Skeleton Trail

One

THE GOLD AND PURPLE HUSH of Autumn brooded over the Canadian River Valley when Ranger Walt Slade rode into the dying town of Tascosa. The far hills to the west were veiled, in mystic violet. The Canadian, very low because of recent drought, was crystal clear and mirrored the scarlet and amber of leaf and fern. Tascosa itself drowsed in the mellow light like an old peon swathed in a tattered serape of departed grandeur. It was a scene of sunshine and peace with no hint of the explosive violence soon to come.

Tascosa, once the proud Cowboy Capital of the Great Plains! Now its stone courthouse was empty. Of its roaring saloons only a few remained. Nearly all of its many shops and general stores were shuttered and boarded up. Most of the shacks and ‘dobes of East Tascosa, or Hogtown, were empty. The comfortable homes of former prominent and prosperous citizens were given over to the owl and the bat and the predatory creatures that prowl in the night. Tascosa still breathed, was still a gathering place for rough and ofttimes undesirable characters, but its once lusty heartbeat was now but a fluttering pulse. Tascosa drowsed beside its river.

Sunshine and peace! But not for long. It was as if Nature and Man had conspired and combined to banish the one and shatter the other.

Slade entered Tascosa by way of Spring Street which, south of Court Street, was the end of the Dodge Trail to Dodge City, Kansas. He was nearing Main Street and was opposite the mouth of an alley that opened into a small enclosure when all hell broke loose. There was a bellow of gunfire, shouts, screams of agony, deep-voiced curses. Slade jerked Shadow, his tall black horse, to a halt and glanced down the alley.

In the open space back of a saloon, men were running to and fro, shooting, ducking, weaving from side to side. Even as Slade stared in astonishment, two fell, one shot through the neck, the other with the whole side of his head blown off by a shotgun blast. The clearing was a blazing, smelly inferno of bullets, smoke and blood. Things happened so fast there was no following them. The noise was terrific. The enclosure was so full of powder smoke that the fighters were blurred, distorted, mere shadows of movement. Bullets were kicking up dust and flying here and there like a den of mad rattlesnakes striking.

There was a clatter of hoofs. From the smoke-filled alley bulged a tall man mounted on a splendid red sorrel. In his hand he held a rifle. Seeing Slade sitting his mount scant yards distant, he flung the long gun to his shoulder. There was the crash of a shot.

Peering through the smoke fog of the long black Colt that had just happened in his hand the instant the other made the hostile move, Walt Slade saw the rifle, its stock splintered, spin through the air and thud in the dust. The mounted man yelled a curse, flung far to the right in his saddle, shielding himself behind his horse’s neck, Indian style, and tore north on the Dodge Trail.

Slade let him go. Perhaps the fellow had acted through fright, believing himself surrounded. Slade didn’t know the wrong of what was going on, or the right, if any; so he gave the rifleman the benefit of the doubt and let him go instead of drilling him dead center with a second slug from the long Colt .45. Which was a mistake.

A man, shouting, wild with excitement, came running up the alley.

Did you get him, cowboy? he yelled.

Slade shook his head. Just his rifle, he replied, gesturing at the fallen gun. The man swore.

A blasted pity you didn’t, he growled. He started this trouble. That was Sosna himself.

The devil you say! Slade exclaimed.

Yes, Veck Sosna, nobody else, the other said. Wherever that hellion shows up he leaves a trail of skeletons behind him, the blankety-blank-blank! It’s sure a shame you didn’t down him!

With which Walt Slade was heartily in accord. One more squeeze of the trigger and the pest would have been eliminated for good and all.

They say that devil always gets the breaks, he muttered to Shadow. We ride two hundred miles looking for him and when we find him, we don’t even know it. Oh, well, his luck can’t hold out forever — maybe.

