Alvin Fog, Texas Ranger

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Does the same thing happen if anybody goes there in the daytime?’ Alvin asked.

  ‘Nope,’ the Major answered. ‘Only after dark.’

  ‘Wow me, I’m only a half-smart old timer,’ Branch remarked. ‘But I never heard tell of a ha’nt coming out to be seen in the daytime.’

  ‘Or me,’ Alvin confessed, giving off an aura of martyrdom. ‘Only, seeing I’m a mite skeptical about whether there are such things, excepting for the ghost of the Dowager Duchess of Brockley, who must be true because Grandmomma Freddie said she is, I’m wondering if maybe somebody doesn’t want folks around the canyon after dark?’ He paused and glared defiantly at his partner as if anticipating an argument and, when none was forthcoming, went on, ‘What’s more, I’m sort of surprised nobody’s gone in there, figuring the same way I do, to try and find out if maybe there is gold there in spite of what Brixton said before he went and killed himself after making sure nobody could walk in and check up on him too easily.’

  ‘Nobody can,’ Tragg explained. ‘The day after the coroner’s jury had brought in its verdict, who should show up but Brixton’s out-of-town lawyer? Seems like he’d made a will leaving the property to his only living kin, a cousin he’d lost touch with, but was convinced was still alive. He was so certain sure of that, he’d arranged for there to be enough money available, should anything happen to him, it would pay the taxes and keep the place safe until the said cousin could be found to claim it, which hasn’t happened yet.’

  ‘So that means the canyon’s still private property and nobody can work it without the owner’s go-ahead,’ Alvin remarked, seeing the ramifications of such an arrangement had not escaped the other men in the room. ‘But that was one hell of a coincidence, him having made such a will and, having committed suicide, the lawyer showing up when it was most needed. It puts me in mind of when old Elmo Thackery met his end.’

  ‘Likely,’ Tragg said, being conversant with the events which occurred as a result of the stipulations in a will made by the extremely wealthy rancher whose name the small Texan had mentioned. [50] ‘And, anyways, Reece Mervyn’s got a habit of showing up when he’s needed.’

  ‘Reece Mervyn!’ Alvin repeated. ‘But he’s—’

  ‘Hogan Turtle’s top hand shyster,’ Branch finished for his partner, referring to the current head of a family which had been prominent in the criminal activities of Texas even before independence was won from Mexico in 1836. [51]

  ‘I didn’t know he went in for that kind of legal work,’ Alvin protested, having no doubt the Major and the rest of the sergeants shared his and Branch’s knowledge about the status of the man in question.

  ‘He’d do any kind of law wrangling, was he paid enough,’ Branch asserted.

  ‘Most ’specially when it could be something’s he’d likely not need to raise too much sweat over for his pay and might get them mucky-mucks in the State Attorney General’s office thinking’s how we’n’s’s maybe way off the trail when we allow he’s crookeder’n the bends in the Twisting River, wherever in hell’s name that might be.’

  ‘Something’s starting to give me a lil hint there could be a whole heap more to it than just that,’ Alvin declared. Then, although he had lost the mock unctuous tone he had employed on his superior’s arrival as soon as he deduced the conversation was about a matter of some importance, he went on, ‘In fact, I’ll go so far as to say I’m getting a sneaking suspicion you-all reckon so too, sir.’

  ‘There could be,’ Tragg conceded, taking several documents from his briefcase. ‘I’d be tempted to go even further and say I’m just about sure there is.’

  ‘I’ve been saying so ever since I first heard about Brixton’s ha’nt scaring folks out’n the canyon,’ Branch inserted, exuding an air of conscious virtue. ‘Only nobody ever listens to me.’

  ‘There’s some who’d say they were wise not to,’ Alvin countered. ‘Wasn’t you saying something about it maybe having killed somebody instead of just scaring them off this time, sir? Way you’ve been talking, it’s not done that before.’

  ‘There’s nothing to prove it has this time, comes to that,’ Tragg warned, picking up the top sheet of paper. ‘Fact being, ’most everything seems to suggest it hasn’t.’

  ‘But not everything?’ Alvin suggested.

