Yardley, and the passengers said they just slid into the brush alongside the trail,” Kent replied. “They said there was close to a dozen of them, all masked.”
Curly Nevins glanced at Slade. “What do you want to bet that wasn’t the bunch who shot Clate?” he said. “Uh-huh, I bet they were headed right back here, though of course they could have kept following the rimrock and come out of the hills up around Proctor.”
“You could be right about it being the same bunch,” Slade conceded. “Wouldn’t be surprised if you are.”
It was getting along toward evening and the big saloon was filling up with a boisterous crowd. Slade noted something that gave him food for thought. The cowhands, whose number was increasing, kept strictly to themselves, and the oil workers, who were still heavily in the majority, kept away from them. The friendly merging of various groups customary to such a place was laoking; and the looks with which the two factions favored one another were anything but cordial. Slade felt that the place was very much of a powder keg with little needed to set off an explosion.
But when the row started, it was not between oilmen and cowboys but between two groups of oil workers. Slade had noticed the two groups enter the saloon, one shortly after the other, to take vacant tables that happened to be close together. The first group had waved to Bob Kent who waved back. The second passed by with a glance in his direction and a drawing together of heads. They were hardcase looking individuals dressed in working clothes, and the first group did not appear exactly tame. They interested the ranger who every now and then glanced in their directon. He noted that words were being tossed back and forth between the two tables and the voices of the speakers didn’t sound exactly amicable.
Suddenly a big driller of the first group leaped to his feet with an oath. A squat, heavily built man at the other table also jumped from his chair. The two met head-on, slugging toe to toe. The heavy-set man went down with a crash, and as if his fall was a signal the other occupants of the tables were at it in a hitting, wrestling, swearing tangle.
The place was in an uproar. Men were shouting, dance-floor girls screaming, bartenders uttering soothing yells that were not heeded. The lookout was brandishing his shotgun and threatening all and sundry. Wade Ballard came boring through the mob, flinging men to right and left with surprising strength. Behind him bellowed Blaine Richardson, his face flushed a fiery red. The heavy-set man, who was wearing a gun, scrambled to his feet and charged the tall driller. And again he measured his length on the floor.
In the swift whirl of hectic action, Walt Slade’s keen eyes noted what nobody else appeared aware of. The heavy-set man was riding with his opponent’s awkward punches; the knockdowns were phony as a seven-dollar bill. Slade had no notion what it meant but he was instantly very much on the alert.
The heavy-set man came to his feet again, a bit more slowly, shouting curses. With a swift, smooth draw he pulled the gun at his belt and fired, seemingly point-blank at the tall driller.
Walt Slade felt the wind of the passing bullet fan his face as with a marvelous coordination of mind and muscle he went sideways from his chair. Just in time he had seen the glint of eyes in his direction, the eyes of the heavy-set man focused not on the driller but on him. And in the same flicker of perfectly timed motion, his right hand flashed down and up. The crash of a second shot caused the hanging lamps to jump. The heavy-set man howled with pain and doubled up, gripping his blood spurting hand between his knees. His gun, one butt plate knocked off, thudded to the floor a dozen feet away.
Walt Slade’s voice rang through the turmoil. “Hold it!” he thundered. “Everybody where they are!” He had a gun in each hand now and the black muzzles, one wisping smoke, yawned at the
Curly Nevins glanced at Slade. “What do you want to bet that wasn’t the bunch who shot Clate?” he said. “Uh-huh, I bet they were headed right back here, though of course they could have kept following the rimrock and come out of the hills up around Proctor.”
“You could be right about it being the same bunch,” Slade conceded. “Wouldn’t be surprised if you are.”
It was getting along toward evening and the big saloon was filling up with a boisterous crowd. Slade noted something that gave him food for thought. The cowhands, whose number was increasing, kept strictly to themselves, and the oil workers, who were still heavily in the majority, kept away from them. The friendly merging of various groups customary to such a place was laoking; and the looks with which the two factions favored one another were anything but cordial. Slade felt that the place was very much of a powder keg with little needed to set off an explosion.
But when the row started, it was not between oilmen and cowboys but between two groups of oil workers. Slade had noticed the two groups enter the saloon, one shortly after the other, to take vacant tables that happened to be close together. The first group had waved to Bob Kent who waved back. The second passed by with a glance in his direction and a drawing together of heads. They were hardcase looking individuals dressed in working clothes, and the first group did not appear exactly tame. They interested the ranger who every now and then glanced in their directon. He noted that words were being tossed back and forth between the two tables and the voices of the speakers didn’t sound exactly amicable.
Suddenly a big driller of the first group leaped to his feet with an oath. A squat, heavily built man at the other table also jumped from his chair. The two met head-on, slugging toe to toe. The heavy-set man went down with a crash, and as if his fall was a signal the other occupants of the tables were at it in a hitting, wrestling, swearing tangle.
The place was in an uproar. Men were shouting, dance-floor girls screaming, bartenders uttering soothing yells that were not heeded. The lookout was brandishing his shotgun and threatening all and sundry. Wade Ballard came boring through the mob, flinging men to right and left with surprising strength. Behind him bellowed Blaine Richardson, his face flushed a fiery red. The heavy-set man, who was wearing a gun, scrambled to his feet and charged the tall driller. And again he measured his length on the floor.
In the swift whirl of hectic action, Walt Slade’s keen eyes noted what nobody else appeared aware of. The heavy-set man was riding with his opponent’s awkward punches; the knockdowns were phony as a seven-dollar bill. Slade had no notion what it meant but he was instantly very much on the alert.
The heavy-set man came to his feet again, a bit more slowly, shouting curses. With a swift, smooth draw he pulled the gun at his belt and fired, seemingly point-blank at the tall driller.
Walt Slade felt the wind of the passing bullet fan his face as with a marvelous coordination of mind and muscle he went sideways from his chair. Just in time he had seen the glint of eyes in his direction, the eyes of the heavy-set man focused not on the driller but on him. And in the same flicker of perfectly timed motion, his right hand flashed down and up. The crash of a second shot caused the hanging lamps to jump. The heavy-set man howled with pain and doubled up, gripping his blood spurting hand between his knees. His gun, one butt plate knocked off, thudded to the floor a dozen feet away.
Walt Slade’s voice rang through the turmoil. “Hold it!” he thundered. “Everybody where they are!” He had a gun in each hand now and the black muzzles, one wisping smoke, yawned at the
Similar Books
