A Ranger's Time

by Edward Gates

  He heard a shot followed by another. Charlie ran through the front of the restaurant and went outside only to hear the sound of a galloping horse heading up Polk Street. Charlie watched Marshal Cook run from an alley onto Polk Street and aim his handgun at the retreating horseman only to realize his target was out of range. The marshal holstered his gun without firing and joined Charlie. Charlie went back to the kitchen. Mac Sherman had escaped once again. Charlie’s blood began to boil. He could feel the rage inside of him intensify. I’ll kill that Sherman.

  Hanna looked up at Charlie with a concerned look on her face.

  “Why don’t you go outside and get some air? You can’t do anything for him in here.”

  “Has the bleeding eased any?” Charlie asked.

  “No.” Hanna lowered her head and turned to look at Russell. She shook her head and turned to Charlie with tear-filled eyes. “He doesn’t look too good, Charlie. He’s not breathing right.”

  Just then Charlie heard footsteps coming through the restaurant. Doc Morgan entered the tiny kitchen and walked past Charlie directly to Russell lying motionless on the small cot.

  “What do we have here?”

  “The boy’s been shot, Doc. He needs help right away.”

  Doc Morgan pulled the candle closer to Russell. “Do you have any more light, Hanna?”

  Hanna nodded and left the kitchen. She soon returned carrying a hurricane oil lamp and a sheet from her bedroom, and set it on the table. The doctor pulled the lamp closer to him and turned up the wick for more light. Hanna tore the sheet into strips for the doctor to use.

  “Is he gonna be alright?” Charlie’s voice quivered.

  “I don’t know, Charlie. Looks like he lost a lot of blood.”

  “He has to live, Doc,” Charlie demanded.

  “I’ll do everything I can, Charlie,” Morgan said.

  “You don’t understand. He HAS to live! He just has to,” Charlie impatiently said. “You have no idea what could happen if he dies back here. The ramifications of him not getting back have never been ...”

  Morgan and Hanna stared at him with blank looks on their faces. Charlie stopped. For a moment he’d forgotten where and when he was. Charlie’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  Hanna gave Charlie a tender smile and a reassuring pat on his arm.

  “I know you’re worried, Charlie. Like I said, I’ll do everything I can.” Doc Morgan gave a nod to Charlie and went back to attending to Russell. “Let’s see what we’re working with, here.”

  He pulled away the towel Hanna had placed over the injury and tore open the blood stained shirt. He pushed and probed the wound to locate the bullet and see what damage was done.

  “We got two holes here. Looks like the bullet went through,” Doc Morgan said. “But it looks like it splintered his lower rib. There’s bone fragments inside. It must have hit the rib and deflected out.”

  The doctor pointed to a wooden bucket on a side table. “There’s a pump out back. Fill that bucket up with water and bring it in here.”

  Charlie grabbed the wash pail and quickly returned with the vessel full of water. He set it on the floor near the bed where Doc had opened his instrument bag and was working on Russell. He probed the wound and removed as many small bone fragments he could find. Morgan pulled a brown bottle and a clear glass vial from his bag.

  “What’s that stuff?” Charlie asked.

  “This here is pure grain alcohol.” The Doc handed the glass vial to Charlie. “I get this over at Taylor’s Saloon. There’s a gal there named Ethyl that brews her own shine. It’s good pure alcohol. This is what it looks before she cuts it; clear, like water.”

  “Cuts it?” Hanna asked.

  “This stuff will more-an-likely kill ya’ if you drink it straight up. So, she waters it down some and adds some honey or burnt sugar or some spices to flavor it and then adds some tobacco chunks and who knows what else for coloring,” Doc explained. “In its pure state, it’s good for cleaning up wounds.”

  “What about this?” Charlie picked up the larger brown bottle.

  “It’s a calcium chloride solution. It’s supposed to keep the infection down.” Doc tore a clean linen cloth into strips and folded one into a small pad. He poured the alcohol from the vial onto the pad and wiped down the wound.

  “It’s a good thing this boy’s knocked out, else he’d be screaming bloody hell with this stuff on him,” Doc said.

