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DEATH’S
CORRAL
BRADFORD SCOTT
WILDSIDE PRESS
This book is fiction. No resemblance is intended between any character herein and any person, living or dead; any such resemblance is purely coincidental.
| Copyright, © 1963, by Pyramid Publications, Inc. | All Rights Reserved |
1
ECHO CANYON—the old-timers who had first passed that way named it. The name fitted. The acoustics of the narrow gorge walled by cracked and broken and fissured cliffs were remarkable, even frightening. A spoken word was tossed to and fro like a tennis ball as precipice called to precipice. A shout evoked a veritable witches’ carnival of howls and wails and bellows in every conceivable tone. A laugh was answered by shrieks of fiendish merriment. Even a whisper ran up the rocks in mysterious murmurs till at last it died away in long-drawn sighs of sound. While the beat of a horse’s speeding irons set up a nerve-shattering drumroll that vibrated the ears like the diapason of hammered steel. And a gunshot aroused a spiralling thunderclap that soared to the startled sky.
The Mexicans had another name for the ghastly hole. In their laconic patois they said, cementerio—graveyard.
That name also fitted. For the canyon was a narrow gateway from the north to the sinister trail that slithered through Persimmon Gap on its way to the Rio Grande and Mexico. Through Echo Canyon the Plains Indians raided into Mexico by way of Comanche Crossing. Wideloopers used it as a short cut for stolen herds. Under the frown of its crags, smugglers bartered with buyers. Outlaws, sometimes with peace officers hot on their trail, found it a convenience. Its stones were blackened with dried blood, its floor sown blue with bones. Echo Canyon had known much evil, and would know more.
So Ranger Walt Slade, sitting on his tall black horse on the lip of the east wall, who had heard of Echo Canyon and wondered if its echoes were really as remarkable as they were claimed to be, gazed into the gloomy depths of the gorge with interest.
“Shadow,” he said to the horse, “I slipped. We should have taken the north fork of the trail back there to the east; that would doubtless have led us right to the canyon mouth. Why this snake track ran up to the cliff summit, I’m not sure. However, very likely the Indians used this spot as a sort of lookout post—you can see to the north for miles. Then when something promising came into sight, they’d slide down the north slope, which doesn’t look very difficult, and be all set for business. So we’ll follow their example and hope we don’t collect too many scratches.”
Shadow snorted equine disgust but did not otherwise comment. Slade chuckled, and continued to gaze into the dark depths of the canyon where the trail which wound through it, nearly three hundred feet below, was but a grayish trace in the gloom.
He was still a bit puzzled about the trail that led to the cliff top. As he said, it had very likely been originally used by Indians, but it showed indubitable indications that a horse or horses had used it quite recently, and frequently. Which was the reason he had turned from the more beaten track which, of course, led to the various ranches to the north, the trail by way of which he had entered the section from the north and east. Well, he had so far been unable to gratify his curiosity. Later he would, in a somewhat startling manner. At the moment he decided the chances were it meant nothing, anyhow. He dismissed the matter from his mind and concentrated on his more immediate surroundings.
Slade made an eye-filling picture as he sat on his magnificent horse in the deep glow of the afternoon sun. Very tall, more than six feet, his wide shoulders and broad chest slimmed down to a lean, sinewy waist, and his face was in keeping with his splendid form. His rather wide mouth, grin-quirked at the corners, relieved somewhat the tinge of fierceness evinced by the prominent hawk nose above and the powerful jaw and chin beneath. His pushed-back “J.B.”, the broad-brimmed Stetson favored by cowhands, revealed a wide forehead surmounted by crisp thick black hair. The sternly handsome countenance was dominated by black-lashed eyes of a very pale gray, the kind of eyes associated with the intrepid gunfighters of the Old West. They were cold, reckless eyes that nevertheless always seemed to have little devils of laughter lurking in their clear depths, devils that could surge to the front, did occasion warrant, and be anything but laughing.
Thus the man the Mexican peones of the Rio Grande villages named El Halcón—The Hawk—“the singingest man in the whole Southwest, with the fastest gunhand,” sat and gazed into the murky depths of Echo Canyon, Cementerio.
“Well, Shadow—” he began. “What in blazes?”
The canyon had suddenly eructed a booming rumble that got louder and louder, and which Slade identified as the magnified beat of a speeding horse’s irons on the rock floor.
“Well!” he exclaimed, “that hole is all that’s claimed for it when it comes to kicking up a racket!” He leaned forward, peering.
“Say, that fellow is sure sifting sand,” he added.
Another moment and the rider flashed past, to the accompaniment of an outrageous tumult, a vanishing shadow amid the shadows.
But the tumult didn’t lessen. It doubled, trebled, quadrupled. Abruptly the canyon exploded a volcanic roar that vibrated the cliff top. Gunfire!
Five more horsemen flickered past. The tense watcher on the cliff could see the reddish flashes. The echoes bawled and bellowed.
Abruptly the shooting stopped. “Got him!” shouted a voice and this was followed by a wild laugh.
“Got him! Got him! Got him!” howled the echoes, with screaming bursts of demoniac mirth.
The uproar ceased as suddenly as it began and there was comparative silence broken only by mysterious mutterings and hissings. Then again the amplified rumbling of hoofs that soon died away to nothingness.
“Let’s go, horse,” Slade said quietly. “Could be only a sheriff’s posse chasing an owlhoot, but somehow I don’t think so. I think a snake-blooded killing took place in that hole. Well, we’ll try and find out.”
It took time to negotiate the slope, for it was grown with thorny chaparral. Shadow collected a few scratches and Slade got a welt on one bronzed cheek where a trailing branch whipped him.
Finally, however, they made it to the level rangeland. A few score yards westerly and the canyon mouth yawned before them. Slade sent his mount into it and the devilish chorus of echoes began afresh. Shadow didn’t like the looks of the blasted hole and signified his displeasure by snorting, rolling his eyes, and flattening his ears.
“That row won’t hurt you, even though it is hard on the eardrums,” Slade reassured him. “Just take it easy and keep your eyes peeled; no telling what we are liable to run into.”
He used his own eyes continually, for here, amid the constant uproar of the echoes, his keen hearing was of little use.
But those eyes were the eyes of El Halcón, which folks maintained could see around corners and through chunks of mountain.
For perhaps a quarter of a mile he rode slowly, then abruptly reined in.
The dead man lay in the middle of the trail, his arms wide-flung, his glazed eyes staring stonily at the sky. His horse was nowhere in sight. Apparently it had followed the others, or had been led
