Texas Terror

By Bradford Scott

The air rocked to a crashing report …

Slade drew his guns with a blur of motion and whirled sideways to face the outlaws. Their guns were out and they were shooting with both hands. Bullets stormed past The Hawk, but his big Colts boomed again and again and again. Blood streamed down his face, his left sleeve was in ribbons. Slowly he lowered his guns and peered through the smoke fog at the two forms sprawled on the ground.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon & Schuster
• Release date: Jun 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781440549472

Book preview

ONE

NORTH OF VAN HORN, the south fork of the trail from El Paso turns into the broad and arid valley that lies between the frowning ramparts of the Sierra Diablo on the west and the Delaware Mountains on the east to traverse one of the most desolate, yet weirdly beautiful stretches of country in Texas. The level reaches of gray-green sage and greasewood are dotted here and there with prickly pear, yucca, and octillo. The ragged crest of the Delawares looms stark against the eastern sky. The sheer wall of the Sierra Diablo is closer to hand on the west. To the north the Guadalupe Range, misty with distance, shoves its triangle of lofty peaks across the state line from New Mexico.

Sitting his great black horse where the trail rounded the northwest shoulder of the Baylor Range, Walt Slade gazed at the forbidding prospect ahead.

Mile on mile lay a weird, waterless, barren desolation. In the far distance gleamed a blazing white ribbon shot with prismatic colors, the crystal-encrusted shoreline of a salt lake, the rainbowed crown of a land of death and ruin.

Slade was gazing across the San Pedro salt flats. Not quite so large as the famous deposits known as the El Paso Lakes, where a bloody war was fought in the ‘70’s, they were even more valuable because of their proximity to populous Mexican centers. Right now they were the primal issue of a bitter and ruthless political campaign and a focal point of strife between Texans and Mexicans.

Weaving in and out of the shadows of this welter of blood and controversy was that mysterious and elusive personality, El Hombre, The Man, known by no other name.

El Hombre and his raiders, the terror of the Border country and one of the reasons for Ranger Walt Slade being in this region of desolation at the edge of the Texas Big Bend country.

Not particularly well known over there, are you, Walt? Captain Jim McNelty, Commander of the Border Battalion of the Texas Rangers, had asked his Lieutenant and ace-man.

I’ve been through there, and I know something of the section, especially the salt flats region, but I’ve never worked there and I doubt if anybody much is likely to know me, Slade had replied.

That’s all to the good, said Captain Jim. Should make it easier for you to slide into the section and get a lowdown on things. There’s the making of a roaring salt war in the section you can give a little mind to while you’re running down that infernal bandit and his bunch. El Hombre! The Mexicans give the dangdest names to folks! Like calling you El Halcon, for instance. Not that you don’t sort of resemble a big mountain hawk, one of those fellers ready to give an eagle his come-uppance. They’ve got light-colored eyes and a nose sort of like yours, if you can call a beak a nose. All a bird’s got for one, anyhow.

After Slade had departed for the troubled salt country, Captain McNelty sat musing at his desk. He does remind me of a hawk, he muttered. One of those big fierce fellers that come swooping down out of the hills, ready to take on anything and hand it a licking. Moves like one and has got that same ‘to-the-devil-with-everything-if-it-hasn’t-got-guts’ look in his eyes. Well, it was a fine day for the Rangers when I persuaded him not to go riding the vengeance trail alone and come into the corps. He’s Bill McDonald, Rip Ford and Sam Walker all rolled into one. I’ve a notion El Hombre, whoever the tarnation he is, ain’t going to stay up and kicking much longer.