  Once the wounds were cleaned to Doc Morgan’s satisfaction he pulled a coiled string and a hooked needle from his bag. The bleeding appeared to have diminished.

  “I use a violin string.” The doctor smiled at Charlie. “It’s easier to get instrument strings here than it is to get catgut sutures shipped in.”

  Charlie watched as the doctor pinched the wound together and looped the hooked needle through the skin and pulled the string taut.

  “They’re both made with the same material,” the doctor said while suturing. “I tried making some here, but I used up all my lye and I couldn’t get the intestines scraped completely clean. They just wouldn’t separate well enough. So I used my violin strings.”

  After Doc Morgan stitched both wounds closed, he took a clean pad of folded linen and poured some of the calcium solution on it and placed it over the wounds.

  “I’m gonna need you to hold this boy up while I wrap these strips around him.”

  Charlie stepped forward and gently pulled Russell up by his shoulders and held him until the Doc finished the bandaging.

  “You got a place for him to stay?” Morgan asked.

  Charlie shook his head no.

  “He can stay right here for as long as he needs to,” Hanna offered.

  “Is he gonna be all right?” Charlie asked.

  Doc Morgan washed his hands in the bucket of water and dried

  them. “Well, we’ll see. He should live, as long as the infection stays away. Hopefully he won’t bust that wound open again and bleed out.”

  Charlie gently laid Russell back down on the cot and brushed a few strands of hair away from the boy’s face.

  “Don’t worry about him, Charlie,” the Doc said quietly. “Hanna will get him cleaned up after he wakes up.”

  “You bet I will,” Hanna replied.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Doc,” Charlie said. “What do I owe you for this?”

  “Nothing right now, Charlie. We’ll talk about it later.” The doctor smiled. “I like the kid’s clothes. They kinda look familiar. I think he’ll need some new ones after this. I can’t help you with that anymore.” He gave Charlie a wink.

  Charlie smiled and shook Doc Morgan’s hand.

  “Keep him quiet. Keep him down. He probably won’t want to eat, but try and get something in him. Maybe some soup or something. I’ll check on him in the morning.” The doctor left Hanna’s and stood outside on the sidewalk for a moment before heading off back to his office.

  Charlie’s mind raced with different thoughts and emotions. He didn’t realize until now how much he really cared for this young man. He can’t die. Not here.

  “Why don’t you go home, Charlie?” Hanna suggested, interrupting his deep thoughts. “Get a good night’s sleep. I will take good care of Hicks, here.”

  “No, I think I’ll stay in town while the boy is here.” Charlie paused. “I do have to find Gus, though, and get him bedded down.”

  “I’m fine. You go.” Hanna waved her hand at Charlie as if pushing him toward the door.

  Charlie walked through the restaurant and stood outside on the sidewalk for a few minutes taking in the cool evening air and enjoying a moment of peace. He carefully scanned the streets and wooden sidewalks looking for anything out of the ordinary. By this time, night had engulfed Amarillo and visibility was limited to the dark outlines of buildings. It was uncommonly quiet for an evening with cowboys in town. Charlie guessed that the shooting had tempered everyone’s spirit, at least for the time being. A l
ight was on in the marshal’s office so he went to visit Amos.

  “How’s the boy?” Marshal Cook asked as Charlie entered.

  “Doc got him all patched up. Wait and see. I’m gonna keep him at Hanna’s until Doc says he can be moved.” Charlie paused and sat in the chair across from the marshal’s desk. “Where’s Mac?”

  “Gone,” the marshal said. “I went after him behind those buildings, but he must have doubled back in the dark, got his horse and left town.”

  “You didn’t go after him?” Charlie stood, raising his voice.

  Marshal Cook leaned back in his chair. “Hold up a minute, Charlie, its pitch black out there. You know this land better than anybody. You can’t see anything out there,” Marshal Cook leaned forward and looked at the paperwork he had been working on. “Besides, we both know where he went.”

