Free Gunsmoke over Texas by Bradford Scott Page A

carrying out orders and leaving somebody else to do the thinking for them.
    Their pockets divulged nothing of significance save a rather large sum of money, but the pockets themselves of the scrawny man interested Slade. The seams were packed with a greasy grit. Undoubtedly the man had spent considerable time around the oil wells. Which was interesting. So much so that he ripped one of the pocket linings out and stowed it away.
    Slade wasted no time retrieving Shadow. Then he rounded up the cattle and headed them back down the gorge. Managing five hundred head, more or less, of stock was a hefty chore for one man, and had not the cows been too worn out to offer more than token objections, even El Halcon could not have done it. As it was, he finally got them to the main canyon and plodding in weary disgust for its mouth. Once out on the prairie the going was easier for the cattle slogged on toward their accustomed feeding grounds.
    He had the herd less than two miles outside the canyon when he perceived a body of horsemen riding swiftly from the northwest.
    “Now if they’re just the Walking M bunch headed this way, everything is fine and dandy,” he told Shadow. “But if they happen to be those widelooping gents coming back for something they forgot the only thing we can do is leave the cows and run for it.”
    Very quickly, however, he recognized the blocky form of old Tom Mawson riding at the head of his men. Ten minutes more and the group circled the herd and pulled up alongside the ranger, swearing in amazement and volleying questions.
    “Slade,” demanded Curly Nevins, when the babble had somewhat abated, “how the devil did you do it?”
    “Oh, I just pointed out to those jiggers that it was wrong to steal and the only thing for them to do to make things right was send the cows back to their rightful owner,” Slade replied without the trace of a smile, and added grimly, “I understand there’s a deputy sheriff stationed at Weirton? Well, I’ll give him the lowdown how to get to a crack back in that canyon straight ahead to the east. He’ll find a couple of bodies he may want to look over.”
    His hearers stared at him in silence, then old Tom Mawson said heavily, “Son, it seems I keep getting deeper in your debt all the time.”
    “How about those two night hawks Curly mentioned?” Slade asked.
    Mawson’s face hardened and his tired old eyes were filled with pain. “I dunno, but I’m scairt they’re both done in,” he replied. “They hadn’t showed up when we left. I sent a couple of boys galloping over to the pasture to find out. Curly figured the rest of us had better hightail straight down here to lend you a hand. Guess it wasn’t necessary.”
    The cowboys took over the chore of shoving the herd along, with old Tom supervising. Curly Nevins dropped back alongside Slade.
    “You did the old man another hefty favor today,” he remarked. “He couldn’t afford to lose those cows right now. It would have hit him hard.”
    “Had a notion he was pretty well fixed — he owns a mighty nice piece of property,” Slade replied.
    “That’s right,” admitted Nevins, “but you’ll understand what I mean when I say he’s land and cattle poor right at this time. You know the longhorn market has been falling off bad during recent years. There just isn’t any demand for the kind of meat they provide. So a couple of years back the old man decided to bring in blooded stuff and improve his stock, which was a good notion all right. He bought a big herd of Herefords and Anguses to breed with his longhorns. It’ll pay off, but it cost plenty. He borrowed money from the Proctor bank, with the spread as security to do it. This herd was ready to run to the railroad next week, to bring in the money to pay off a note that falls due the first of the month.”
    “Afraid he’ll have to wait a week till they get back the fat those hellions run off them,” Slade interpolated.
    “You’re right about that,”