“Sounds like a proddy old gent,” Slade commented.
“Uh-huh, he’s all of that,” Dunn agreed. “Well-heeled, too. Owns a tremendous property. A typical ranch of the Big Bend country, where cows require a vast acreage. A real old-timer, opinionated, stubborn, set in his ways. Has no use for plows, barbed wire, or railroads that come too close. Tried to point out to him that it would be to his advantage to ship from Presidio instead of running his herds north. Couldn’t see it. Said his dad and grandad ran their herds all the way to Dodge City, Kansas, and that what was good enough for them was good enough for him.”
Slade nodded thoughtfully. He was familiar with the brand—“King Canutes” trying to sweep back the tide of progress with a broom of violence and opposition. Wouldn’t work.
“Do you figure Jorg the kind who would resort to such tactics as were employed tonight and the other times you mentioned?” he asked. Dunn shrugged again.
“Frankly, he did not strike me that way,” he admitted. “But you never can tell, I’ve been fooled before. And there’s another angle to consider: sometimes a man’s workers get out of hand and do things the boss wouldn’t countenance.” Slade nodded agreement.
“Did you get a good look at those five hellions who threw lead at you?” Dunn asked.
“Only enough to convince me that they were or had been range riders,” Slade replied. “I couldn’t even say how they were dressed, but the way they sat their horses indicated long familiarity with the saddle. Which, however, has little significance and certainly should not be considered as pointing the finger of suspicion at Jorg.” It was Dunn’s turn to nod agreement.
“Speaking of cart trains,” Slade said, “I’ve a notion the one I met must have been one of Gordon Plant’s trains. I assume he doesn’t use Mexicans for carters.”
“That’s right,” answered the G.M. “Texans, I’d say. At least Americans from somewhere in the West.”
“And somehow they didn’t strike me as the sort really accustomed to following a mule’s tail,” Slade observed thoughtfully.
“Which is something to keep in mind,” Dunn remarked sagely.
“Yes, but nothing conclusive about it,” Slade pointed out.
“Guess that’s so,” Dunn conceded. “So we’re right back where we started—no proof against anybody. McNelty sent you down here, eh?”
“That’s right,” Slade replied. “He received your letter and thought it wouldn’t do any harm for me to amble down and have a look-see, especially as he didn’t have anything else on his mind right then, and was tired of having me hang around the Post.”
“Mighty glad you happened to be hanging around handy right at the time,” Dunn declared. “I’m feeling better already.”
“I hope you won’t end up disillusioned,” Slade smiled. The General Manager snorted derisively.
“I never have and I don’t expect to this time,” he said, with emphasis. “Think anybody down here knows you are a Ranger?”
“I doubt it,” Slade replied.
“But as El Halcón, yes?”
The devils of laughter in the back of Slade’s cold eyes leaped gleefully to the front.
“So I presume,” he conceded. Dunn snorted again.
“That fool business of posing as an owlhoot too smart to get caught is going to get you into serious trouble sometime,” he predicted gloomily.
“So Captain Jim seems to think, but I’ll chance it,” Slade answered.
Due to his habit of working undercover whenever possible and often not revealing his Ranger connections, Walt Slade had built up a singular dual reputation. Those who knew the truth declared he was not only the most fearless but also the shrewdest of the Rangers. Others, who did not know the truth and knew him only as El Halcón maintained vigorously that he was just a blasted outlaw who somehow always managed to elude the toils of justice but who would get his comeuppance sooner or later.
Not that all were of that opinion. El Halcón had champions as well as detractors who said, “What if he has got killings to his credit? To his credit is right! Ever hear of him cashing in anybody who didn’t have it coming and overdue? That should be left to the duly elected or appointed officers of the law, you say? Uh-huh, but when the duly appointed or elected law officers fall down on the job, it’s up to somebody to take over. And that’s what El Halcón does. I’m for him!”
And so forth, and so forth, and so forth.
“Well, there’s Sam yelpin’ for us to come and get it,” said the G.M. “He’ll have something extra special tonight in your honor; he thinks a lot of you. He’s always quoting what the Mexicans say about you—‘El Halcón! the friend of the lowly, of all who are wronged or sorrow or are oppressed. El Halcón! the compassionate and the just!’ “
“Sam’s a fine person,” Slade replied, his eyes abruptly all kindness. “I am very fond of him.”
“But there’s always the chance of some trigger-happy deputy or marshal plugging you by mistake, to say nothing of a gun-slinger out to get a reputation by downing the notorious El Halcón, and not above shooting in the back to get it,” Dunn worriedly remarked.
Slade repeated his former careless remark, “I’ll chance it. Besides,” he added, “there are advantages in being El Halcón. Owlhoots who look on me as one of their own brand are apt to get careless. And as El Halcón there are avenues of information open that would be closed to a known Ranger.”
Dunn grunted, and didn’t look convinced.
Sam’s dinner fulfilled expectations and both railroader and Ranger did it full justice. After which they smoked over final cups of steaming coffee, with little to say, for both were pretty well worn out by strenuous effort and excitement.
Salde slept in the private car and awoke feeling much refreshed and, aside from a slightly sore back, was his normal self again.
“Mistuh Jim is already out on the job,” Sam said as he served his breakfast. “He said to let you sleep till you took a notion to wake up.”
“That was considerate of him,” Slade acknowledged. “I was a mite tuckered, having been in the saddle for about eighteen hours.”
“Uh-huh, and on top of that what you went through under that mess,” said Sam. “Man, oh man! That was something! You’d oughta been a lot more than a mite tuckered.”
Slade enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and after a cigarette and a chat with Sam, he sallied forth in search of Jaggers Dunn.
Everywhere he was greeted by smiles and nods and a waving of hands, the workers regarding him with the greatest respect.
A whisper was running through their ranks—“That’s El Halcón, the outlaw!”
“Huh, outlaw or no outlaw, he’s the bully boy with a glass eye for my money! If it wasn’t for him, Toby would have been a goner. Risked his own life getting under that sill