Slade was not aware of the striking picture he made outlined against the black wall of Sierra Diablo. Very tall, much more than six feet, the breadth of his shoulders and the depth of his chest matched his height. His pushed-back, broad-brimmed J.B. revealed crisp, thick hair so black a blue shadow seemed to lie upon it. Under his broad forehead and level black brows were long, black-lashed eyes of pale gray; gay, reckless eyes that always seemed to have little devils of laughter dancing in their depths as they looked out on the world and found it good. His nose was prominent, high-bridged, his mouth rather wide, with grin-quirkings at the corners that relieved somewhat the tinge of fierceness evinced by the hawk nose and the long powerful jaw and chin. He wore the homely but efficient garb of the rangeland, faded blue shirt and overalls, vivid neckerchief looped around his sinewy throat, high-heeled half-boots of softly tanned leather, and batwing chaps. Encircling his lean waist were double cartridge belts, from the carefully worked and oiled cut-out holsters of which protruded the plain black butts of heavy guns.

Something moved on the silvery gray flats ahead. A mere dot at first, it grew to an angular smudge, resolved to a high-wheeled cart drawn by a team of oxen. Slowly it crept toward, like a misshapen bug making hard going of it across the hazy surface of the salt desert. Slade watched it with idle interest, recognizing it for a salt cart on its way from the lakes to the distant Rio Grande. He could just make out the form of the peon driver hunched on his broad seat.

Slade spoke to Shadow, his great black horse, and the big cayuse moved forward at a good pace despite the heat. He swiftly closed the distance to the crawling cart. Slade was anxious for a word with the driver. Among other things, he wanted to know the most direct route to the cattle and mining town of San Pedro to the northeast, also known as the salt capital. He had a general knowledge as to its location, but the peon might be able to point out a shortcut that could save him miles of riding.

Shadow was overtaking the cart. To the left, the dark loom of Sierra Diablo was perhaps a mile distant, the cart a little less.

Out of a shadowy canyon mouth streamed a dozen or more mounted men. They rode swiftly, heading straight for the salt cart. Slade’s eyes narrowed a little as they watched their progress. There was something purposeful in that direct approach to the lurching vehicle. He could see the driver twisting around to look toward them. He seemed to be urging his oxen to greater speed.

Suddenly Slade straightened in the saddle. His voice rang out, urgent, compelling, Trail, Shadow, trail!

Instantly the great horse extended himself. His long legs shot backward like steel pistons, his irons drummed the hard soil. He slugged his head above the bit and snorted. His glorious black mane tossed and rippled in the wind of his passing. Slade leaned forward, the reins loose in his hand. All the laughter was abruptly gone from his eyes. They were as coldly gray as the rocks of Diablo’s towering crest. His face was set in granite lines.

From the ranks of the charging horsemen, now less than a mile distance and bearing down swiftly on the cart, came whitish puffs. Before the sound of the reports reached Slade’s ears the driver of the cart threw up his hands and pitched sideways from the seat to lie in a crumpled heap on the ground. The patient oxen halted after a few plodding steps and turned their heads to gaze back inquiringly.

The danged fanging sidewinders! Slade swore.

The horsemen, who had pulled up within easy shooting distance, were deliberately firing at the prostrate form and at the standing oxen. Even as Slade’s hand closed on the butt of the heavy Winchester snugged in the saddle boot under his left thigh, the poor cattle went down, kicking and thrashing.

Steady, Shadow, steady! Slade called to the black horse. Shadow’s surging gallop levelled off in a swift, smooth running walk". Slade slid the rifle from the boot and clamped the butt hard against his shoulder. His eyes glanced along the sights, his hand squeezed the stock.

Smoke spurted from the rifle’s muzzle. It bucked in his grasp. The report rang out like thunder on the quiet air, the echoes slamming back metallically from the mountain wall.

One of the distant horsemen gave a shrill yell and clamped his hand to his blood-spurting shoulder. The rifle spoke again. A second man rose high in his stirrups, as if the saddle under him had suddenly become red hot. He gripped his stomach with both hands. Despite the gravity of the moment, Slade’s lips twitched slightly as he took aim a third time.

