Nueces Justice

by Greathouse, Mark

  It took just a few minutes for Three Toes to reach what remained of the mail station. His people had apparently done well, as there was evidence of the torture they’d inflicted. He assumed they’d taken scalps. The raiding Comanche were surely Penateka, but he couldn’t be sure which band they were from. They could have been some of Buffalo Hump’s people, but didn’t appear to be from Three Toes’ own band.

  SEVEN

  Respite?

  It didn’t take long for Doc to drive the wagon the five miles back to Nuecestown. Still, they weren’t in much of a hurry at this point. They finally made it to the town, and he pulled the wagon up at the livery stable. Bernice saw them and came out to greet them. “Elisa, are you all right?”

  The girl nodded, but she was worn out. It was dusk and pretty much obvious that Elisa wasn’t returning to the farm that night. Doc went about unloading a few of Elisa’s personal effects and some fresh clothes for Mike. He extended his hand and helped her down from the wagon.

  “Dan,” he told the boy, “take the rig down to the stable, unhitch the mules, and give them some feed.” He then turned to Bernice. “We’re all right, Bernice. Elisa here could use some rest.”

  Bernice paid Doc no never-mind. “Why, Elisa dear, you’re welcome to spend tonight with us. Mike awakened for a bit earlier but went back to sleep. The poor dear is still weak from his ordeal.”

  Elisa chewed on that reference to an ordeal and had a ready retort but held back in deference to the woman’s kindness. “Thank you, Bernice. You’re right, I sure could use some shut-eye. It’s been a long day.”

  “You just come up the way a piece when you’re ready, dear. Aggie and I would be pleased to fix you a dinner. Doc, you’re most welcome to join us.”

  “Thanks, Bernice. I’ll check on little Mike and be by in a piece.” Doc took Elisa’s arm, and they walked toward his house to check on her brother.

  As they reached the porch, Elisa stumbled. She was more tired than she’d thought. Thankfully, Doc was fully sober by now and had a firm grip on her arm. It had been a day of emotional ups and downs. She’d lost family, saved family, killed a Comanche, buried her kinfolk, met a real man, and was faced with life decisions not of her choosing.

  ***

  “Excuse me, Doc.” It was a deep male voice. Sheriff George Whelan had gotten back to town after a couple of days in Corpus Christi at the trial of a horse thief. Amazingly, the thief had managed to avoid the hangman’s noose by turning himself in and begging for mercy. Despite Sheriff Whelan’s testimony and recommendation to hang the man, the judge had decided to be lenient and sentenced the lad to three years in prison. It was unusual and caused quite a stir in the city.

  The sheriff had stayed the night in case they needed help in Corpus. Fearing a lynch mob, they’d put the thief in jail pending his being sent to prison. Folks didn’t cotton to horse thieves. The horse, after all, was the primary mode of transportation through most of the territory. It almost had citizen rights. It had been tough enough fending off horse-thieving Comanche and Apache in recent years. Even some Mexicans had gotten in on the thriving business of rustling horses.

  Sheriff Whelan wasn’t actually the Nuecestown sheriff. The town couldn’t afford one. He was based in Corpus Christi and assigned by Colonel Kinney to keep his eye on the region surrounding the city. That included Kinney’s interests in Nuecestown.

  “George, you’ve missed all the action.” Doc wasn’t exactly a big supporter of Sheriff Whelan. Whelan invariably seemed to show up after any danger had passed. Likely a coincidence, but it happened a lot. “We had to deal with Comanche. Also, Captain Dunn was here, but he’s long gone on the trail of Bad Bart Strong.”

  Whelan raised his eyebrows to acknowledge Doc’s news, then turned his attention to Elisa. “Is this Elisa Corrigan?” Whelan moved his eyes from her head to…well, he noticed she was growing up.

  That was another thing Doc took issue with. Whelan was always leering at the ladies. He figured the sheriff had kept the ladies of ill repute busy last night in Corpus Christi.

  “She’s had a rough day, Sheriff.” Doc held his temper. He figured a drink would be about right at the moment…maybe the whole dang bottle.