  Charlie nodded and sat down. He was nervously tapping his heel on the floor. He felt as if he was going to crawl out of his skin. The anger over the shooting and losing Mac was making him a nervous wreck. He had to settle down. His initial thought was to go out to Walker’s camp looking for Sherman. But he had to think straight. The marshal was right. Riding out in the dark would be nothing but chasing shadows. And he was sure Mac went back to join the skeleton crew that Abe left with the herd. He knew where to find him. Charlie was too nervous and upset to sit. He stood and walked around inside the small office.

  “Tuck took Gus back up to the livery,” the marshal told Charlie. “He said he’d keep him there as long as you need.”

  “Tuck’s a good man. I’ll catch up with him tomorrow.” After a minute he noticed the deputy was gone. “Where’s Johnson?”

  “He’s walking around town between the hotel and the bowery. That’s where those cowboys seem to congregate.”

  “Any trouble yet?”

  “Naw, not yet. It’s too early. They ain’t liquored up enough yet.”

  Charlie paced in silence. It helped calm him. Charlie stopped and looked inside the empty jail cell. He had an idea.

  “We gotta get Mac to come back into town,” Charlie said.

  “Now just how you planning on doing that?”

  “We keep his boss here.”

  “His boss?” the marshal asked.

  “Yeah. You throw Abe in jail. With him locked up he won’t be able to sell his cows and pay off the cowboys. Mac will have to come in to get Abe out of jail.”

  Marshal Cook shook his head. “I don’t know about this, Charlie.”

  “Abe will sell those cows tomorrow,” Charlie persisted, “and once he does, we won’t see him or Mac again for a long time.”

  “That’d be just fine with me.”

  “We have to end this, Amos. Mac has to pay for shooting Russell. And we’ll never get another chance like this.”

  Before the marshal could answer, Charlie walked to the marshal’s desk. “How about getting a drink with me?”

  Marshal Cook shook his head but didn’t answer. Then, as if reading Charlie’s mind, the marshal leaned back in his chair and smiled at Charlie. “Yeah, I think a drink might be a good idea right about now. How about the hotel’s saloon?”

  “Just the place I was thinking of.” Charlie grinned as he pulled Cook’s hat from the peg on the wall and handed it to the Marshal.

  12

  The Arrest

  Marshal Cook and Charlie began a leisurely walk along Polk Street toward Henry Sanborn’s 40-room Amarillo Hotel. The hotel wasn’t even two years old at this point, but it had already established itself as a grand place where people came to not only stay overnight, but to just pass the time. It attracted politicians, traders, ranchers and all kinds of businessmen from all around the area. The hotel was becoming the business center of Amarillo.

  As Charlie and the marshal walked along the sidewalk, they heard the laughter and music filtering out onto the streets from the various establishments around town.

  “It always starts like this,” Amos said. Charlie looked at the marshal but didn’t answer. “The evening. It always starts with everyone laughing, having a good time and a few drinks. A few hours from now they’ll be paired off hollering at each other and starting fights.”

  “Well, that’s when you earn your money,” Charlie said as they reached the hotel.

  The marshal just smiled. Outside the hotel, Deputy Johnson sat on a bench with his shotgun across his lap.

  “Go on back to the office and wait for me. We’ll take this watch for a while,” the marshal instructed.

  Deputy Johnson tipped his hat and headed back to the marshal’s office to watch over the cache of guns they’d collected from the cowboys.

  The two lawmen entered the hotel and stopped at the front desk to speak with the clerk.

  “Any trouble here tonight?”

  The clerk shook his head and looked across the lobby into the crowded saloon.

  “No trouble, Marshal. But they’re all a little squirrely after the shooting tonight,” the hotel worker reported. “You’d better walk easy.”

  “Squirrely, huh?” The marshal looked over at Charlie. “Let’s get that drink.”

  The marshal headed across the lobby toward the adjoining saloon and Charlie followed close behind. They stood just inside the doorway surveying the crowded barroom.

  The saloon was not only one of the finer establishments in town, it was also the largest saloon in town. The bar stretched along the entire back wall. A small stage sat in the front corner of the room opposite the hotel lobby entrance. An out of tune piano sat on the stage being poorly played by a somewhat sober musician.

