Free Range Ghost by Bradford Scott Page A

States. Somewhere on the gray desolation between the fertile rangeland and those shadowy peaks lay the answer to the tantalizing riddle that defied him. Somewhere out there was water, or all signs failed. Well, it was up to him to find it and by so doing smash the widelooping bunch that was plaguing the section. He turned back in the saddle, the concentration furrow deep between his black brows, a sure sign El Halcon was doing some hard thinking.
    Did the devils confine their activities to cow stealing it wouldn’t be too bad; but they undoubtedly also went in for such nice sidelines as robbery and murder.
    The mystery of the hidden water was intriguing, but a much more important problem confronted him, that of learning the identity of the head of the outlaw organization, who made the plans and directed operations. Slade felt pretty sure he was somebody thoroughly familiar with the section and its possibilities. According to old Estaban, the Valley dweller, he knew of a crossing other than the one utilizedthe night Fletcher’s cows were stolen, one that Slade himself did not know about. Also, Slade shrewdly suspected he was somebody in a position to garner information and take advantage of opportunities thus provided. Once again the new type of criminal that was invading the West, employing the methods of big city malefactors, staying in the background as much as possible and directing operations from under cover.
    Slade wondered if he had been one of the widelooping bunch whose plans he had frustrated. Somebody had certainly spoken with authority when the order to get the blankety-blank out of there was shouted. That denoted fast and accurate thinking, for unless a chance shot had downed him, holed up in the brush as he was with his targets in the brilliant flood of the moonlight, he would have killed every member of the bunch did they remain in the open and endeavor to shoot it out with him. Somebody realized that and reacted accordingly.
    Well, he had gone up against that sort before, and so far had always come out on top. He rode on with a tranquil mind.
    Progress with the laden mules was slow and the afternoon was well along when the cortege reached Amarillo. The XT hand who, the day before, brought the word to Sheriff Carter had spread the tale around and very quickly a crowd of the curious and the interested trailed along to the sheriff’s office. The latter included several cattlemen who had recently lost stock and their satisfaction was great. One and all they shook hands with Slade and showered him with congratulations.
    “Carter’s been needin’ a deputy like you for quite a spell, now,” one oldtimer remarked. “Ain’t the firsttime you’ve been in this section, is it? I recall hearing what you did to some rapscallions the last time you were here. Keep up the good work!”
    Among those who visited the office was big, irascible Neale Ditmar, who had recently bought his Tumbling D spread, and of whom Sheriff Carter did not overly approve. He looked Slade up and down with his arrogant eyes, then solemnly shook hands.
    “Be seeing you again,” he said, and left. The sheriff’s gaze followed him.
    “I can’t make that hellion out,” he confided in an undertone to Slade. “He sorta makes a feller feel that he’s laughing at you, inside. Sure don’t talk much. Nobody knows for sure just where he came from. From over east is about all he’s ever said.”
    Slade himself had not made up his mind relative to Neale Ditmar. He was something in the nature of an enigma, and enigmas always interested El Halcon, although it had been his experience that they usually turned out to be on the commonplace side. He reserved judgment on Ditmar until he learned more about him and had a chance to study him a bit.
    A more congenial visitor was Tobar Shaw, the Bradded H owner to the west of Keith Norman’s holding. After complimenting Slade, he chatted amicably with the sheriff.
    “I just got in town and heard of Mr.