  About this time, Bernice stepped up and took charge of Elisa. “Pay the sheriff no never-mind, dear. Let’s check on little Mike and then get you over to my place for that dinner.” She gave Whelan a sideways glance that reeked of disapproval. It was a she’s-only-sixteen, put-your-eyeballs-back-in-your-head look.

  “I’ve got some business at the jail.” Sheriff Whelan took the none-too-subtle hint, turned, and started walking his horse to the stable. He walked slowly but heard no dinner invitation. He was quite tired from being on the road from Corpus and figured he’d just as well find out more from Doc in the morning. He was a bit worried about how close this most recent Comanche raid had been.

  On the desk inside what pretended to be a sheriff’s office and jail, Whelan saw a couple of new wanted posters. One was for this Bad Bart Strong that Luke was chasing, and the other was for a fellow named Dirk Cavendish from Montana Territory. Both were mean and had serious bounties on their heads. Strong was a skilled marksman, while Cavendish preferred a knife. It was almost tempting enough to lure him away from Corpus Christi to track them down.

  ***

  Luke was set on heading to Laredo. He realized, as he rode west from San Diego, that there was plenty of cover on the trail from which Strong could set an ambush, but it was likely that his man hadn’t yet figured he was so close. He’d stopped in San Diego just long enough to inquire as to whether Strong had passed through. He wanted some assurance that his man was indeed headed to Laredo. He was.

  Luke had closed the gap by riding through most of three nights under what was called a Comanche moon. That moon hung in the night sky nearly as bright as the sun. Luke didn’t realize his non-stop travel was also a source of frustration to the person tracking him, Three Toes, who coveted Luke’s horse. At least, Luke’s hand had stopped throbbing and the swelling had gone down. He figured he might be nearly healed by the time he reached Laredo.

  He thought back to his last trip to Laredo shortly after the Callahan campaign had ended. Other than the U.S. Army with its post at Fort McIntosh, the population was nearly all Mexican immigrants. After the Treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo, there had been a brief but ill-fated attempt to cede the property back to Mexico. A few unhappy Mexicans had moved across the Rio Grande to Mexico and established Nuevo Laredo. With the predominantly Mexican population, Strong would stand out like a sore thumb. He’d be despised as well, given he was an Anglo. He would be wise to keep his stay short, stopping just long enough to refresh, tarry with some old acquaintances―Luke was pretty sure the outlaw had no friends―and move on.

  ***

  Three Toes kept his distance a couple of hours behind Luke. He was patient.

  He was glad that Moon Woman had packed him some jerky but, on the third day, he’d shot a jackrabbit. He decided against a fire. The jackrabbit was tasty and the blood quenched his thirst.

  He’d also seen a few dozen buffalo, lots of wild horses, and about twice as many longhorn cattle, but to kill them would have been a waste of meat, time, and arrows.

  He’d bide his time and eventually catch the Ranger.

  ***

  Luke had purposely shied away from two other mail stations between Corpus Christi and Laredo, taking a wide arc around them. Partly, he didn’t want to deal with the outcome of another Comanche attack. It was going to be rough enough ahead, as there could still be horse-thieving Lipan Apache roaming north of the Rio Grande and there was no love lost by Mexicans as concerned Anglos, especially those that had ridden with Callahan.

  About this time, Luke figured he’d become too predictable and decided to double back in case Strong circled around to trick him again. He headed east, following along the meandering course of an arroyo. This kept him partly covered from sight by tall prairie grass and an occasional live oak mo
tte. By chance, he stopped to reconnoiter.

  He slowly stood upright in the stirrups to scan the horizon. Something was moving toward him, perhaps a hundred or so yards up the dry creek bed. As it drew closer, he realized he was seeing the business end of an Indian war lance. He slowly and as quietly as possible dismounted. He slipped the Colt rifle from its scabbard. In what seemed like an interminable minute, a horse and rider rounded the bend in the arroyo, and Luke found himself face to face with Three Toes.

  The Comanche chief was fully taken by surprise as he came around the bend in the dry creek bed. This was not a good situation. How could he have been so careless? The hunter had suddenly become prey.

  The two stared at each other. Sworn enemies standing eyeball to eyeball. What next?

  Luke had the rifle trained on Three Toes’ chest. From so close a range, he couldn’t miss. He motioned Three Toes to dismount and drop his weapons. “You speak English?”