  ‘Not everything,’ the Major confirmed, laying just as much emphasis on the second word. ‘Seems that a bunch of young cowhands had been drinking in Soskice’s Hotel a few days back and one took to boasting he could go out and fetch back Brixton’s ghost should it show itself. There were bets laid and he took off on his lonesome, as was called for, to do it. When he hadn’t come back by noon the next day, a search party went looking for him. They found his body about a mile clear of the canyon, with nothing to suggest he’d been any closer.’

  ‘Which there likely wouldn’t be, what I know of the Badlands back of Grouperville,’ Branch put in, looking to and receiving a nod of confirmation from Swift Eagle. ‘The ground there’s harder’n a Yankee banker’s heart.’

  ‘Like you say, likely there wouldn’t be,’ Tragg conceded. ‘Anyways, according to Sheriff Healey’s findings, the cowhand had either fallen or been thrown from his horse where they found him. As he was going down, the Peacemaker he’d been toting stuck in his waist band slipped out, fired when it hit the ground and sent the bullet through his chest to kill him.’

  ‘Such could’ve happened, was he loco enough to be cocked and with six bullets in the cylinder,’ Branch stated in a judicial fashion and with a defiant glance at his partner. ‘Which most young cusses don’t have enough good sense not to.’

  ‘It couldn’t have happened had he been toting an automatic, they only go off when they’re meant to,’ Alvin affirmed, despite knowing his declaration to be incorrect, the relative merits of the two firing systems being a topic upon which he and the elderly sergeant frequently found themselves in opposition. Then, having concluded that none of the other Rangers had a high regard for Sheriff Healey’s intelligence or ability as a peace officer, he went on, ‘Had the Peacemaker been fired, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tragg replied, indicating the sheet of paper on top of the small pile he was holding. ‘But whether it happened the way the sheriff reckons isn’t all that certain. At least, according to this, there wasn’t even a trace of burning on the body from the muzzle flash. Which there should have been, seeing as the Peacemaker was firing black powder shells and he must have been hit from pretty close if it had happened the way it was supposed to.’

  ‘Which same looks to an uneddicated ole country boy like me’s if good ole Sheriff Fat Jim Healey, who we all loves and ree-spects so dearly, could’ve maybe made him just a lil mite of a mistook,’ Branch drawled and once again turned a challenging gaze to the small Texan as if expecting an argument. ‘How-all do you smart young jaspers see it?’

  ‘They do say such can happen to the best of us, which I’m starting to get a right sneaky sort of feeling Sheriff Fat Jim Healey doesn’t rate as being,’ Alvin answered. Then, having observed that the information to which his superior was referring had been handwritten on what appeared to be a page torn from a school exercise book, he deduced it had not originated via an official source and inquired, ‘Who’s sent us the word about the killing, sir?’

  ‘The letter isn’t signed,’ Tragg replied, perceiving that the young sergeant’s powers of observation and astute judgment had not gone unnoticed by the other men. ‘But taken with the suspicions I’ve been getting ever since I heard the stories about Brixton’s ghost haunting the canyon, I still reckon it’s worth acting on. So that’s what we’re going to do.’

  ‘Should Sheriff Healey right kindly ask us to sit in, of course,’ Alvin grinned, being aware that the Texas Rangers had no legal right to participate in a local investigation unless their assistance was requested by the county or municipal law enforcement agency in whose jurisdiction the incident had taken place.

  ‘Of course, if he should have a mind to do it,’
Tragg answered blandly. ‘On the other hand, should it happen to slip his mind and he doesn’t invite us, which’s more likely, Company “Z”’s going in regardless. That’s what you loafers out here on the spread are being paid to do and, way I see it, the time’s come for you-all to start earning your money.’

  The assembled sergeants exchanged glances and the same thoughts were running through every mind. The events in the Badlands near Grouperville could be the result of some form of illegal activity. So this was to be the first of the official/unofficial assignments which Company “Z” had been formed to handle. Their future in such an unconventional capacity, perhaps even as Texas Rangers, depended upon whether their activities met with success—or failure.

