father’s friend, the famous Commander of the Border Battalion of the Texas Rangers, who recognized good Ranger material when he saw it, suggested that he come into the Rangers for a while and pursue his studies in spare time, Slade decided the idea was a good one. Long since he had gotten more from private study than he could have hoped for from the post-grad and was eminently fitted for the profession of engineering.
However, in the meanwhile Ranger work had gotten a strong hold on him, which doubtless canny Captain Jim figured would be the case, and he was loath to sever connections with the illustrious body of law enforcement officers. Engineering could come later, he was young; he’d stick with the Rangers for a while longer.
Which explained his professional interest in such terrestrial manifestations as the Indian Crossing and the ford on which he gazed.
“Well, horse, here goes,” he said. “Maybe we can pick up a trail over there that will lead us to something. Not much travel on the north bank and half a dozen gents riding fast should have left some marks of their passing.”
Shadow didn’t argue the point and sloshed along in water that rose almost to his barrel.
As they neared the middle of the stream, where the water in the channel below the ford was very deep, Slade constantly studied the approaching north bank.
It was El Halcón’s inherent watchfulness and meticulous attention to details, plus his keen eyesight, that saved him from the drygulcher’s bullet. He saw the gleam of reflected sunlight as the hellion shifted his rifle the merest trifle before pulling trigger, and was already going sideways and down in the saddle, almost to the water, when the slug yelled through the space his body had occupied the instant before.
But Slade knew he was a setting quail in the full blaze of the sunlight and outlined against the water. To try and shoot it out with the rifleman holed up in the brush would be tantamount to suicide. There was but one thing to do, a devil of a chance to take, but he had no choice. He whirled Shadow downstream. His voice rang out, “Take it!”
Shadow took it, with a squeal of protest. Straight into the swirling, eddying waters below the ford he plunged, casting up a cloud of spray, going clear under. Slade slipped from the saddle and went under with him.
Up they came, blowing and gasping, and as they broke surface, bullets smacked the water beside them; but the drygulcher could see little to shoot at and none of the slugs found a mark. Then the current seized them and hurled them downstream toward a bend a few hundred yards distant.
But as he battled with all his strength to reach the nearer north shore, Slade began to fear that he had just traded a quick death from lead poisoning for a somewhat slower one by drowning. For here the ever unpredictable Rio Grande ran like a millrace and the water in the channel was deep and cold. For half the distance to the bend he did not gain a yard. Weighted by his guns and his clothes, he could barely keep his head above water, and Shadow was having trouble, too. Slade gripped the bridle iron with one hand and paddled furiously with the other. His arms were growing heavy as lead, there was a band as of hot steel about his chest, tightening, tightening, shutting off his laboring breath. His heart was pounding, red flashes stormed before his eyes.
He went under again, broke surface gasping and retching; looked like it was curtains.
They reached the bend and with a surge of renewed hope, Slade realized that they were in an eddy that was whirling them toward the north shore. A moment later Shadow’s irons clashed on stones. He gave a prodigious snort and surged forward, Slade clinging to the bridle iron. Another instant and his boots scraped on the bottom and he was reeling and stumbling through the shoaling water. Together they struggled ashore, Shadow to stand gulping and gurgling, Slade prone on the warm sands.
Gradually his strength returned. He regurgitated some of the water he had swallowed and felt better. Sitting up, he hauled off his hat, which had been kept in place by the chin strap, and batted it free of water. Removing his boots, he emptied them and managed to struggle back into them. Then he stood up, shook himself and wrung out his clothes as best he could. Fortunately the sun was hot and he was already beginning to steam.
All the while he was keeping a sharp watch upstream, against the chance the drygulcher might put in an appearance around the bend. He made sure his Winchester was free in the boot—it would take no harm from the wetting.
“Into the edge of the brush, horse,” he said. “We’ll hole up there for a while; don’t want to get caught settin’ again.”
Physically he was feeling pretty good; but mentally he was thoroughly disgusted with himself and in a very bad temper. Outsmarted again! Sosna had figured what his move would be and had set a trap for him; and he had blithely blundered into it.
“And nothing but plain bull luck saved us,” he growled to Shadow, overlooking the part his own acute perceptions had played. He smiled wryly as he recalled his remark to Amado Menendez, that in this deadly game of hide-and-go-seek it was sometimes difficult to be sure just who was the pursued and who the pursuer. Sure worked out that way this time. Still watching the brush-flanked bend in the trail, he drew forth his waterproof pouch of tobacco and matches and rolled and lighted a cigarette.
“Guess we can take a chance on a brain tablet,” he told Shadow. “Won’t make enough smoke to be seen and the wind’s blowing from the west, so the hellion can’t smell it. Seems ridiculous to think he could even with the wind blowing the other way, but if Sosna himself happens to be somewhere around, I wouldn’t put it past him. Now I wonder what he figures I figure to do? The answer to that one could be mighty important.”
He smoked the cigarette down to a short butt, which he pinched out carefully and cast aside. For several more minutes he stood gazing toward the bend in the trail; it showed no signs of life.
“Horse,” he said, “we’re going to play a hunch. It’s evident that the hellion isn’t riding down this way to try and learn what happened to us. I’ve a notion he’ll figure that if we weren’t drowned, we’ll continue to wherever we were headed for when we tackled the ford. Which would mean that we’d ride west on this trail. Perhaps he hightailed when we went into the drink, but then again perhaps he didn’t. He could still be holed up waiting for another chance. Sosna doesn’t take kindly to failure, and the fellow may be reluctant to go and report that for all he knew he did fail. The whole business seems to be sheer nonsense, his arriving at such a conclusion; just doesn’t make sense. But then nothing the Sosna bunch does seems to make sense. Let’s go!”
Mounting, he rode diagonally up the brush clad slope. Shadow didn’t like it but registered his disapproval in a single disgusted snort, then forged ahead, avoiding as many thorns as possible.
Slade smiled grimly as he reflected that now, at least, the outlaws were on Texas soil and under his jurisdiction as a Ranger. In Mexico his only authority had been what he packed on his hip, and there was always the chance that he might find himself in exceedingly hot water. This was much better.
Finally he reached the crest of the rise where the growth was even heavier than farther down the slope. Shadow wriggled and wormed his way through the chaparral strands until they arrived at a point Slade believed was not far from being directly above where the drygulcher had been holed up and possibly still was. As far as he dared go on horseback. He slipped from the saddle, dropped the split reins to the ground and gave Shadow a pat.
“Take it easy, now,” he whispered. “Can’t take a chance any longer on the racket you make shoving through the brush. Be seeing you.”
Silently as the shadow of the great mountain hawk for which he was named, he drifted down the slope, pausing often to peer
