without a foundation of fact is an abuse of that privilege,” Slade instantly retorted.
Arista looked bewildered and apparently at a loss about how to reply. The sheriff created a diversion.
“Like to take a look at what’s left of poor Vergara?” he asked.
“Yes, I would,” Arista replied, evidently glad of the chance to end a conversation in the course of which his position was becoming more and more untenable.
“I’ll stay here and talk with Bert, if you don’t mind,” Slade said to Crane. He knew very well that Arista was anxious to speak with the sheriff alone and decided to provide him with the opportunity.
“Okay,” said Crane. “See you when we get back—we won’t be gone long.”
Outside, Arista turned to the sheriff. “Know who we’ve been talking with?” he asked.
“Yep,” Crane answered. “Name’s Slade, as I told you—Walt Slade.”
“And he has another name,” Arista remarked meaningly, “El Halcón; I recognized him at once.”
“Guess that’s so,” Crane admitted.
“There are people who say he’s an outlaw,” Arista snapped.
“That so?” the sheriff returned cheerfully. “Ever see a reward notice for him?”
“No, nor anybody else,” Arista exclaimed exasperatedly. “They say he’s too blasted smart to ever get caught. He’s got a lot of killings to his credit.”
“To his credit is right,” replied Crane. “Like the two devils he did for today.”
“How do we know he’s telling a straight story about the killing of Vergara?” Arista demanded.
“Because he told it,” Crane replied, with finality. Arista threw out his hands in an expressive gesture.
“I give up,” he said. “You always seem to know what you’re talking about when it comes to people. I hope you’re not making a mistake this time.”
“I am not,” the sheriff stated. “And Pancho, I’ll tell you something. Walt Slade is a mighty good man to have for you, and a mighty bad one to have against you. Right now I believe he’s for you, so don’t do or say anything that might cause him to change his attitude.”
“All right,” Arista said resignedly. “I’ll tighten the latigo on my jaw and keep my thoughts to myself.”
“A darn good notion,” agreed Crane. “By the way, I believe your cook is a Mexican, ain’t he?”
“He is,” Arista answered. “I never forget that my forebears came from Mexico and I like to provide opportunity where possible for the people from south of the Rio Grande. As you know, I have quite a few Mexicans in my employ. Why did you ask?”
“Because I want you to ask your old cook about El Halcón and listen to what he has to tell you,” Crane replied. “He’s pretty apt to know of El Halcón, and what he has to tell you may surprise you a mite. Okay, here we are.”
A moment later, Arista gazed sadly at the dead face of his business associate and friend.
“He was a good man,” he said. “This shouldn’t have happened to him. I suppose an inquest will be held.”
“Yep, I’ll get in touch with Doc Cooper, the coroner, and we’ll hold one after we pack in those other two bodies,” Crane said.
“I’ll look up the undertaker—I think he’s playing cards over at the Regan House bar—and arrange to have the body prepared for a decent burial,” Arista remarked. “Poor Vergara left no relatives to my knowledge. May drop in at the Branding Pen a little later, if you figure to be there.”
“Chances are I will be for a while,” Crane replied. “Be seeing you.”
Arista hurried off on his sorrowful errand. The sheriff headed for the Branding Pen at a leisurely pace.
4
MEANWHILE IN the saloon, Bert, the young deputy, had proven talkative and thoroughly conversant with conditions in the section. Slade found his remarks interesting and let him ramble on. He noted that Hardrock Hogan, the owner, was eyeing them speculatively. After a bit, he strolled over to the table. Bert performed the introductions and Slade invited Hogan to have a chair.
“Something happened?” he asked as he motioned to the waiter to bring drinks. “I saw Sheriff Crane and Arista have their heads together.”
Bert glanced at Slade. “Any reason why I shouldn’t tell him?” he asked.
“None that I can think of,” the Ranger replied. “He’s bound to hear about it eventually, and he might as well get the straight story while he’s at it.”
Bert proceeded to relate Slade’s account of the happening, vividly and true as to detail. When he paused, old Hardrock reached a big paw across the table to Slade.
“Son, you did a good chore, a mighty good chore,” he declared. “Betcha those two sidewinders were part of the bunch that’s been making trouble hereabouts of late. And Arista blames the Cross W? Rats! Those young hellions are good at getting into ruckuses and starting a fight at the drop of a hat, but when it comes to chasin’ a man and shootin’ him in the back, I don’t believe it. Old John Webb is a salty hombre and ready to pull on you if you’re standin’ up to him, but when your back is turned you’re plumb safe. Arista wouldn’t shoot a man in the back, either, so he had oughta give the other feller credit for being as square as he is. But when a feller gets his mad up he just nacherly ain’t got any brains that are in workin’ order.”
Slade smiled and didn’t argue the point. There was truth in the old saloonkeeper’s homely philosophy, and shrewd common sense. He regarded Hardrock Hogan as something of a character, which he was.
Although it was past midnight, the Branding Pen was still going strong. Even stronger, in fact. The bar was crowded, as was the dance-floor. All the gaming tables were occupied and at several Slade decided the stakes were rather steep. He noted that there were quite a few Mexicans, well-dressed young fellows, and wondered if they were members of Pancho Arista’s carting outfit, deciding that they very likely were. Cowhands and railroaders were in the majority, however, and some gentlemen whose antecedents and present status, Slade felt, were dubious.
Hardrock ordered another drink for Slade and Bert and stood up.
“Mind if I tell the boys what happened?” he asked of Slade.
“No reason why you shouldn’t,” the Ranger replied. “And you might pass the word that when he brings in those two bodies tomorrow, Sheriff Crane would like to have the folks look them over on the chance they might be recognized by somebody.”
“I’ll do that,” Hardrock promised and returned to the end of the bar, where he engaged a constantly augmented crowd in conversation.
As Hardrock continued to speak, Slade noted that the young Mexicans and several equally young Texans dressed as cowhands were gathering in
