shipped for fertilizer within the next few years.
Then along came the great cattle ranches and Ragtown sat up and took notice. Also taking notice was another gentleman of vision, a land developer named Henry B. Sanborn. Mr. Sanborn, looking to the future, was confident that here was the natural site for a town that one day would become the metropolis of the prairie empire known as the Texas Panhandle. In which Mr. Sanborn was right.
So Mr. Sanborn laid out a town site southeast of Ragtown, at a point where the railroad tracks curved around a natural body of water called Amarillo Lake. He called his town Oneida. There had been a protracted dry spell which greatly reduced the water area. Mr. Sanborn made a mistake when he began erecting his buildings, railroad station and stockyards. Everything was going nicely when along came the rains, and they kept coming. Before long the incensed Mr. Sanborn saw his buildings, railroad station and stockyards standing in four feet of water.
Mr. Sanborn was a man who put up with no nonsense. He went away from there, taking his buildings and stockyards with him to higher ground, their present location, where they would be safe from the clutches of pestiferous Amarillo Lake. He left the name “Oneida” behind and changed the name of his town to Amarillo, perhaps as a taunt to the now frustrated lake. Very quickly, Amarillo swallowed up Ragtown and suffered pangs of indigestion thereby.
Mr. Sanborn, amongst many other merits, had that of being an adroit politician. He wanted the county seat of Potter County for his town and proceeded to get it. As it happened, the cowhands of the great XL Ranch constituted the majority of the legal voting strength. Mr. Sanborn offered the cowboys a town lot each if they would vote for his town for county seat.
The cowboys, proud to become land owners, did so, and victory for Mr. Sanborn was easy. Some of the waddies who were the recipients of the real estate were smart enough to hold onto their lots, to lease but never sell. As a reward for their perspicacity, they in later years became wealthy.
So when Walt Slade strolled along Filmore Street that sunny morning, Amarillo was on its way, but with still some distance to go. Cattle had supplanted the buffalo as the horned kings of the prairie, and the great ranchowners were the “feudal lords” of the Panhandle.
Not that their sovereignty was unchallenged. Already the plow was moving westward, bringing with it that abomination of the oldtimers—barbed wire. Both were and would be productive of trouble.
Yes, Amarillo was on its way, but was still as wild a frontier town as one could hope to find. Lines of cow ponies stood tied to the hitch racks of the main streets, and their riders crowded the hotels, saloons, gambling houses, dance halls and restaurants. Teamsters, railroad workers, and gentlemen of doubtful antecedents did their gentle best to keep things lively, and succeeded. Food consisted largely of canned goods, beef, and wild game. A pile of empty and rusting tin cans marked the rear of every eating place as conspicuously as the sign in front. The “sovereign seal” of the Panhandle might well have been crossed skillets with grease dripping.
At the moment, however, Walt Slade was more concerned with Amarillo’s present than Amarillo’s possible future. He knew that the town was the lodestone for the lawless elements of the section, their favorite spot when in search of diversion. Here they came to drink and carouse, and when the redeye began getting in its licks there was always the chance of somebody doing some loose talking.
Such a character as Veck Sosna could hardly operate in the section without attracting the attention of the local chapter of the share-the-wealth brotherhood. He was very likely a prime topic of discussion at owlhoot conversaziones. So Slade hoped that he might catch a word here or there that would provide a lead which would give him a line on his elusive quarry.
With which in mind he dropped into several of the less reputable saloons, toyed with a drink and listened to all that was said within earshot. But as two o’clock drew near he had not so far heard anything he considered of significance. Finally he gave up for the time being and headed for the sheriff’s office with the inquest in mind.
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