you ever see such shooting! Those irons just happened in his hands. Hodson had already lined sights, and that feller pulled and blasted the hogleg clean across the room ’fore he could squeeze trigger! Who the devil is he, anyhow?”
“Dunno, but he’s somebody. Huh! What’s that? Are you sure? Wheee-e-w! The fastest gunhand in the whole South-west! Now I believe it. Gentl-l-lemen, hush!”
The sheriff grinned. Doc Price chuckled. “Can’t hide your light under a bushel, or a barn,” he misquoted.
“So it would seem,” Slade replied.
“Anyhow, you sure saved Eldon Parr’s bacon,” observed Ross.
“I’m not so sure,” Slade said. “I think he would have missed the first shot, and Parr would have been all over him before he could pull trigger again. He’s quick as a cat.”
“Uh-huh, but I doubt he’s that quick,” said Ross.
Suddenly, from a table where heads were drawn together, came a bellow.
“And the singingest man in the whole Southwest, too! Hey, feller, give us a song. You don’t have to shoot us, just sing us one and we’ll crawl!”
Other voices took up the plea, until the room resounded with a chorus of requests. Sheriff Ross shook with laughter.
“Looks like you’re elected, Walt,” he chuckled. “Come on, give us one, and make everybody in here your friend for life. Here comes the orchestra leader, with a guitar. Those Mexicans of his all know you, but they’re good at keeping tight latigos on their jaws and never would have given you away till you put the okay on it.”
The orchestra leader was at the table, bowing and smiling and holding out the guitar.
“Please, Capitán,” he pleaded. “When El Halcón sings, the stars pause to listen.”
“Well, if you can stand it, I reckon I can,” Slade acquiesced. He stood up.
Strutting proudly, the leader led the way to the little raised platform that accommodated the orchestra. With a low bow, he handed Slade the guitar and stepped back.
Slade ran his slender fingers over the strings of the instrument with crisp power. He glanced about, saw that the majority of the expectant crowd were cowhands. He smiled, flung back his black head and sang them a gay but wistful love song of the range:
Night! and the sky’s wide glory.
A whisper of wind in the sage!
With the high stars telling a story,
As plain as the printed page!
Night! and the gray trail flowing
Under the moon’s pale beams!
The light of the campfire glowing;
Night! and a girl—and—dreams!
And as the great golden baritone-bass pealed and thundered, a cathedral hush fell over the crowded saloon. No drink was poured, no card turned. The roulette wheels hung motionless. The dancers paused and stood almost at attention, in impulsive salute.
Just a simple little song of simple words, composed beside some lonely campfire or around a restless herd, but rendered into a thing of sublime beauty by the magic of a great voice.
The song ended in a lingering breath of melody, and Slade stood smiling at his entranced audience.
The hush lingered for a moment, then was broken by a storm of applause and shouts for another.
Slade gave them several more before restoring the guitar to its owner and returning to the table. For an instant his glance lingered on Eldon Parr, standing erect and commanding by the bar. From the moment he had entered the room, his exression had not changed. During the hectic encounter with the cowhand his face had remained impassive as a deal board. Only his eyes seemed to burn as they rested on El Halcón’s tall form. After Slade was seated, he strolled to the table.
“May I?” he said, nodding to a vacant chair.
“Sit down, Eldon, and have a drink,” Sheriff Ross invited hospitably. “How was that for singing? Ever hear the beat of it? I never did.”
“And I doubt if you ever will,” replied Parr. He turned to Slade. “You are to be congratulated on your rare gift. And, incidentally, I wish to thank you for what you did in my behalf. I thought for an instant I was going to get an air hole in my hide.”
“I doubt if he would have pulled trigger, but I thought it best not to take chances,” Slade answered.
“I am very glad you thought so,” Parr returned dryly. “I am not very adept in the use of a gun, so I seldom carry one. Hodson, I understand, is. And I have noted that a man who is adept in handling one is usually quick to use it.”
Slade nodded but did not otherwise comment. He was confident in his own mind that Hodson did intend to use the gun he drew.
“Eldon, just what did Al Hodson say to you that set you off so?” asked the sheriff.
“It was not what he said, but the manner in which he said it,” replied Parr. “Tonal inflection can carry a more stinging impact than words. What he said was, ‘All of a sudden this place is smelling mighty strong of sheep.’ The words alone could have meant little, but the implication was plain.”
“I see,” said the sheriff. Walt Slade, while not appearing to do so, abruptly took a stronger interest in Eldon Parr; his manner of expressing himself, the Ranger thought, was a trifle out of the ordinary.
“Sheep!” growled the sheriff. “The blattin’ varmints always can be counted on to kick up a ruckus where there’s open range. We can do without them here—the herders down to the south have all that’s needed. Let them handle them.”
“Sheriff,” Eldon Parr said, “if I decide to run sheep onto the open range here I will do so, despite opposition. If the land is open range for cattle, there is no reason why it shouldn’t be open range to sheep.”
Parr spoke calmly, without raising his voice, but Slade was convinced he meant exactly what he said. He was impressed with the force of the man’s personality and believed that opposition would not deter him from any set purpose.
“You’ll be looking for trouble if you do run ’em in,” Sheriff Ross warned.
“I think,” Eldon Parr replied deliberately, “that I am competent to take care of any trouble that comes my way. Good night, gentlemen.” He rose to his feet, and with a nod, left the saloon.
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