remember Sam, don’t you?” said Dunn as they clambered aboard. “He’s still with me.”
“Quite well,” Slade replied and shook hands with the smiling colored man who met them at the door.
“Fine to have you back with us, Mistuh Walt,” said Sam, and hurried off to prepare a meal.
THREE
THE PRIVATE CAR, along with about every other convenience, boasted a tiny bathroom where Slade cleaned up to his satisfaction. After which he rejoined Dunn in the sittingroom of the coach.
“And now suppose you tell me what it was all about?” he suggested as he sat down and rolled a cigarette.
“An example of the harrassment to which I’ve been subjected ever since I started this blasted feeder which will eventually reach Chihuahua City,” Dunn growled. “Some hellion or hellions slid into the working force, which wasn’t hard to do—I have hundreds of men working on the line.”
“Five in number, I’d say,” Slade interpolated.
“What the devil do you mean by that?” Dunn demanded. Slade recounted his brush with the five night riders.
“I made a mistake in not throwing down on them with my saddle gun, but right then I didn’t know what they’d been up to,” he concluded. “Go on.”
“Yes, I guess those were the devils,” Dunn nodded. “They did a pretty good job with their dynamite blast. Smashed a locomotive, a crane and those boxcars. A plain wonder that they didn’t kill somebody. They would have if it wasn’t for you. I wouldn’t have believed there was a man in Texas who could stop that beam from sinking; but then, you’re always doing something nobody figures could be done.
“Well, as I was saying, I’ve been having trouble a-plenty. This isn’t the first incident. Had a couple of very suspicious fires, telegraph lines cut, a few shootings from the brush that scared the devil out of the workers, even though nobody was hit. Keeps ’em fumbly and jerky and slows up progress. Tonight was about the most ambitious try of all.”
“Who’s back of it?” Slade asked. Dunn shrugged his massive shoulders.
“Not easy to answer,” he replied. “I have opposition from the carters, who see the line cutting in on their business. A fellow named Gordon Plant owns several big trains. He’s a comparative newcomer here, I understand. He horned in on the Mexican monopoly. I’m just a mite suspicious of him, but there’s no proof that he has been back of the things that have happened. Down in Mexico there are folks who don’t look with favor on the coming of the railroad. Wild country down there, with plenty of wild men in it who see a threat to their questionable activities. Then there’s old Andy Jorg, who owns a big spread over to the east. His holding includes this section of the desert. He fought me tooth and nail. Refused to sell right-of-way across his land. We had to invoke Eminent Domain to get it. He’s mad as Hades and swears he’ll wreck the blankety-blank-blank railroad before he’s finished with it.”
“Sounds like a proddy old gent,” Slade commented.
“Uh-huh, he’s all of that,” Dunn agreed. “Well-heeled, too. Owns a tremendous property. A typical ranch of the Big Bend country, where cows require a vast acreage. A real old-timer, opinionated, stubborn, set in his ways. Has no use for plows, barbed wire, or railroads that come too close. Tried to point out to him that it would be to his advantage to ship from Presidio instead of running his herds north. Couldn’t see it. Said his dad and grandad ran their herds all the way to Dodge City, Kansas, and that what was good enough for them was good enough for him.”
Slade nodded thoughtfully. He was familiar with the brand—“King Canutes” trying to sweep back the tide of progress with a broom of violence and opposition. Wouldn’t work.
“Do you figure Jorg the kind who would resort to such tactics as were employed tonight and the other times you mentioned?” he asked. Dunn shrugged again.
“Frankly, he did not strike me that way,” he admitted. “But you never can tell, I’ve been fooled before. And there’s another angle to consider: sometimes a man’s workers get out of hand and do things the boss wouldn’t countenance.” Slade nodded agreement.
“Did you get a good look at those five hellions who threw lead at you?” Dunn asked.
“Only enough to convince me that they were or had been range riders,” Slade replied. “I couldn’t even say how they were dressed, but the way they sat their horses indicated long familiarity with the saddle. Which, however, has little significance and certainly should not be considered as pointing the finger of suspicion at Jorg.” It was Dunn’s turn to nod agreement.
“Speaking of cart trains,” Slade said, “I’ve a notion the one I met must have been one of Gordon Plant’s trains. I assume he doesn’t use Mexicans for carters.”
“That’s right,” answered the G.M. “Texans, I’d say. At least Americans from somewhere in the West.”
“And somehow they didn’t strike me as the sort really accustomed to following a mule’s tail,” Slade observed thoughtfully.
“Which is something to keep in mind,” Dunn remarked sagely.
“Yes, but nothing conclusive about it,” Slade pointed out.
“Guess that’s so,” Dunn conceded. “So we’re right back where we started—no proof against anybody. McNelty sent you down here, eh?”
“That’s right,” Slade replied. “He received your letter and thought it wouldn’t do any harm for me to amble down and have a look-see, especially as he didn’t have anything else on his mind right then, and was tired of having me hang around the Post.”
“Mighty glad you happened to be hanging around handy right at the time,” Dunn declared. “I’m feeling better already.”
“I hope you won’t end up disillusioned,” Slade smiled. The General Manager snorted derisively.
“I never have and I don’t expect to this time,” he said, with emphasis. “Think anybody down here knows you are a Ranger?”
“I doubt it,” Slade replied.
“But as El Halcón, yes?”
The devils of laughter in the back of Slade’s cold eyes leaped gleefully to the front.
“So I presume,” he conceded. Dunn snorted again.
“That fool business of posing as an owlhoot too smart to get caught is going to get you into serious trouble sometime,” he predicted gloomily.
“So Captain Jim seems to think, but I’ll chance it,” Slade answered.
Due to his habit of working undercover whenever possible and often not revealing his Ranger connections, Walt Slade had built up a singular dual reputation. Those who knew the truth declared he was not only the most fearless but also the shrewdest of the Rangers. Others, who did not know the truth and knew him only as El Halcón maintained vigorously that he was just a blasted outlaw who somehow always managed to elude the toils of justice but who would get his comeuppance sooner or later.
Not that
