spotted standing well out to sea, down south of where the channel begins. If they’d tried it down there, they’d have smashed to the devil against the rocks. They didn’t. After a while the lights twinkled away. There’s even been a watch kept over around San Antonio Bay, to the west. Nothing happened there.”
“Those ships you mentioned,” Slade remarked. “Were they spotted on stormy nights?”
The sheriff ruminated a moment. “Come to think of it, I believe they were,” he replied. “Why?”
“Last night was stormy, and I distinctly saw the lights of a ship standing off-shore; she didn’t put in. May have been just coincidence, but then again it may not. Of course there is less chance of detection on a bad night, which wide-loopers take into consideration.”
“That’s so,” the sheriff conceded. “And you actually did for two of the devils? That’s more than anybody else has been able to do. Not a bad beginning. I’ve a notion business is going to pick up. Wonder if they’ll spot you for El Halcón, even maybe for a Ranger?”
“I’ll settle for El Halcón,” Slade replied. “I hope to keep my Ranger connections secret, at least for a while. Be better that way.”
The sheriff nodded but looked dubious, as Captain Jim McNelty often did when he and Slade discussed the matter.
Owing to his habit of working under cover as much as possible and often not revealing his Ranger identity, Walt Slade had built up a peculiar dual reputation. The smartest Ranger of them all, and he ain’t scared of anything that walks, crawls or flies, said those who knew the truth. Just a blasted outlaw with too much savvy to get caught, so far, declared others, including some puzzled sheriffs and marshals.
Slade did nothing to correct this erroneous impression, although he was forced to admit that it laid him open to grave personal danger, as Captain Jim often pointed out. But Slade insisted that it afforded a much better chance of acquiring valuable information and that it was worth the risk.
“Let the owlhoots think I’m just one of their brand trying to horn in on some good thing they’ve started,” he said. “Then they get careless and tip their hands.”
“Uh-huh, and you’ll end up getting your hand tipped by some trigger-happy deputy, or some gunslinger out to get a reputation by downing El Halcón, ‘the fastest gunhand in the whole Southwest.’ Oh, go ahead! Go ahead! I get sore tonsils arguing with you!”
So Slade continued to “go ahead” on the path of his choosing, satisfied with the present and giving little thought to the future.
“Well, suppose we go hunt up Doc Price and let him have a look at your head,” Ross suggested. “You got a bad rap, and it shouldn’t be neglected.”
“Guess you’re right,” Slade conceded. “I don’t think there is anything much to it, but it’s better not to take chances.”
As they walked along the street, Slade gestured toward a big and sprawling building to the right.
“Seems to me that one has acquired an addition since I was here last year,” he remarked.
“It has,” said the sheriff. “Used to be one of old Shanghai Pierce’s slaughterhouses. Now it’s Eldon Parr’s packing establishment. Parr packs sheep meat.”
“A good site for it, here,” Slade commented. “Plenty of sheep in this section.”
“Parr mostly brings his woollies in by ship,” replied Ross. “Owns a couple of ranches over to the east, I understand. He bought local sheep when he came here, about four months back, but because of the blasted men of steel scare he can’t depend on local deliveries. He’s threatened to start a ranch hereabouts, which doesn’t set too well with the cowmen—quite a bit of open range here which they use but don’t own. They’re scared that if he does bring in sheep he’ll let them run wild over the range, and you know what that means. All the sheep in this section are owned by the Mexican herders down to the southwest, where the cowmen haven’t any holdings.”
Slade nodded his understanding. He knew what carelessly handled sheep would do to rangeland. The prophet Ezekiel knew what he was talking about when he wrote:
“Woe be to the shepherds of Israel .... Seemeth it a small thing unto you to have eaten up the good pasture, but ye must tread down with your feet the residue of your pastures? ...”
That is just what sheep, carelessly handled, do. They kill more than they eat. They feed in compact masses, and their sharp chisel feet, driven by a hundred pounds of solid bone and flesh, cut even the roots of the grass to pieces. As a result, vegetation may be killed for years to come. The damage is even more serious in arid lands, where vegetation is essential to the conservation of moisture. Without vegetable life, rain is not absorbed but runs off the ground and cuts it into arroyos and ravines where nothing will grow. A range overstocked with cattle is in for trouble, sooner or later. With sheep, it is sooner.
Which is the reason for the bloody range wars fought in the West because of the encroaching woollies.
But Slade knew that experience had taught that sheep and cattle can be raised in the same section to the advantage of both; it is just a matter of proper handling. Steep and stony pastures that are worthless for cattle provide good grazing for sheep. Wise ranchers take advantage of this fact and profit thereby.
The flock owners of Mexican descent, who had held their land for generations, knew how to handle sheep properly and did handle them properly, keeping their charges constantly on the move, never allowing them to eat the grass down to the roots or otherwise damage it.
However, it was all too often different with unscrupulous owners out for quick profits and caring nothing for the welfare of others. So it was not remarkable that the cattlemen of the section looked askance on any plan to run sheep in and onto the open range.
“Parr is quite a gent, and he sure knows the packing business,” Ross observed. “Well, here’s Doc’s place, and I reckon he’s in.”
Old Doc Price, who also knew Slade well, shook hands warmly and gestured him to a chair.
“Nicked again, eh?” he remarked as he undid the bandage. “Keep up at this rate and your head will end looking like a patchwork quilt. Hmmm! Not so bad. You did a good chore of padding and bandaging. A cleansing, a couple of stitches and a strip of plaster, and you’ll be okay.”
A few minutes later he stepped back and surveyed his handiwork.
“There, that’ll hold you,” he said. “Pull your hat down on that side and it won’t even show. Fee? What fee? You go to hell!”
“We were going over to the Post Hole,” admitted the sheriff. “Join us in a snort, Doc?”
“Not a bad idea,” agreed Price. “Should be sort of exciting before the night’s over, with El Halcón in town.”
“That’s what I’m scared of,” groaned the sheriff. “Trouble just naturally follows him around.”
After the doctor had cleaned and put away his instruments, they set out for the saloon in question. Dusk was sifting down through the still air. The bay was smoldering purple flecked with flashes of rose and gold. Far out on the water a ship was heading for port, the tips of her tall masts catching the last dying sunlight and beaconing it back in rays
