Free Range Ghost by Bradford Scott Page B

Slade’s exploit,” he observed. “It was good hearing to me. I’ll have to admit that of late I’ve been getting a mite worried. Big fellows like Fletcher and Norman can take it, for a while, but the little fellow, like myself, can’t. Did I lose a shipping herd, I’d find myself in straitened circumstances. Even a small bunch now and then hurts.”
    Which Slade knew to be true. Even the big ownerscould not for long withstand a steady drain on their resources. Organized widelooping had forced more than one rancher to the wall, and not always the small ones.
    “A nice sort of feller,” Carter remarked after Shaw had left the office. “We could use more of his sort in place of some we’ve been getting of late.”
    Slade did not argue the point pro or con, although he admitted that Tobar Shaw made a good impression. As in the case of Ditmar, he had not formed a definite opinion relative to Shaw; he was not in the habit of exercising snap judgment where anybody he met was concerned, having learned from experience that men are not always what they appear to be. Neale Ditmar might be all right despite his somewhat forbidding exterior, but then again he could be just the opposite.
    The crowd had pretty well dissipated, only a few curious stragglers remaining. The sheriff shooed them out and shut the door.
    “Suppose we amble over to the Trail End for a surrounding?” he said to Slade. “Nobody will admit knowing those two hellions there on the floor and there’s no sense in sticking around longer right now.”
    Slade was agreeable and they made their way to Sanders’ place, where Swivel-eye had an uproarious welcome for them.
    “One out of my private bottle!” he boomed, waving said bottle in the air. “This calls for a mite of a celebration. So you hit those wind spiders where it hurt, Mr. Slade?”
    “Guess two of ’em got sorta ‘hurt,’ and I’ve a notion another one ain’t feeling any too good about now,” the sheriff observed dryly. “A Winchester slug sorta discommodes you no matter where it nicksyou. Much obliged, Swivel-eye. Yep, I can stand another one.”
    While they were eating, Neale Ditmar came in accompanied by three of his hands, one hobbling along with the aid of a makeshift crutch. Sheriff Carter stared at him.
    “Where do you figure you hit that sidewinder the other night?” he asked Slade.
    “Now don’t go jumping to conclusions,” the Ranger cautioned. “Lots of ways a man can hurt his leg.”
    “Uh-huh, lots of ways,” grunted Carter, biting savagely on a hunk of steak.
    After they finished their meal and a smoke, Slade said, “Suppose we pay Doc Beard a visit?”
    “Okay by me,” replied the sheriff, giving him a curious glance but asking no questions.
    They found the doctor in his office cleaning some instruments. He waved them to chairs.
    “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Carter seein’ snakes again? The last time it was centipedes with chilblains.” Slade countered with a question of his own, “Treated any gunshot wounds lately, Doc?”
    “Yep,” Beard replied. “That’s why I’m cleaning things up. Just a little while ago I worked on one of Neale Ditmar’s hands. Young hellion said he was cleaning his gun and it went off; drilled a slice through his left thigh.”
    Sheriff Carter gave a derisive snort, and glanced significantly at Slade. El Halcon asked another question, “Did you happen to note what course the bullet took?”
    “Yep,” Beard repeated, “it slanted sorta down, as was to be expected.” Carter shot Slade a puzzled look.
    “Why the devil did you ask that?” he said.
    “Because,” Slade replied, “you will recall that the other night I was standing on the ground, while the man I shot was mounted on a horse. Under such circumstances, the muzzle of my rifle would be tilted up a mite and it is rather unlikely that a bullet from it would take a downward course.”
    “I see,” nodded Carter. “So that lets the jigger out,