However, the man the peons of the Rio Grande river villages named El Halcon — The Hawk — was not one to cry over spilt milk. With a shrug of his broad shoulders, he turned his attention to the alley where things appeared to have quieted down. Groups of men were standing around, talking together in low tones and staring at bodies on the ground, four of which would never move again. Slade gathered from fragments of conversation he caught that there were also several wounded men. He dismounted lithely, towering over the man who said the escaped fugitive was Veck Sosna, the outlaw.

Stay put, he told Shadow, dropping the split reins to the ground. With the talkative informant, who was jabbering away confusedly, he entered the alley.

There was a crowd augmented by new arrivals in the widening of the alley. Two men were cursing superficial flesh wounds. A third was stretched on the ground, shot through the thigh. The leg of his overalls was soaked with blood, his face was a sickly white and he breathed hoarsely, his eyes half closed. Slade knelt beside him and quickly cut away the overall leg, baring the wound, from which blood flowed in a steady stream. He tried to check the flow with his slim steely fingers, to no avail.

Femoral vein cut, have to use a tourniquet, he remarked. Unlooping the handkerchief from about his sinewy throat he knotted it loosely around the injured member, thrust a gun barrel through and twisted slowly, intently watching the flow of blood. It slackened, nearly ceased altogether. The Ranger nodded with satisfaction.

Here, he told a man standing nearby. Hold this just as it is. Don’t move it till I get back.

The other obeyed. Slade straightened up and raced to where he had left Shadow. From his saddle pouch he procured a roll of bandage, a jar of antiseptic salve and a couple of clean handkerchiefs and hurried back to the wounded man. Swiftly, skillfully, he padded and bandaged the wound. The man holding the tourniquet loosened, tightened, loosened, tightened as Slade directed.

All right, he said finally, let it go slack. He watched the condition of the pads for a moment, nodded.

That does it, he said. He should be okay now till you can get a doctor.

He holstered his gun, looped the handkerchief back around his throat. The wounded man was breathing easier, his color was a little better and his eyes were open. Slade rolled a cigarette with the slim fingers of his left hand, lighted it, and set it between his lips. The other smiled wanly and took a couple of deep drags.

That helps, he murmured.

Slade stood up, glancing around. Most of the crowd, he saw, were town people who undoubtedly had taken no part in the ruckus; but two groups of sullen cowhands stood apart, glowering at each other. Slade addressed them:

Suppose you tell me just what started all this, he suggested. There was a moment of silence, then a member of one group spoke.

Sosna started it, he said. He shot Ed Kinsey dead from back in the hall.

And those two outfits of terrapin-brains have been on the prod against each other and they started shooting each other up, said a voice.

Slade nodded. And just how did all you fellows happen to be here back of the saloon? he asked.

Well, said a member of the second group, we knew Ed was headed down this way to visit a girl and we sort of trailed along in case he should run into trouble.

And we trailed after those galoots in case they were looking for trouble with us, interrupted a member of the first group. And when we saw Ed tumble over we cut loose on ’em.

I see, Slade said. Let an outlaw call the turn for you. A rather loco proceeding, I’d say.

For a moment there was again silence, then a member of the nearest group, a big fellow with thick shoulders and long dangling arms, took umbrage. He stepped forward, doubling his fist threateningly.

Feller, he rumbled, I don’t like the way you said that. I’ve a notion to take a —

Slade hit him, not with the steely sledgehammer of his fist but with his open hand. The big fellow turned a flip-flop through the air and landed in a sitting position, looking dazed and rubbing his tingling jaw. Slade’s cold gray eyes swept the two groups, the thumbs of his slender, deadly hands hooked over his double cartridge belts and directly over the outflaring black butts of his heavy guns. Nobody made a move. An awed voice exclaimed,

Jumpin’ horned toads! Knocked Butch heels over tin-cup with a slap! Gentlemen, hush!

Butch, the big fellow, got slowly to his feet, still rubbing his jaw; Slade stood waiting.

But Butch suddenly grinned. Guess I asked for it, he said. Guess I talked sort of out of turn. I’m sorry, feller, hope there’s no hard feelings.