  He watched as the warrior assessed the situation, noted the point when he decided it would be suicide to attack the white man. He dismounted, keeping his eyes warily on Luke.

  “Some,” he replied slowly. “You are the one they call Ghost-Who-Rides.” Three Toes’ English was halting, but intelligible. Luke almost felt flattered. He’d earned a Comanche nickname.

  “How long you been tracking me?” He kept his gaze and rifle riveted on Three Toes.

  “Three days.”

  “Those your warriors at the farm?”

  Three Toes nodded. “They were foolish to be killed by a woman.”

  Clearly, the Comanche was not happy with the prowess of his young warriors.

  Luke replied, “The two boys were too young. The attack was foolish.” He tried to help Three Toes save face.

  “Girl killed Bear Slayer.”

  Luke thought on that one. “He was careless, crazed with lust.” He was careful not to mention the slain Comanche’s name, as that might have been taken as disrespectful.

  Three Toes nodded. A frown crossed his brow. Perhaps he himself was acting rashly. There must have been some greater reason the spirits had allowed him to ride into a trap.

  Now, the two found themselves awkwardly staring at each other, momentarily at a loss for words.

  Finally, Three Toes broke the ice. “You tracking someone?” It was a rhetorical question. The Comanche no doubt knew the answer.

  Luke was about to respond when a horse and rider appeared from behind him. He prayed it wasn’t Strong. If it was, he’d likely already be dead. He tried to keep an eye on Three Toes as he glanced over his shoulder.

  “Clyde? Clyde Jones? Dang, it’s been a long time, partner.” He thanked God it wasn’t Bart Strong.

  “Whatcha got here, Luke? A Comanche redskin? A chief no less.”

  Three Toes’ expression had changed from uncertainty to just a hint of fear. The Ranger’s medicine was strong. Not only had he surprised the chief, but now he had reinforcements that magically appeared. He began to hum a spirit song, as he sensed death was near.

  Clyde had ridden with Luke under Callahan’s command on the Rio Escondito. “Dang, Clyde. Your timing couldn’t be better.” Luke had the drop on Three Toes, but reinforcements were a huge help.

  “What do you mean, Luke?” He looked at Three Toes. “You want help disposing of the chief here?”

  Luke remembered Clyde’s habit of saying wrong things at wrong times. He lowered his voice, so Three Toes couldn’t hear him. “This Comanche understands English, so watch what you say. As to his fate, I was just parlaying when you showed up. Now, if you truly want to help, let me talk with him.”

  Clyde nodded affirmatively and eased back in the saddle.

  Luke turned back to fully face Three Toes. “Chief, I’m Luke Dunn. This here is Clyde Jones. We’re Texas Rangers.” It was about time to make formal introductions, if for no other reason than to show mutual respect. For the Comanche, it was important that all people have names.

  Three Toes was increasingly curious. If the Ranger was going to kill him, why was he making introductions? “I am Three Toes, a chief of the Penateka Comanche.”

  “Ah, you are with Buffalo Hump.”

  “He has gone to the white man’s camp.” Three Toes referred to the reservation where Buffalo Hump had taken most of his people under a treaty with the U.S. government.

  Luke cocked his head. “You no longer follow Buffalo Hump?”

  “When my chief is free, I will follow him again. I must lead my own people.”

  Luke didn’t like where this was going. It was time to change the subject. “You seem like an honorable man, Chief. You’ve tracked me for three days, but haven’t attacked me. Why?”

  “You respected the spirits of my warriors. It did not feel right to kill you out of revenge.” Three Toes, hesitating at first, extended his hand to Luke. “You could have killed me. Let us make truce.”

  “There’s no reason to kill you, Three Toes. I have no quarrel with you. Back in Nuecestown…well…people died…your people and my people. It’s time to stop fighting.” Luke grasped Three Toes’ hand. “Clyde, show your friendship with the chief.”

  Jones hesitantly took Three Toes’ hand and forced a smile. The truce was uncomfortable, but a truce nonetheless. This went against Jones’ instincts, but he’d seen Luke’s performance with Callahan and thus respected the Ranger’s judgment.