  ‘Howdy you-all, Mister Hollingshead,’ greeted the only customer in the barroom of Soskice’s Hotel, having looked around on hearing footsteps entering. His formerly pleasant Texas drawl became increasingly less amiable as he continued, ‘I haven’t seen you-all since—’

  About six foot in height, tall yet conveying an impression of possessing wiry strength, with rusty-red hair and a handsome, Indian-dark face, the speaker appeared to be in his late twenties. His attire was that of a working cowhand and had seen considerable hard use. Watching from behind the counter, Abel Softly concluded he disliked the person who had just come in and would bear watching on that account.

  Although he had behaved in a friendly fashion since his arrival shortly after the bar opened and had had only one schooner of beer, there was an air about him which suggested to experienced eyes that he might not be slow to turn a feeling of animosity into open aggression against whoever had aroused it.

  ‘You’re mistaken, my name isn’t Hollingshead!’ the newcomer interrupted, speaking irritably and with the accent of a well-educated Southron. Not very tall, he was blond haired and sturdily built, appearing to be slightly younger than the cowhand. In spite of the horn-rimmed spectacles he had on, his face was tanned as if he spent much of his time out of doors. Nothing in his attire, not even the white Stetson with a Montana peak crown, [52] implied that he might have any connection with the cattle business. Nor did the rest of his garments offer any clue as to how he might earn his living, being comprised of a brown corduroy Norfolk jacket with matching trousers tucked into the calf-high legs of untanned boots more suitable for walking than riding, an open necked gray flannel shirt and a multi-hued silk cravat. Having made the statement in a manner which showed he considered the matter was closed, he went on in an only slightly less irascible tone, ‘Who do I see about taking a room for a few days, bartender?’

  ‘There’s a bell on the desk in the lobby,’ Softly answered, with just a trace of asperity in his voice. However, although he disliked the way in which he had been addressed, he refrained from offering to correct the small man’s misapprehension with regards to his exact status in the hotel. ‘Happen you go and give it a bang, the clerk’ll come and ’tend to you.’

  Big, burly, with scanty brown hair plastered down by a liberal application of bay rum, the man behind the counter had florid features that generally appeared jovial. He was wearing a collarless blue and white striped shirt, a pair of trousers in a loud checkered pattern and well-polished black town boots, but there was nothing about his appearance to suggest he was other than he seemed to be. However, while he had not attempted to revise the newcomer’s assumption that he was no more than an employee, the nominal owner—among others—knew this was anything but the case. It was he and not Oliver Soskice who gave the orders, or made the decisions, about the way in which the hotel should be run on behalf of the actual proprietor. He also had various other responsibilities in Grouperville and the surrounding district which went far beyond the continued operation of the establishment. In fact, although he generally tried to avoid letting it become discovered by strangers until he knew more about them, he was a person of much greater influence and authority than would have been the case if he had been merely a bartender.

  ‘Like hell I was mistaken!’ the cowhand growled indignantly, after the newcomer had turned and strode from the room in a swaggering fashion redolent of arrogant self-assurance. That son-of-a-bitch is Otis J. Hollingshead, or my name’s not Dick Blood!’

  ‘He’s for sure got a mighty high opinion of himself,’ Softly commented, having watched the departure with the gaze of one well versed in the study of human nature. He decided the small man’s bearing was caused by a belief that he was a person of considerable importance. If this was the case, it might prove worthwhile to learn more about him and, from what had been said, the means to do so could be close at hand. ‘And, happen he is who you reckon, he’s mighty shy of letting it be known.’

  ‘He’s who I said,’ the cowhand asserted, having returned his gaze to the man behind the bar. ‘Only could be there’s what he reckons’s a right good reason for stopping it being known.’

  ‘You don’t mean he’s an owlhoot on the run from the law, do you?’ Softly asked, despite his instincts suggesting this was not the case.

  ‘Naw!’ Blood answered in a bitter tone. ‘At least, not unless helping some goddamned rich oil-man to sneak away honest folks’s land without telling ’em what’s waiting to be got out from under it’s been made again’ the law. Which I don’t reckon, the pull them rich Texas tea raising son-of-bitches have in Austin, they’ll’ve let that happen.’

  ‘I don’t follow you-all, friend,’ Softly stated, sounding far less interested than he was feeling.

