Gun Runners Read online

  “The boys are sure keeping them occupied,” he chuckled, loosening his heavy Winchester in its scabbard.

  Another ten minutes of hard riding and he was within shooting distance of the fleeing pair. His face set in grim lines, he reached for the rifle.

  And then, the malignant Hill Gods decided to take a hand in this grim game whose stake was death. The flying sorrel put a foot into a badger hole, and got it out just in time to save himself a broken leg.

  Not in time, however, to escape a prodigious tumble. Down he went, turned a complete somersault, rolled over and staggered to his feet, blowing and snorting. His rider lay where he had been thrown, silent, motionless, arms widespread, face to the sky.

  The fleeing bandits, glancing over their shoulders from time to time, saw the mishap. They pulled their horses to a halt, conferred a moment and then raced back to the fallen man. The sorrel saw them coming and trotted away, pausing at the edge of a grove. One flung a rifle and slapped a shot at the golden horse. The slug came close and Goldy, who had been shot at before and knew what to do, went away from there. The grove swallowed him up before the outlaw could fire again.

  “Leave him be,” growled the taller of the two. “We ain’t got no time to fool with a stray cayuse.”

  Tense, watchful, guns ready for instant use, they approached the fallen Ranger. The slighter of the two, a sinewy, swarthy-faced man with snaky black eyes, slowly raised his rifle until his dark cheek snugged against the stock. His evil eyes glanced along the sights and drew a bead on the Ranger’s breast. His companion reached out a big hand and shoved the rifle barrel aside.

  “Wait,” he rasped, “that’s too easy! I got a better notion. Those meddlin’ Rangers need a real lesson. We’ll give ‘em somethin’ to think about when they come lookin’ for this guy. Lay holt of him and help me get him up in front of me. I know this section and a little ways ahead there’s jest what we need. Wait. I ain’t takin’ no chances.”

  Drawing a black handkerchief from his pocket, he bound it about the lower portion of his face. When his broad-brimmed hat was pulled low, little could be seen but the glint of eyes in the hat brim’s shadow.

  Together they got the Ranger’s limp form across the horse’s back. For another mile they rode swiftly, paralleling the grove. Neither saw the golden sorrel pacing them in the shadow of the trees. When they halted at a sandy open space, the sorrel halted also, still under cover, and watching with great liquid wondering eyes all that went on.

  He saw one of the outlaws cut four pegs from a stunted pinon pine that grew near the edge of the grove. He watched the pegs driven deep into the earth about a low mound. Then he saw the motionless form of his master stretched over the mound, his wrists and ankles firmly bound to the pegs with rawhide thongs taken from a saddlebag. Goldy did not know what it was all about, but he felt that something was very much wrong.

  Jim Hatfield knew something was very much wrong when, a few minutes later, he regained consciousness from the shock of water being dashed into his face. He opened his eyes and blinked at the sun washed blue sky into which he was staring. His head ached and his whole body felt sore. About his wrists and neck was an unpleasant crawling sensation. He tried to jerk his hands down from their strained position and realized that they were firmly bound. He turned his head at the sound of a rasping chuckle.

  Standing nearby, staring down at him were two men. One was slim and sinewy, swarthy of face, black of eye. The other, taller and broader than the first, was so masked by a black handkerchief and low drawn hat, the Ranger could make nothing of his face.

  The tall man spoke, in a muffled, unnatural voice.

  “Hope you and the ants have a nice time t’gether, feller,” he said. “Mebbe yore Ranger pals will get here while they’s still a little left of yuh, but it’s sorta uncertain. The ants seem kinda hungry and they’d oughta get busy ‘fore long. Yeah, yuh oughta have a nice time, pertickler when a ant runs in one empty eye socket and out the other, and yuh’re still alive and kickin’. I’ve seed it happen ‘fore now. Well, adios. Fellers that mess in Pedro Cartina’s affairs usually wish they hadn’t. Yuh won’t be the fust.”

  The dark-faced man chuckled and turned to his horse, which was standing nearby. The other did not chuckle. He glared down at the Ranger with burning, hate-filled eyes for a moment. Then his glance faltered, turned aside from the Ranger’s answering stare, came back, and wavered away once more. Growling curses back of the mask, he strode forward, kicked the prostrate man viciously and then whirled to join his companion. A moment later hoofs clicked away into the distance.