  The chief relaxed a bit. Luke’s respectful treatment of his dead warriors and now his effort to make a mutually beneficial truce were appreciated. “Three Toes has come a long way. I would like to return to my people with a good story. I would help you find your prey.” The implication was to kill, not capture.

  “So how’d you get your name?” Luke asked. It was a personal question aimed at establishing more of a friendship.

  “Battle wound.” Three Toes smiled.

  Luke decided to not press it further. “Well, now that there’s three of us, we should have an advantage over Bad Bart.”

  They were less than a day out from Laredo. Nuecestown and the mail station were long behind them now. Luke found himself thinking about how that young girl he’d helped was making out. Her having taken on Comanche had impressed the veteran lawman. He was nearly twice her age, but he’d noticed how pretty she was. He remembered how she’d hugged him in her grief and felt her young body pressed against him. But he also was impressed with her seemingly steel nerves as she shot the Comanche that was about to release an arrow at him.

  He figured she’d manage to care for her brother and rebuild a life on her dead folks’ spread. A hundred acres should be manageable, and her little brother would grow up fast helping her out. What was her name? He thought a few moments. “Elisa,” he whispered to himself. “Yes, Elisa Corrigan.”

  EIGHT

  Making a Texas Ranger

  Luke hadn’t had the easiest childhood himself. He’d been born in Ireland back in ’34. As a nineteen-year-old, he’d heard about some of his cousins from County Kildare going to the United States to a wild place called Texas. Luke’s impression of the United States was colored by his admiration of their having gained independence from the hated British. He wished there was an ocean separating Ireland from England, as such a physical barrier might have helped with the various Irish uprisings.

  Luke’s grandfather’s brother was a fine fellow in County Kildare named Lawrence Dunn, and four of Long Larry’s five sons had already immigrated to the Corpus Christi area of Texas. One had set up a smithy establishment in the city and the others were ranchers and farmers. The first had even fought with General Zachary Taylor in the Mexican-American War back in 1845. Luke found it ironic that he’d garnered a family nickname of Long Luke, not unlike his own grandfather’s brother.

  On a visit to Long Larry, Luke got to read a couple of the letters his cousin Matthew sent from Texas. It whetted his appetite in a big way. So, through back-breaking farm work as a teen, he mustered the financial resources and persuaded his father and mother to let him foll
ow his cousins to America. They didn’t protest overmuch, as the famine caused by the potato crop failures had left them destitute. His mother had even miscarried, due mostly to inadequate nourishment. Her body simply wasn’t up to supporting a pregnancy.

  As part of his motivation to escape Ireland, Luke found himself allied with some kinsmen in Killeigh who were planning to revolt against the British oppressors. While that revolt never materialized, he was able to develop and practice fighting skills that would prove handy later in life. The combination of the Great Famine, fueled by potato blight and the rumor of a price being placed on his head by virtue of word having leaked out about the rebellious plans of his kinsmen, weighed heavily in Luke’s decision to head to Texas.

  Despite the potato blight and seemingly ramshackle agricultural system, crop rotation somewhat mitigated the effects of the famine around Kildare. However, to the western regions of Ireland came horror stories of starvation and disease. The mighty potato had been attractive largely because its farming was not labor-intensive, as compared to raising oats and barley and livestock. But the famine reached far beyond only farmhands. Its heavy shadow touched the population at large. Rare was the day when there weren’t poor souls starved to death by the side of the roads. The desperation that had driven Luke to join a rebel group and earn a price on his head was widespread among the clans and sects. He preferred living, if at all possible. Living in freedom would be ideal.

  Luke was impressionable, but he was headstrong. It could be said that his body, at well over six feet tall, was developing far faster than his brain. One evening, as he headed home from dining with some of his cousins, his path was blocked by three British soldiers. They were drunk, and one had vomited over the front of his red tunic. He stunk to high heaven.

  “Hey, Mick, where you think you’re going?” They used the derogatory nickname applied to the Irish.

  The passage was narrow, so Luke had no choice but to face the soldiers. The stench from the sick soldier in the damp confines of the passageway was nearly overwhelming. The others were so drunk that they apparently did not notice. “I’m headed home, sirs.”