“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.”
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