take that up later,” Slade said, adding, “and it’s just possible that there could be a tie-up between the two; I’ve known such things to happen before. The chance that those two killers recognized me as El Halcón causes me to lean to that possibility.”
“That loco El Halcón business will end up getting you into trouble, one way or another, see if it don’t,” Crane grumbled.
Which was just what Captain Jim McNelty, the famous Commander of the Border Battalion of the Texas Rangers, more than once told his lieutenant and ace-man.
Because of his habit of working under cover whenever possible and not revealing his Ranger connections, Walt Slade had built up a singular dual reputation. Those who knew the truth, like Sheriff Tom Crane, maintained vigorously that he was not only the most fearless but also the ablest of the Rangers. Others, including some puzzled sheriffs and marshals, who knew him only as El Halcón, a man of dubious reputation with killings to his credit, were wont to insist as vigorously that he was just a blasted outlaw too smart to get caught, so far, but who would eventually get his comeuppance.
The fact that the deception did lay him open to grave personal danger at the hands of some trigger-nervous deputy or other peace officer, to say nothing of professional gunslingers out to enhance their reputation by downing the notorious El Halcón, “the fastest gunhand in the whole Southwest,” and not above shooting in the back to attain their end, bothered Slade but little. And he pointed out that as El Halcón avenues of information were opened to him that would be closed to a known Ranger. Also, that outlaws, thinking him just one of their brand, were apt to grow careless and tip their hands.
What counted most with him was the saying of the Mexican peones, “El Halcón the good, the compassionate, upon whom rests God’s benison.”
So Slade went his careless reckless way as El Halcón, whenever possible, satisfied with the present, looking back on the past with no regrets, and giving little thought to the future.
3
“THINK ANYBODY will recognize you as a Ranger?” Crane asked as they pushed through the swinging doors.
“I rather doubt it,” Slade answered. “I hope not, be better that way.” Crane snorted dubiously.
The Branding Pen was big, well-lighted, and noisy. Slade liked the looks of the place with its long and shining bar, lunch counter, tables for leisurely diners, more tables for gamesters. Two roulette wheels whirred, there was a busy faro bank, a dice table, and a full dance-floor. A Mexican orchestra played music he thought was quite good.
“Hardrock Hogan owns it,” said the sheriff. “Used to be a cowhand, then turned miner and did some prospecting on the side. Made a pretty good strike and invested the money in this rum hole. Runs a square place and ’pears to be doing rather well.”
“And will continue to do so, I venture to presume,” Slade commented. “Sanderson will always be a good town, and prosperous, being a division point with the big railroad yards and shops. I’ve a notion it will grow a mite and tame down as the years pass.”
“Sure ain’t tame now,” grunted Crane. “A natural for owlhoots, and they come from all points of the compass. I feel pretty sure the bunch that’s been operating in the section, east, west, north, and south, has headquarters here or near-by.”
“Not beyond the realm of possibility,” Slade conceded. “You can tell me more about it while we eat,” he added as they occupied a table and gave a waiter their order.
“Been making most of their town raids out of my county,” said the sheriff. “But everybody ’grees they have their headquarters hereabouts. That’s the chief reason I wrote to McNelty for a few Rangers—county lines work to our disadvantage; you can’t go bargin’ into another gent’s bailiwick. Sheriffs are touchy about that, feel that it reflects on their own ability. Don’t feel that way about a Ranger.
“The hellions robbed a bank way up at Stockton, another one at Ozona—oh, it was them, all right. Held up the Langtry stage twice. Robbed a train just a few miles to the west of here. Worked that one mighty slick. Had one of their bunch on the train. At the right spot he pulled the signal cord, knew just how to handle it. Engineer stopped to see what the blankety-blank was wrong with his train. The rest of the bunch bulged outa the brush and took over. Blew open the express car, killed the messenger, and made off with better’n thirty thousand dollars. It’s a smart outfit, all right, with a jigger with a headful of brains running it.”
“Any description of their personal appearance?” Slade asked. Crane shook his head.
“Nothing that’s worth a blankety-blank-blank,” he replied. “They’re always masked with black rags that cover their whole faces. ’Pear to be about average in size, nothing outstanding about any of them. Cashier of the Stockton bank said the hellion that ’peared to be running things spoke well, but not like the average brush popper. Said he didn’t ’pear to be very big but was well-built. That’s about the best we’ve got so far, and it ain’t much.” Slade nodded agreement.
“And the spreads to the north have all been losing stock,” the sheriff continued.
“And I haven’t been able to clap eyes on any blankety-blank who looks to be a suspect,” he concluded morosely.
“And the chances are you won’t,” Slade remarked. “One might be sitting at the next table and you wouldn’t recognize him as such, from his appearance. That’s one of the handicaps under which the peace officer labors; outlaws don’t look like what outlaws are commonly supposed to look like. And folks who appear to fit the popular conception of what an outlaw is supposed to look like usually are not outlaws. Take that big fellow at the far end of the bar, for example, who glances this way every now and then. With his rather wide, almost reptilian mouth, his narrowed eyes, crooked nose, underslung jaw, and blue jowls he fills the bill perfectly. And I’ll wager he isn’t one.”
“You’re darn right he isn’t,” Crane chuckled. “That’s Hardrock Hogan himself, and a more honest man never lived.”
“Any more robberies hereabouts?” Slade asked.
“The spreads to the north have all been losing cows,” the sheriff repeated.
“Run them to the Rio Grande, I imagine,” Slade commented. “By what route, would you say?”
“The way you’d figure them to run ’em is by way of Echo Canyon,” Crane answered. “It’s a prime short cut to the river, and over to the Big Bend country, too.” Slade nodded.
“Looks like by keeping a watch at the south mouth of the canyon you might be able to intercept them,” he said. “Nothing can go through that crack in the rocks without being heard coming for a great distance.”
“Uh-huh, but the only trouble is it don’t work out,” grunted the sheriff. “Night after night I kept watch on that infernal hole, and nothing came through. And three different times while I was keeping watch, stock was widelooped and run somewhere. ’Peared to head for Echo Canyon but sure didn’t go through it. And they’d have to make a long detour, east or west, for there’s no getting cattle over the hills. Twice the hands of spreads that had been robbed were hot on their trail, or thought they was, but they always lost it somewhere along the base of the hills and couldn’t pick it up again. The Cross W hands swore they weren’t an hour behind the rustlers when they left the spread, but just the same they didn’t