  High in the sun-golden sky, a black shape whirled and hovered. Another joined it, and another, and another. They planed lower, staring with telescopic eyes that could see the ants streaming from the disrupted hill. Stared, and croaked dismally. The vultures knew that when the ants had finished, little would be left for them, and even their cold courage shrank away from the vicious little killers of the dark tunnels and passages underground.

  For long moments Jim Hatfield lay staring into the hot sky. Despite the sunlight he felt cold, cold with a horror that left his body clammily moist and the hair prickling at the back of his neck. There are many ways in which a man may die, but few so frightful as being slowly eaten alive by the voracious ants. Hatfield had seen what was left of victims who had endured the torture of the ants and died screaming an agonized welcome to death.

  With all his strength he tugged at the unyielding rawhide, cutting his wrists cruelly. Already he could feel the slow crawl of the questing insects, as yet merely curious as to what was this monster who had crushed their hill. Soon, he knew, they would scent blood and begin their carnage. Panting with effort he relaxed his straining muscles, his mind racing at top speed, seeking for the avenue of escape that did not exist. He writhed at the first stinging bite. His wrists were bleeding and the scent of the fresh blood was maddening the ants.

  He strained his ears to a sound that came to him along the ground and for a moment a wild thrill of joy coursed through his veins. The sound was the beat of hoofs. Perhaps his companions, sensing his danger, were hurrying to the rescue. Then a plaintive whinny sounded and he realized the source of the hoof beats. It was the sorrel, coming to his master, perplexed at his strange position.

  For a moment the pang of destroyed hope left the Ranger sick and weak. With an iron effort of the will he shook the feeling off, pursed his lips and whistled to the sorrel. Goldy answered with another whinny, padded up to the hill and thrust his damp muzzle into his master’s hand. Hatfield managed to touch the friendly, inquiring nose with his fingers, and found comfort in the contact. The horse might be of no help, but his very presence was something.

  Goldy nuzzled the hand, blowing softly, nipping Hatfield’s fingers with gentle teeth.

  “God, Goldy, if you could only chew that rawhide!” the Lone Wolf breathed. “It’s no use, though — that’s too much to expect of any hoss.”

  Goldy snorted questioningly and nuzzled again at the Ranger’s hand. Again he nipped, with velvety lips, champing his bit, slobbering over the constraining steel. Hatfield’s hand and wrist were wet. So was the peg against which it was bound, and so was the rawhide thong. Goldy continued to nuzzle.

  The ants were biting freely now. Hatfield writhed despite his iron control and cursed softly through his set teeth. Again he tugged with all his strength, arching his body with effort, slicing the flesh of his wrists.

  With a mad thrill of joy, he felt that his right hand moved the merest trifle. Yes, he was sure of it! It was not so close against the peg now. He redoubled his efforts, and the hand moved a little more.

  Suddenly, the solution of the mystery burst upon him. The nuzzling, slobbering horse was wetting the rawhide thong — and rawhide stretches when wet!

  Hatfield began talking to the horse, softly, persistently, using all the endearing terms he had ever employed toward the intelligent animal. Goldy blew his appreciation and continued to nuzzle the hand wh
ose fingertips caressed his nose. Abruptly he started back with an explosive snort. An ant had crawled into his nostril, and had bitten him. He blew prodigiously and backed away a pace.

  Hatfield’s voice rose, urgent, insistent. The dubious horse hesitated, fidgeted on restless feet, and thrust his muzzle back into the caressing hand. Hatfield strained with every atom of his magnificent strength. Goldy nipped at his hand.

  Again the sorrel reared away, snorting with indignation. A score of ants had crawled upon his nose. He shook them off and eyed his prostrate master reproachfully. Hatfield put forth his strength in one final terrific effort. The planing vultures dropped lower. The black shadow of one rested on the Ranger’s face for a fleeting instant — rested like the cold shade of Death’s reaching hand. Hatfield gave one last desperate lunge.

  The stubborn rawhide, yielded, held, yielded a trifle more as the moisture reached the inmost fibre, yielded again, and the loosened loop flipped over the head of the stake!