The rifle spurted smoke, and this time Slade really had the range. One of the killers reeled, went limp and slid slowly to the ground. The others, yelling and cursing, whirled their horses and, firing wildly over their shoulders, streaked it for the canyon mouth from which they had emerged. Slade sent a storm of lead hissing after them. The ejection lever of the rifle was a flashing blur of spinning metal. Had a cartridge jammed, it would have splintered like matchwood. A fourth man reeled in the saddle, clutching the horn for support, before the hammer of the Winchester clicked on an empty shell. Then the shadows of the canyon mouth swallowed the killers and they vanished from view.

Hold it, Shadow, Slade told the horse as he shoved fresh cartridges into the empty magazine of his rifle. Those hellions know the ground over there and we don’t. If we follow them into that crack they’ll likely hole up somewhere and get the drop on us.

He watched the canyon mouth for a moment, but decided the bunch had gotten a bellyful for the time being and weren’t likely to draw rein in a hurry. He rode on to see if there was anything to be done for the poor devil of a peon who lay sprawled on the ground.

Where the motionless cart stood was not within rifle range of the canyon, so Slade did not hesitate to pull up beside it. Keeping a wary eye on the gloomy mouth of the gorge, he dismounted and knelt beside the stocky, powerful body of the peon.

The Mexican was shot to pieces and stone dead. The oxen were also dead. Slade shook his black head and turned to examine the cart.

It was the sort commonly used for salt transport, with nothing to set it apart. Its load, however, interested Slade. He picked out an irregular fragment, the sides of which showed clean planes of cleavage, and turned it over in his slim fingers. It gleamed in the sunlight, reflecting a rainbow bloom of color.

It was a hunk of rock salt, hard almost as flint. Where the devil did the peon get it, Slade wondered. He was familiar with the lakes and had never heard of any rock salt formations anywhere in the locality. If there were, there would certainly have been mention of them, for rock salt would bring a much higher price below the line than the common variety, being prized by the ranch owners as cattle lick. Looked like the poor devil had somehow made a find but never got a chance to cash in on it. He wondered, too, why the band of horsemen had deliberately murdered the peon. It didn’t seem to make sense. Even Border outlaws were not usually given to acts of meaningless cruelty. There must have been a reason for them shooting him down. What that reason could be, Slade had not the slightest notion.

There was a shovel in the salt cart. Slade secured it and dug a shallow grave, in which he interred all that was left of the cart’s driver. While he worked he kept a close watch on the canyon mouth, although he did not really anticipate trouble from that direction. To get close enough to do him any damage the killers would be forced to cross the open ground in the face of rifle fire, and Slade had a notion they got all they wanted of that a little while back.

He would have liked to examine the body of the owlhoot, which lay small and lonely in the center of the great plain, but to do so would entail a dangerously close approach to the canyon mouth. So with a last glance at the dark gorge, he mounted and rode north by east once more, keeping well beyond rifle range of Sierra Diablos towering wall. It was not until he had traversed a number of miles that he veered toward the rugged crags and pinnacles that fanged the western sky.

Some five miles north of his encounter with the mysterious riders, Slade came upon an interesting ruin. He was well into the salt flats now, the white, deathly looking desolation rolling on to the distant skyline.

Set in the shadow of a mighty cliff and near where a spring bubbled from beneath the rock to quickly lose its overflow of crystal-clear water in the white wastes, rose ponderous walls built of gray stone. The roof of the building had long since fallen in, the windows were blank and staring eyes, but the massive walls stood firm as the day the good Fathers laid down their trowels and complacently surveyed a task completed.

Slade knew that what he gazed upon were the ruins of one of the old Missions the tonsured followers of Coronado and others of the conquistadores erected in this wild land in the days of the Spanish king.

The setting was austere and weird, commensurate with the architectural taste of builders who decorated their cathedrals and other places of worship with grotesque gargoyles and like symbolic representations of the powers of darkness they believed were beyond the veil that separated