Range Ghost by Bradford Scott

Arrington and his men made it across by the Lost Lakes that were not supposed to exist, but they entered the desert by way of Gaines County, far to the south of here. Arrington thought the lake he named Ranger Lake was in Gaines County, Texas, but of course we know now that all the lakes are in New Mexico. However, it would be impossible to run a stolen herd south through Texas for such a distance without it being detected. So that route is not to be considered. If by any chance they do cross the desert a short distance south of the Valley, there must be water somewhere about half way across, and so far there has never been a report of any.”
    Slade paused for a moment to roll and light a cigarette. His eyes grew thoughtful.
    “But the Indians knew things we don’t know,” he added. “Perhaps there is hidden water out theresomewhere; it is not beyond the realm of the possible. Nor altogether impossible to discover it, that is, if it really does exist.
    “And as I said, there are people in the Valley who will talk to me; they have been of assistance to me before. So I’m going to chance a sashay into the Valley and see if I can’t learn something. Doesn’t appear to be anything to learn here, at the moment. Be seeing you.” With which he headed for Shadow’s domicile and got the rig on the big black.
    “Time for a little leg-stretching,” he said. Shadow snorted cheerful agreement.
    Wishing to reach the Valley as quickly as possible, Slade rode almost due north at a good pace. It was a beautiful afternoon, the prairie flooded with golden sunshine, and the air held an autumn crispness. Already the grass heads were turning ameythst and the shallow hollows were bronzed with the fading ferns. The blue bowl of the sky pressed down upon the land in a perfect circle, with the ever retreating horizon holding its perfect curve into infinity, or so it seemed to the horse man who rode across the flat expanse with never a hill or a tree in sight and only the whisper of the wind in the grasses to break the all-pervading silence.
    Some fifteen miles to the north of Amarillo, the monotonous expanse was cut by a valley, rough and broken, several hundred feet lower than the plains north and south of it, down which flowed an eccentric river that at times was but a mere trickle, at others a raging flood wallowing over treacherous quicksands. The valley was grown with scrubby cedar and mesquite and bushes and occasional tall trees, and grass that came belly-high on a horse. Itwas a welcome relief to the endless vista of fl atness that hemmed it in on either side.
    This was the Canadian Valley, an oasis in a “desert” of grass.
    Walt Slade liked the prairie, but he liked the rugged valley better, where grew wild choke berries, plums, wild gooseberries, and grapes, where birds made music in the thickets and little animals went about their various businesses cheerfully and without fear, and the living water made its sprightly song and chuckled to itself over outlandish and doubtless ribald secrets of its own.
    The Valley had always attracted “little people” who found food, shelter, and happiness here—which was perhaps why El Halcon liked it so well.
    There were ways to enter the Valley with its precipitous sides and walls of rock, some well known, some otherwise. The best known and easiest crossing was where several creeks converged on the north side of the river and there were broad meadows of spring-fed grass. Here for ages the buffaloes and other wild animals crossed to the south plains, pausing to feed on the luxurious grass. The Indians and the white explorers followed their trails.
    Here, on the north bank of the bridged Canadian River grew the town of Tascosa, for many years the legendary Cowboy Capital of the Plains, around which was waged the struggle between the “little” men and the cattle kings of the rangeland empire of Texas.
    However, Slade’s goal was not Tascosa; there he would be able to learn little more