  Hatfield twisted over on his side, gripped the stake that held his left hand and tore it from the ground. He sat up, ripped free the thongs that held his ankles and staggered to his feet. Instantly he fell headlong, so numbed were his limbs. On hands and knees he crawled away from the terrible hill. Again he got to his feet, beating the ants from his clothing. The vultures croaked their disappointment, spiralled high into the sky and drifted away in search of easier prey. Hatfield shed the last of the ants, freed his wrists and ankles from the thongs and shambled to his horse.

  “Thanks, Goldy,” he said quietly, and the golden horse seemed to understand.

  Swinging into the saddle, the Ranger galloped back toward where he had left his troop. Before he reached the spot, he saw the dust cloud boiling against the sky. But this time it was rolling north. A little later he could make out the toiling herd. The Rangers were driving it toward the Rio Grande, meanwhile fighting a rear guard action with the disheartened Mexicans.

  Three of their number were wounded when Hatfield reached them, none seriously. His deadly rifle was an added inducement for the Mexicans to give up the fight. Soon the silver river shimmered in the sunlight and the pursuit fell back. A score or more cowboys were riding along the northern bank. Others were urging their horses into the water. That night the Slash K trail herd, heavily guarded by watchful punchers, was again on its way to market.

  “Fine work, son,” white-haired old Captain Brooks told the Lone Wolf, “as fine a piece of Ranger work as I’ve seen in many a day. Captain McDowell is going to be prouder than ever of you when I write him about it.”

  He stroked his snowy beard with a hand whose thinness and pallor still bespoke the ravages of recent illness. He did not appear over-pleased with what he had to say next, and his voice held a regretful note when he spoke.

  “Got news for you,” he said. “You’ll probably be glad to hear it — gladder than I am to tell you. You’re transferred back to McDowell, effective today. I’m over my sick spell and strong enough to take charge of things at this post again, and Cap. Bill is anxious to have you back with him, particularly since he’s at the new post in El Paso county, ‘way over west. I hear there’s trouble brewing over on the Salt Flats, and along that new railroad they’re building. McDowell probably has plenty for you to do; but I’ll hate to lose you, son. You certainly have handled things first rate since you took over here while I was on the sick list. Yes sir, I hate to lose you.”

  Hatfield nodded, staring somberly out of the window toward the grim Tamarra Hills.

  “I’m not so glad as I thought I’d be, sir,” he said. “Of course I like getting back with my own outfit — that’s just natural — but I sort of hate to be leaving here rieht now. I’d like to have another crack at those two men who turned me over to the ants. And it seems, sir, that there are some funny things going on in this valley these days.”

  Old Captain Brooks was slow in replying.

  “Yes,” he said at length, “yes, there is — almighty funny. There’s some mighty sinister influences at work hereabouts, son. Powerful influences that have to be reckoned with. The sort of thing that doesn’t belong in Texas, or anywhere else in America, for that matter. Mark my word, son, there are bitter days in store for this state if certain folks get where they can have the whole say. What’s goin’ on in the Tamarra Valley will spread all over the state. It’s got to be stopped.”

  “Maybe the Rangers can take a little hand in the stopping,” suggested Hatfield.

  Brooks slowly shook his white head.

  “It’s the Rangers who are liable to be stopped,” he predicted soberly. “Mark my words — this post at Presidio isn’t going to last. It’ll be abandoned before the year is out.”

  “But, sir,” exclaimed the surprised Ranger, “there isn’t a district where a post is needed worse, what with Cartina and those other outlaws down below, and the Comanches to the north. Why — ”

  “Those things won’t be allowed to count,” Brooks interrupted. “The Rangers are the one organization certain folks are scared of. The Rangers can’t be bought, and they can’t be scared. The only thing is to get them out of the way. That’ll be the move, see if it isn’t. And if he gets to be governor, like he’s planning on, in a mighty short time there won’t be any Rangers — the outfit will be disbanded and a mighty different sort of outfit will be riding over this state.”

  “He ought to be stopped, sir.”

