Gunsmoke over Texas by Bradford Scott Page B

deposit that would not compare with what you have up here. My advice to you is to leave the desert alone and not waste your money acquiring title to any of it.” He paused, and then let the full force of his level eyes rest on the oilman’s face. “And Kent,” he added, “I want you to keep what I’ve just told you under your hat. Don’t talk to anybody about it. If it becomes common knowledge that you’ve learned what you did today, you may come up missing some dark night.”
    Kent looked decidedly startled. “What the devil do you mean?” he asked.
    “I mean,” Slade told him, “that there’s something very strange going on in this section. Just what it is I don’t know, but I’m convinced that whoever is back of it will stop at nothing including murder to keep from being thwarted in whatever they have in mind. And I have a feeling that Blaine Richardson’s activities down on the desert in some way ties up with the business.”
    Bob Kent shook his head in a bewildered fashion. “I can hardly follow just what the devil you’re talking about,” he admitted, “but dang it, you’ve got me scared.”
    “Stay scared and the chances are you’ll last longer,” Slade advised. “Right now I don’t believe you are in any personal danger, but a few careless words reaching the wrong pair of ears may mark you for elimination. Don’t forget it.”
    “I won’t,” Kent promised. “From now on I ain’t even going to talk in my sleep.”
    “A good notion,” Slade chuckled.
    “But what about you?” Kent asked.
    “Oh, I hope nobody hereabouts is aware of what I know,” Slade replied cheerfully. “Don’t see any reason why they should be.”
    Kent shook his head again. “You’re a funny feller for a wandering cowpoke,” he said.
    “Perhaps, for a wandering cowpoke,” Slade agreed with a smile.
    But despite what he said to Kent, Walt Slade knew well that he himself was marked for death and did not relax his vigilance.
    A little later he headed back for the Walking M, riding the Chihuahua Trail that edged closer and closer to the hill slopes as it trended north.
    Slade continuously studied those wooded slopes, carefully noting the movements of birds and the little animals that scuttled through the growth. Abruptly his attention centered on a bristle of growth a little ways up the slope past which he was riding. Over the thicket several birds were wheeling and fluttering and uttering sharp cries. What had disturbed them, he wondered.
    His eyes dropped to the dark clump of growth where each outer branch and twig shimmered in the sunlight. Even as a spurt of whitish smoke wisped from the brush he was going sideways from the saddle. He struck the ground on the far side of his horse and lay motionless just beyond the outer edge of the trail, half hidden by the short grass. The hard, metallic clang of a rifle shot slammed back and forth among the cliffs.
    Shadow trotted on a few paces, then paused to glance back inquiringly at his master’s huddled form.

ELEVEN
    F OR LONG MINUTES NOTHING HAPPENED . Slade still lay sprawled in the grass. The birds that had flown higher at the sound of the shot were again swooping and crying over the topmost branches. Otherwise the thicket was devoid of sound or motion.
    Then abruptly there was movement in the growth. The branches parted and a horseman rode cautiously into view; he was followed by another. Slowly, bending low in their saddles, rifle barrels jutting forward, the drygulchers descended the slope. They could just make out the body of their victim lying motionless beside the trail.
    What they hadn’t seen was Slade drag his Winchester from the saddle boot as he fell. Now he lay with his cheek cuddled against the stock, his eyes glancing along the sights.
    On came the drygulchers, walking their horses. They relaxed a little. One turned his head to speak to the other. Slade lay utterly motionless.
    Nearer and nearer drew the slowly pacing horses. Slade counted off