Gunsmoke over Texas Read Free

told Mawson as he thumbed the blade, “but it’s got a razor edge and is first-class steel. Anyhow, it’ll have to do.”
    He walked to the kitchen stove, in which a roaring fire was going. Removing a lid, he passed the knife blade through the flame a couple of times and waved it in the air to cool it.
    “All right,” he told his assistants, “you know what to do. Hang onto him no matter what happens. All set?”
    He bent over the wounded man’s chest and used the knife with swift, sure strokes. Clate Mawson groaned, gasped. Slade cut the flesh again. Clate screamed and struggled madly to throw himself from the table. Slade stepped back and calmly waited while the sturdy cowhands fought his desperate efforts and pinned him motionless. Clate gave a last agonized cry, went rigid and relaxed to lie without further sound or motion.
    “He’s gone!” panted one of the cowboys.
    “No, he’s just passed out again, which is the best thing that could have happened,” Slade replied quietly. “We shouldn’t have any more trouble with him. Steady now, I’m almost finished.”
    Another quick stroke of the knife and he reached deft, gentle fingers through the bloody opening. With an exclamation of satisfaction he drew forth the deadly splinter, fully a third of the rib with a needle point; he held it up for Tom Mawson to see.
    “Okay,” he said, “got it without doing any damage. See how his breathing has changed already. Now we’ll clean the wound and pad it to check the bleeding. The rest of the rib looks all right but shaping it up is too much of a chore for me, even if I had the tools. The doctor will finish the job.”
    He worked on the wound for some time, surveyed the bandaging and straightened his back with a sigh of relief. He picked up the bloody section of rib and regarded it quizzically.
    “Save it for him as a souvenir,” he told old Tom. “Maybe he’ll want to make a knife handle of it. Isn’t everybody able to claim he’s carrying a hunk of himself around in his pocket!”
    That broke the tension. The cowboys shook with suppressed mirth. Even old Tom indulged in a wan chuckle.
    “Put a thin pillow or a folded blanket under his head,” Slade directed. “Cover him well and somebody sit beside him. We won’t move him till the doctor gets here. I’m ready to bet a hatful of pesos that he’ll pull through.”
    Old Tom Mawson wiped the sweat from his face, and there was a glitter of tears in his eyes as he gripped Slade’s hand.
    “Feller,” he said thickly, “I believe you’re right. There’s no use for me to try and say anything for what you did, but if you ever want a favor from me, no matter how big, I want you to ask and ask quick.”
    Slade smiled down at him, his even teeth flashing startlingly white in his bronzed face. “Well, sir,” he said, “there’s something you can do for me right now; I’d sure appreciate a bite to eat. And I’d like to put up my horse.”
    Mawson instantly began shouting orders to the cook. “I’ll take care of your cayuse myself,” he finished.
    “Much obliged,” Slade replied. “I’ll walk out with you, though. Old Shadow is sort of shy about anybody putting a hand on him without my okay.”
    A moment later Mawson was exclaiming admiringly over the great black horse who accepted his ministrations with dignity after Slade formally “introduced” the ranchowner.
    With Shadow properly cared for, Slade and Mawson returned to the house. Slade examined young Clate again and was satisfied with his appearance; he seemed to have drifted into a natural sleep. Leaving him on the dining-room table with two watchful cowhands sitting beside him, Slade walked out to the kitchen with Mawson.
    “And now, sir,” he said as they sat down, “I’ll tell you all I know of what happened up there on the rimrock trail.”
    As the story progressed, Mawson’s lined face hardened and his frosty eyes blazed with fury. “That danged oil crowd!” he declared. “There