  “Uh-huh. But so far as anybody can see, he doesn’t ever do anything that is a real law violation, and that’s the only thing the Rangers can act on. John Chadwick’s a law-abiding citizen if there ever was one. It’s just that in this valley he comes mighty close to being the Law!”

  “And that kind of Law has no place in Texas, or America, sir.”

  “No, it hasn’t, son. It certainly hasn’t. Well, I guess it’s something for wiser heads than you and I to worry about. We have our own work to do. So, you head back to McDowell in the morning. Somebody else’ll do the job of runnin’ those rustlers down. They won’t last much longer. You think one was Cartina, all right?”

  “Pretty sure the smaller one was Cartina,” the Ranger replied.

  “And the other one?”

  “Can’t say who he was — had his face covered up — but I’ve got a good notion of what he was.”

  “Huh? What he was?” repeated the surprised Captain. “Well, what?”

  Hatfield fixed him with his level gray eyes, his voice was soft and steady.

  “The brains!” he replied.

  CHAPTER 1

  WESTWARD across the Tamarra Valley from the desert’s edge, a range of gaunt hills shouldered the brassy-blue Texas sky. There was nothing beautiful about them. Scantily clothed with sparse, dry vegetation, their slopes, fanged with boulders, and seamed by watercourses, straggled upward toward a sheer wall of craggy cliffs that formed their crest. In the shadow of those towering cliffs the slopes were darkly blue and somberly mysterious, and there seemed to be a concealed threat in the deep gorges with their shadows.

  Farther down the slopes, the rocks and earth were splashed with gold and the gnarled trees burned pale amber in the hot shimmer of the afternoon sunshine. Water sounded in the gorges, water that leaped over black rocks or hissed smoothly against canyon walls.

  Very silent were the hills, save for the sound of the water and the restless whimper of the wind in the burr oaks and pinon pines.

  It was a crouching sort of silence. It was the silence of watching eyes and listening ears, and a poised threat.

  “Threatening” described it best of all. The gaunt hills wore the silence as an executioner wears his black robe, wrapping it about their shadowy shoulders, with the tattered fringe trailing away toward the sun-drenched plain.

  Ed Shafter, trudging across the gold and emerald sweep of the Tamarra, his gray old burro following him, sensed the ominous silence even as he crossed the sun spangled rangeland toward the hills.

  His eyes narrowed as they swept the gray loom of th
e hills and the big muscles of back and arms swelled under his patched coat. For a moment his whole long, lean body was tense. Then he shrugged his wide shoulders, laughed a little in his beard and lengthened his stride. He hoped to camp in some sheltered draw at the base of the hills, where wood and water would be plentiful.

  “Ought to be able to knock over a rabbit or a couple blue grouse,” he told the burro. “That’ll sort of change my diet off from bacon and beans. Oh, I know, you don’t care, you scraggle-tailed old grass burner, but I crave chuck that’s a little different now and then. C’mon, ‘fore I leave you out here to grow roots and turn into a loco weed!”

  The burro wagged a contemplative ear and did not appear particularly impressed; but he quickened his pace a bit to keep at the heels of his tall master.

  Ed Shafter was forty years old and looked sixty. Gray streaked the brown beard that hung over his arching chest and spread out almost to his wide shoulders. There was gray in the hair that escaped from beneath his ragged hat, and what could be seen of his face was deeply lined. His blue eyes were clear and bright. He was long of limb, stringy of muscle and his every movement was assured.

  The clothes he wore were a weird patchwork, the original base of which had been faded blue overalls, blue woolen shirt, coat of some nondescript dark color and black slouch hat. Now there were more patches than base, even patch upon patch, running the gauntlet from rawhide to rabbit skin. His boots were also carefully patched and sound of sole. A heavy sixgun sagged on his right hip and the rough handle of a Bowie knife protruded from one boot top. Crooked in his arm was a Winchester.

  The sun was still peering over the hill tops when Ed Shafter left the prairie and began toiling up a long dry wash whose sides were green with grama grass and splashed and starred with flowering weeds. The floor of the wash was studded with water-rounded boulders and littered with fragments casually, but his chief interest seemed centered on the ragged rim of the wash, and on the marbled ledges that flung up at its head. He appeared to be a prospector with a definite goal in view, with no time to waste on dubious surface indications.