None at all, Slade replied, and smiled, the flashing white smile of El Halcon which men, and women, found irresistible. Little devils of laughter seemed to dance in the depths of his cold pale eyes. Even the members of the hostile groups had to grin, albeit somewhat sheepishly.

Immediately, however, Slade was grave again. He gestured to the four stark forms on the ground.

I should think those would give you all something to think about, he said. An example of what happens when decent folks get their bristles up and allow the other kind to shove them into something that should never have happened in the first place. Don’t you think four dead men are reason enough for you to shake hands and forget what you were rowing about?

By gosh, I do! exclaimed Butch. And if it wasn’t for you, feller, there’d have been five carcasses instead of four; Crane was bleeding to death fast. He whirled to the group farthest from Slade and held out both hands.

What say, boys? he urged.

There was a moment of hesitation, then the others accepted the invitation and soon the cowboys were mingling and talking earnestly.

Here comes Deputy Brice, now everybody’ll go to jail! a voice shouted.

The deputy sheriff hurried forward, his frosty gaze regarding the cowhands with scant approval. Abruptly he halted, his eyes widening as they rested on Slade’s face.

You! he exclaimed.

Yes, it’s me, Slade agreed composedly.

I might have known it! wailed the deputy. Wherever you show, trouble busts loose. Oh, I know you wasn’t mixed up in this loco ruckus, but just the same when El Halcon rides into town a riot starts pronto.

Two

THERE WAS A STUNNED SILENCE as all eyes turned to the legendary figure whose exploits, some of them regarded by many as questionable, were the talk of the Southwest. It was broken by big Butch’s murmur —

"Holy horned catfish! And I figured to take a poke at him!"

Why did you have to come here? demanded the deputy. Ain’t I got trouble enough with the town going to pot, the county seat due to get moved and owlhoots and wideloopers roaming the brush on every side?

Maybe I won’t stay long, Slade smiled.

Fine! applauded the deputy, adding suggestively, It’s a fine evening for riding right now.

Slade smilingly shook his head. Nope, he said. My horse has already been juning it for nearly twenty-four hours and needs a bit of rest. And you notice the sky’s sort of graying; may not be so nice by dark. Reckon you’ll have to put up with me for a night.

Goodbye sleep! snorted the deputy and turned to the cowhands and began asking questions.

Here’s the doctor, said Butch. Right this way, Dr. Hastings.

The stocky old frontier doctor paused beside Crane, examined Slade’s handiwork and nodded approvingly.

A first rate job, he said. Who did it? Crane gestured to Slade. The doctor favored the Ranger with a keen glance.

Yes, a first rate job, he repeated, and just in time, I figure. Crane, when you’re able, you should go down on your marrow bones and thank him; he saved your worthless life for you.

I’m plumb willing to make a try at it right now, Crane replied vehemently. Feller, if you want the courthouse set afire or a few jiggers shot, just say the word.

Big Butch touched Slade’s arm. Brice and the doctor will handle things now, he said. After all these hours of riding, I reckon you can use a drink, something to eat, a bed and a place to put up your cayuse. Trail along with me and we’ll tie onto ’em. My name’s Hardy, Butch Hardy. I don’t believe I caught your handle. Figure what Brice called you is just sort of moniker.

Slade supplied it and they shook hands gravely.

Let’s go, said Butch, glancing around. See you fellers in the saloon, he called to his companions. A moment later he was exclaiming over Shadow.

Finest critter I ever laid eyes on, he enthused. Bet he’d give Sosna’s sorrel a run for his money. Say, I heard you shot the hellion’s Winchester out of his hand. Right?

Slade nodded. Looked like he aimed to throw down on me with it and I figured he should be discouraged a mite, he explained.

Butch shook his head admiringly. And you took a chance of shooting it out of his hand instead of drilling him!

Guess I made a mistake, Slade admitted.

Guess you did, Butch agreed. Watch out for him — he’ll be looking for you. He added with a chuckle, "But I