  ‘He allows to be a gee-hello-pissed,’ Blood explained, still bristling with what appeared to be indignation. ‘Or some such similar thing.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A gee-hello-pissed. He goes sneaking around on folks’s range looking at rocks and stuff he digs up ’n’ allows he can tell from ’em whether there’s oil, gold, or whatever buried under it.’

  ‘Do you mean a geologist?’

  ‘Yep,’ Blood confirmed. ‘That’s the son-of-a-bitching brand he laid on hisself. After he’s through sneaking around secret-like and doing it, he passes the word to whoever’s hiring him so’s they can buy out the folks’s owns the land without saying why, or paying a fair price for it.’

  ‘Is that what he did to your folks?’ Softly suggested, employing a show of sympathy which he felt sure would elicit any further information the cowhand possessed.

  ‘Like hell he did!’ Blood snorted, with what sounded like a-mixture of annoyance and disappointment. ‘I wouldn’t be hungry-bellied and looking for a riding chore if he had. The son-of-a-bitch allowed there wasn’t nothing under our land. So it was them goddamned Hickey bunch down the trail a-ways’s got their land bought by the Counters and not us.’

  ‘That sure was hard luck on you-all,’ Softly drawled, with well simulated commiseration. He now considered that, as the Counter family had been involved, [53] his customer’s antipathy where the newcomer was concerned had arisen more from the result of the negative report than out of any genuine and justified objections to the land grabbing propensities of men engaged in the oil producing industry which had supplanted cattle raising as the major factor of the economy in some parts of Texas. However, sounding no more than marginally concerned, he went on, ‘So he’s a geologist, is he?’

  ‘He is!’ Blood affirmed.

  ‘Well,’ Softly sniffed, still appearing far from interested or impressed. ‘I don’t reckon’s he’s come to do any of his geologisting around these parts. It was proved by that loco mining man, Brixton, there’s nothing valuable in the ground hereabouts.’

  ‘He was after gold, what I heard,’ the cowhand pointed out. ‘Could be somebody’s got took with the notion there might be oil in this neck of the woods. Which being the case, either the Counters or some of them other land-grabbing oil bunch could’ve sent him to nose around secret like and see if there is. Happen they have, he for sure wouldn’t want folks hereabouts to find out who and what he was.’

  ‘It wouldn’t help him to do his work if they did,’ Softly conceded
, then continued after a shrug which apparently registered disappointment. ‘But good luck to him—and whoever’s hiring him—should it be so. Only I don’t reckon it is, more’s the pity seeing how something like that could bring in plenty of business for us at the hotel. I tell you, friend, things have been so blasted quiet around here, what with Prohibition and all, the boss was saying he can’t hardly afford to keep me on much longer. Can I get you-all something else?’

  ‘Nope, gracias,’ Blood answered, pushing across the counter from which he had been drinking beer sold in open defiance of the Volstead Act. [54] ‘I reckon I’d best be on my way and see if I can find me a riding chore at one of the spreads hereabouts. I’ll likely be seeing you-all again, should I be lucky.’

  Watching the cowhand strolling leisurely towards the street door, a frown came to Softly’s face. Despite his comment about the paucity of trade, his reaction was not caused by the thought that Blood’s departure would leave him with no further customers requiring his services and wares. Because of his true status, he was far from as indifferent to the arrival of a man who might be a geologist than he had pretended while speaking with the cowhand. Nor did his curiosity stem from the possibility of an increase in the hotel’s business and revenue should the newcomer’s investigations prove fruitful. Rather the opposite, in fact. The last thing he wanted was for there to be an influx of people around the town, even if they possessed money to spend in the barroom.

  The buzzing of a telephone’s bell from close at hand diverted Softly’s speculations from the possible reason for the visit by a geologist, particularly one who clearly had a desire to remain incognito. Although there was a switchboard at the reception desk, he was aware that the sound had neither originated from nor had been routed through it. A candlestick pedestal telephone stood on a shelf beneath the bar, where it was out of the customers’ sight. It was an extension from the telephone in his private quarters and the hotel’s staff had strict orders that he alone must answer it. Walking to the end of the counter, he picked up the instrument by its pedestal and lifted the earphone.