  Cigar smoke hung thick in the air and the smell of beer and Ethyl’s rotgut whiskey filled the room. A number of round tables scattered throughout the barroom were occupied by those enjoying libations, while a few other tables had their occupants engaged in a card or dice game. The house gambling was situated along the front wall of the saloon and included a numbers wheel, a few faro tables and a couple of hi-lo birdcage games.

  Charlie spotted Abe Walker seated at the end of the faro table furthest from the door. Looking at the small stack of chips in front of the cattle baron, it was obvious to Charlie that Abe was having a bad night gambling. A few cowboys stood around him watching the table, while the rest of his crew were scattered throughout the saloon.

  Marshal Cook and Charlie walked through the crowded barroom and muscled their way up to the bar. The bartender greeted them and asked what they wanted.

  “Coffee,” the marshal ordered and then looked at Charlie.

  “Give me a beer.” Charlie watched Walker lose another bet.

  “I can’t just arrest a man for no reason, Charlie.”

  “Oh, believe me, you’ll have a reason,” Charlie offered, “and I don’t think it will take long, either.”

  The bartender set a glass of warm beer and a hot cup of coffee on the bar. Charlie dumped a few coins on the bar from which the barkeep took what he was owed and left the rest. Charlie took a few sips of the beer and turned back around to watch the crowd.

  “How you want to handle this?” Marshal Cook asked.

  Charlie took his gun belt off and set it on the bar in front of the marshal. Then he pulled his spare pistol from his belt and handed it to Marshal Cook. “Watch these for me. You’ll know when to step in.”

  Charlie took a long drink from his beer, set the glass on the bar, and walked through the crowd toward Abe. The closer he got, the more he had to keep his anger in check. Abe was concentrating on the bets he just played on the queen and didn’t see Charlie approach. But the cowboys around him did. One of them whispered in Abe’s ear, and he looked up and glared at Charlie. Abe frowned and puffed out a breath of disgust turning back to the faro board.

  “Doesn’t look like it’s your night,” Charlie said.

  The dealer pulled a queen for the player’s card, and Abe won his last bet.

  “Luck seems to be changing.” Abe collected his winnings. He looked closer at Charlie. “No gun.” He
gave a slight snicker. “I’m busy. What do you want, Ranger?”

  “Mac,” Charlie said abruptly.

  “Ain’t seen him.” Abe placed a few more bets on the board appearing uninterested in Charlie.

  “You’re a liar.”

  Walker jumped to his feet and gave Charlie a defiant look but didn’t move any closer. His face was red with anger. Charlie took a few steps toward Walker. The cowboys around Abe moved a little closer as well. Abe took a deep breath. After collecting his composure, he sat back down and watched the dealer draw a card he hadn’t bet. He slammed his fist down on the table in frustration of losing another round. He looked at Charlie who grinned at his misfortune.

  “I heard your boy got himself killed, tonight.” Abe smiled at Charlie. “What a shame. Dangerous town. You never know what’ll happen.”

  Charlie’s blood boiled and he took a step toward Abe but one of the cowboys stepped in front of him and blocked his path. Charlie stopped and regained his self-control. Abe said “killed”. He didn’t know Russell was still alive.

  “Now you know how I feel, lawman! Eye for an eye, I’d call it.” Abe raised his voice a notch.

  “That boy was just walking down the street! He didn’t hurt anyone!” Charlie matched Abe’s volume. “Your son shot a Deputy US Marshal and was trying to kill a ranger.”

  “You killed my boy!” Abe hollered as he leapt to his feet and charged Charlie.

  Even though Charlie expected some sort of attack, the old cattle baron’s quickness and agility took him by surprise. Abe threw a right cross at Charlie, who ducked and backed up. He moved quickly, but his chin still caught a glancing blow from Walker’s fist. It didn’t hurt, but Charlie stumbled backward into the crowd, somewhat supported by them long enough to regain his balance.

  Just as quickly, Abe was on him again and threw another punch, this time connecting solidly with the left side of Charlie’s head. Charlie almost blacked out and the force of the blow caused him to lose his balance again. This time the crowd had moved away and he fell to the floor. Charlie struggled to his feet in a crouched stance, expecting another blow from Walker at any time. Focusing on Walker’s legs, Charlie charged him knocking him into one of the faro tables and then onto the floor.