Death's Corral: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

saw what happened,” Hardrock said. “Happened to look toward the door right at that minute. Do you figure that fight was staged as a cover-up?”

      “It was,” Slade replied, “but not by the carters or the Cross W bunch. I saw one of those sidewinders hit one of the Cross W hands from behind. He naturally figured it was one of the carters and swung on the one nearest. I didn’t realize what it meant, at first, thinking it was just an over-zealous amigo of the carters perhaps resenting something that was said. But when the three of them headed for the door once the ruckus was under way, I thought it looked a mite funny and watched them.”

      Hardrock shook his head in wordless admiration. “I think you should have another drink,” he said. “I’ll send one over before I help the boys clean up that mess of busted furniture. I oughta make the hellions pay for it, but I won’t.”

      “I think I’d prefer a cup of coffee, thank you,” Slade answered.

      Hardrock snorted. “Okay, okay,” he said. “If I was in your place right now, I’d hanker for a double snort to stop me shakin’.”

      He lumbered off to the kitchen, still wagging his big head. Bert chuckled.

      “I watched you roll that cigarette,” he remarked. “You sure weren’t doing any shaking I could spot. Haven’t you any nerves at all? Right now I’m still jumpy as a rabbit in a hounddog’s mouth. Here comes Crane.”

      The sheriff came hurrying across the room, his face mirroring concern.

      “I’d stopped at Stampler’s place for a minute,” he explained. “Heard there was trouble over here and a shooting. Knew darn well you were mixed up in it some way. What happened?”

      Slade told him. The sheriff swore. “Figure it was somebody with a grudge against El Halcón?”

      “Could be, of course, but somehow I don’t think so,” Slade replied. “Remember, there were five men chasing Vergara. I met two men riding the other way and presume they were part of the bunch that killed Vergara. For some reason two returned to the canyon, perhaps to get rid of the body, or possibly ‘discover’ it. If so, that would leave three unaccounted for. I feel that the three continued to town. There’s just a chance that the three who attempted to drygulch me are the identical three. After listening to Hardrock tell the story of what happened in the canyon, they may have decided that I should be eliminated. Just conjecture, of course, but that’s the way I’m inclined to view the incident.”

      “Think you would recognize those three horned toads if you happened to see them again?” Crane asked.

      “I would,” Slade answered. “However, I’m of the notion that they’ll steer clear of me for a while, realizing that I would very likely recognize them.”

      “Or wait for you up some dark alley,” Crane returned meaningly.

      “Possibly,” Slade smiled. “The moral then being, keep out of dark alleys.”

      “You won’t,” snorted the sheriff. “You’ll likely go prowlin’ ’em. That would be more your style.”

      Slade laughed and changed the subject.

      “The boys over at the bar appear to have quieted down somewhat,” he commented.

      “I imagine they did after you spoke a gentle word to them,” the sheriff agreed dryly.

      “Uh-huh, plumb gentle,” chuckled Bert. “I jumped half outa my skin. Nearly scared the pants off me, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong. I never heard such a voice!”

      “Wait till you hear him sing sometime and you’ll say that double,” observed Crane. “Here comes Arista.”

      The cart owner appeared worried as he approached the table. “Heard there was trouble here,” he said. “Did my boys start something?”

      “No,” Slade told him. “Nor did the cowhands, intentionally; it was just a mistake.” Arista looked relieved.

      “I’ve a notion that gent with a bullet hole through his hand figures it was a darn bad mistake,” remarked Crane and proceeded to regale Arista with an account of what happened.

      “And you think, Mr. Slade, that those three men were part of the bunch that killed Vergara?” Arista asked when the sheriff paused.

      “Not impossible that they were,” Slade replied. “And,” he added, his gaze hard on the other’s face, “if so, it is an example of what happens when honest men get on the prod against one another, each blaming the other for anything off-color that occurs, and providing opportunity for the lawless to operate.”

      “You may be right,” Arista sighed. “But,” he added bitterly, “I don’t see why Webb should adopt the attitude he holds. I did not resent his entering into the carting trade in competition with me. So far as I was concerned, he was welcome to any business he could get.”

      Slade refrained from mentioning that it was his inability to get the business he’d hoped for that caused Webb to paw sand, for there was truth in what the carter said. He resolved to have a talk with John Webb at the earliest opportunity.

      Arista glanced toward the bar. “I think I’ll go over and have a talk with my boys,” he announced.

      “A good idea,” Slade applauded. “Tell them not to start any trouble, and, Tom, it might also be a good idea for you to have a little powwow with the Cross W bunch.”

      “I will,” the sheriff said grimly. “I don’t calc’late to have any corpse and cartridge session in this town if I can prevent it, and I’ve a notion I can.”

      Slade was inclined to agree; Sheriff Crane was known to be a cold proposition. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, told the waiter to bring more coffee, then rolled a cigarette.

      As he watched Arista mingling with his men, Crane with the cowhands, Slade felt he had averted trouble for the time being at least; but he was dubious as to the future. There was no doubt but that Pancho Arista deeply resented Webb’s attitude, and he had a fiery temper. It would take little to set him off.

      “You sure have whipped the Old Man and Arista into line,” chuckled Bert, the deputy. “They both do just what you tell them to and don’t arg’fy.”

      “I just suggest,” Slade smiled.

      “Uh-huh, like the business end of a six-shooter suggests,” said Bert.

      Which caused El Halcón to smile again. Bert’s manner of expressing himself was refreshing.

      A little later, Crane and Arista returned to the table. “I’m going to bed,” said the latter. “I’m dog-tired. See you tomorrow, Mr. Slade. Later today, rather; it’s long past midnight.”

      “And I think I’ll follow your example,” Slade replied. “Guess I can get a room at the Regan House, Tom?”

      “Sure you can,” Crane assured him. “They’ve always got vacancies. Let’s go. I’ll knock off a few hours myself and get an early start after those carcasses. Old coots like me don’t need much sleep. Come along, Bert, time you was in bed, too.”