“Slade!” he shouted. “Where in tarnation did you come from?”
“Over west,” Slade replied, grinning at the sheriff’s astonishment.
Ross surged to his feet and held out a big paw. They shook solemnly.
“Have a chair,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable. Hey, what’s the matter? Your head’s tied up.”
“Leaned against the hot end of a passing slug,” Slade answered cheerfully. “Just a scratch.”
The sheriff shook his own red head resignedly.
“All right, where are the bodies,” he sighed. “I’ll go pack ’em in.”
“I wish I knew,” Slade said.
“Now what the devil do you mean by that?” demanded Ross.
“Sit down, Neale, and I’ll tell you about it,” Slade replied, and proceeded to do so.
The sheriff swore whole-heartedly as the tale progressed. “The men of steel, eh?” he growled. “And you actually saw them?”
“Yes, I saw them,” Slade admitted. “Were wearing what looked like armor, all right, but it wasn’t very good armor —didn’t offer much protection against a .45. But the lead they threw at me certainly wasn’t medieval—it was plumb up to date. I wish I had gotten a close look at what they were wearing, but for a while I wasn’t in much shape to do any looking, and when the rest of the bunch showed up, I figured odds of eight to one were a bit lopsided, even if I had been up to snuff, which I certainly was not.”
“So I imagine,” nodded the sheriff. Suddenly he grinned.
“So!” he chuckled. “I write to McNelty asking for a troop to restore order and he sends me El Halcón, the notorious owlhoot. Oh, well, guess it might be worse. Just suppose there were two El Halcóns. That would be a real calamity, the way trouble always shows up when there’s just one of you around. And I’ve got enough as it is.”
“Neale, what is going on here?” Slade asked. The sheriff proceeded to enlighten him to the best of his ability.
Like Slade the night before, Sheriff Ross had for some time been trailing “ghosts.” At least according to quite a few folks—Ross himself did not think so. He considered it strange and contrary to experience for ghosts to throw hot lead and steal sheep and cows. Which was just what they had been doing, as he wrote Captain McNelty.
In the section there were many sheep ranches, owned chiefly by Texas citizens of Mexican descent or other citizens of out-and-out Indian blood. Embodied in the beliefs of these folks were legends and traditions dealing with the armor-clad men of Spain who had once conquered and overrun the country. As is customary with legendary figures, the men of steel were endowed with awesome and mystical attributes. Strange tales were told beside lonely campfires of the things they did. And the story went on and became a prophecy believed in by many, that, though long vanished from the scene, they would come again in due time and once again rule the land. The simple herders and peones of the region believed the stories. So did some not so simple Texas cowhands who should have known better.
Cattle are not the only things in the West that are widelooped. Sheep are worth money, also. They are easy to handle, much easier indeed than obstreperous longhorns; and there are markets for woollies, to those who know where to look for them.
So Sheriff Ross was not particularly surprised when a report came to him that the herders of the section were losing sheep. But he was surprised when more and more reports came in. What was worse, several flock owners had been killed while endeavoring to protect their woollies. Sheriff Ross swore in some special deputies and did his best to run down the wide-loopers. Without success. He found that he was up against a stone wall of fear and superstition on the part of the people he was trying to protect.
He swore in wrathful disgust at the whispers running through the section that the men of steel were once again riding the wastelands. Weird stories were told of men in shining cuirasses and helmets riding through the filtered moonlight of a stormy sky—men it was death to meet, who snatched up herds of sheep and cattle and swept them away into the clouds, never to be seen again.
But the bodies the ghostly riders left behind were plain to be seen, and were found to be punctured by very prosaic and matter-of-fact bullet holes.
Would ghosts use powder and lead to do their killing, he demanded. All too often he was met by an eloquent shoulder shrug and a muttered quién sabe? Who knows?
But where do the sheep go, he was asked. And the cows that have been lifted, too. Not to the north, that is certain. Not across seventy miles of desert to the Rio Grande. An expressive glance to the clouds overhead. Profanity from the sheriff.
However, the sheriff figured he had the answer to the question. Sheep can be transported via ship, and so can cattle. A ship stands in at night. The critters are loaded and away they go to Mexico, or some place else where somebody is waiting to buy them.
“No ships have been seen.” To that one the sheriff did not have the answer. He was forced to admit that, so far as he knew, it was true.
What irritated Ross most was his inability to obtain reliable information. The herders wouldn’t talk. They were brave, hardy men who feared no purely physical dangers. But they shook with terror at the shadows in their own minds. To them the ghostly riders were real and were not of honest flesh and blood.
Finally, in despair, Sheriff Ross wrote to Captain McNelty asking for help. The result: El Halcón, who did not believe in ghosts and in whom the Mexican peones and pastores did believe.
“So that’s how the situation stands,” Ross concluded. “I can’t learn anything I can depend on, and I can’t find out for sure where the blasted critters go. I’ve had men posted at all the likely coves and inlets; no ship ever shows up. A couple have been spotted standing well out to sea, down south of where the channel begins. If they’d tried it down there, they’d have smashed to the devil against the rocks. They didn’t. After a while the lights twinkled away. There’s even been a watch kept over around San Antonio Bay, to the west. Nothing happened there.”
“Those ships you mentioned,” Slade remarked. “Were they spotted on stormy nights?”
The sheriff ruminated a moment. “Come to think of it, I believe they were,” he replied. “Why?”
“Last night was stormy, and I distinctly saw the lights of a ship standing off-shore; she didn’t put in. May have been just coincidence, but then again it may not. Of course there is less chance of detection on a bad night, which wide-loopers take into consideration.”
“That’s so,” the sheriff conceded. “And you actually did for two of the devils? That’s more than anybody else has been able to do. Not a bad beginning. I’ve a notion business is going to pick up. Wonder if they’ll spot you for El Halcón, even maybe for a Ranger?”
“I’ll settle for El Halcón,” Slade replied. “I hope to keep my Ranger connections secret, at least for a while. Be better that way.”
The sheriff nodded but looked dubious, as Captain Jim McNelty often did when he and Slade discussed the matter.
Owing to his habit of working under cover as much as possible and often not revealing his Ranger identity, Walt Slade had built up a peculiar dual reputation. The smartest Ranger of them all, and he ain’t scared of anything that walks, crawls or flies, said those who knew the truth. Just a blasted outlaw with too much savvy to get caught, so far, declared others, including some puzzled sheriffs and marshals.
Slade did nothing to correct this erroneous impression, although he was forced to admit that it laid him open to grave personal danger, as Captain Jim often pointed out. But Slade insisted that it afforded a much better chance of acquiring valuable information and that it was worth the risk.
“Let