Nueces Justice

by Greathouse, Mark

  He unwrapped the bandage and was momentarily taken aback by the damp, wrinkled-looking skin. Drying out in the fresh air would do it good. As he thought about turning west to pick up the trail that would take him north back toward Laredo, Three Toes appeared seemingly from thin air. Luke was momentarily startled by the chief showing up so unexpectedly. “Three Toes? I thought you’d be west of here.”

  “Found Strong.” Three Toes smiled with pride, as if he’d found a sweet and enjoyed sucking on it. “Was too easy.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Hiding in rock cave to north. Not far.” It was the chief’s usual cryptic response.

  Luke was pleased, but immediately concerned for Clyde’s safety. He hadn’t really expected Strong to still be so far north. He wished he could warn Clyde, but that wouldn’t work without giving away their advantage. “Let’s stay west of the San Ygnacio road but within sight of it. You lead the way, Chief.”

  They spent the next half hour dismounted, keeping the horses at a walk and the dust to a minimum. Slow and careful was essential. The only surprise they sought was the one they’d spring on Bart Strong.

  As he stepped around cactus and clumps of prairie grass, Luke couldn’t help but think on what had brought him to this place in time. He and Three Toes necessarily remained silent so as to minimize sound. He’d even removed his spurs and stowed them in his saddlebag. Back as a mere boy in Ireland, he could never have dreamed of this life in Texas. His sense of propriety and yearning for justice had turned him to becoming a lawman, a person to help keep the world a morally straight place. He’d become wed to the wild lure of the Nueces Strip. Now, he’d begun to have a hint of feelings for someone. It was a new sensation.

  He stole glances over at Three Toes to be sure they were moving at a similar pace. They stayed ever alert. Falling into a Bart Strong ambush was not an option. Strong’s nearly successful attempt up near Nuecestown remained fresh in his mind.

  ***

  Mid-afternoon, Bart Strong saw a bit of dust kicking up nearly a mile off. It was a clear day. If Luke Dunn was kicking up that dust, he’d be a dead man inside the hour.

  Not too long later, Strong saw that tell-tale Texas Ranger-style hat emerge from the trail dust. He assumed it was Luke. He stood and rested the barrel of the rifle on a rock shelf at shoulder height. There was no wind, and the distance was near enough to require very little adjustment. The target was moving very slowly. He took aim about a foot and a half below the hat, and inhaled deeply. He exhaled, squeezing the trigger. He saw the target fall from the saddle and disappear behind the tall grasses. The horse emerged and walked around aimlessly.

  Strong was dying to know who he’d shot and whether the man was dead. He was concerned that he didn’t see a big grey horse like Luke’s, but his quarry could have switched mounts back in Laredo. Not knowing gnawed at Strong. He simply had to be certain of his kill. So far as he knew, Luke was traveling alone. If it was the Texas Ranger, he’d not only be safe; he’d have established himself as a legend on the frontier.

  He cautiously poked his head from the escarpment and looked around. Revealing a hiding place in this country could prove fatal. He had no way of knowing there had been three pursuers. His curiosity outweighed caution. If it was Luke Dunn that he’d shot, he’d have no concerns. He had to know.

  Near bursting with curiosity and sweating in the summer heat, he cautiously climbed out of his hiding place and carefully headed down the slope. He saw a riderless horse walking in circles. Soon enough, he was standing over Clyde’s inert form. “Damn!” Bart thought.

  Clyde was still breathing. His breathing was shallow from the lung shot, and he’d likely soon bleed out. He twisted with pain and looked pleadingly at Strong. The outlaw threw caution to the wind, aimed carefully, and put a bullet in the Ranger’s head. It was a touch of mercy from somewhere deep within Strong’s perverted soul.

  Once Strong realized that this was a Texas Ranger but not Luke Dunn, he headed back at a run toward his lair. It was a fair bet that this man had joined up with Dunn, and the Ranger could be lurking somewhere nearby. Bart feared it could have been a trap, with the man he’d shot as the unfortunate bait.

  Moving uphill was slower and made more difficult by the rocky terrain. Sweat kept getting in his eyes. He swiped his face with his bandana. Just a bit of panic was setting in. His shots would have given away his position. If Luke was anywhere in the vicinity, Strong would now be vulnerable. He needed to get to the relative security of the cave. It had been stupid to check on the man he’d shot. A sixth sense had told him it wasn’t Luke. He should have stuck with his instinct. Now, he was in great danger. Luke couldn’t be very far. He strove to stay low and moved as quickly as he dared. He’d almost reached the relative safety of his hiding place when a voice stopped him cold in his tracks.

  “Halt!”

  ***

  Luke and Three Toes had heard what was clearly a rifle shot ahead of them and not that far off. Luke prayed it wasn’t a shot at Clyde. Strong could have killed him just for sport, or even mistaken Clyde for Luke. They quickened their pace to more rapidly close the distance.

  The two were soon close enough to tie the horses to a mesquite tree and move forward at a running crouch. According to Three Toes, they should be about two hundred yards south of Strong’s roost. The breeze, such as it was, wafted down from the northwest, so they’d be downwind. They ran north, staying roughly twenty feet apart. Three Toes pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bow. Finally, he pulled up and signaled Luke to slow down.

  Then they heard the second gunshot. Now Luke feared the worst for Clyde. It was from a pistol, and that was a sign of a finish shot, to be certain of a kill. They stayed low but moved at an even more hurried pace.

  ***

  “Halt!” the Ranger said again.

  Damnable luck. Bart began to turn toward the sound.

  “Bart Strong, I do believe.” Luke had a bead drawn on him with the Walker Colt held steady in his left hand. His right was still too tender to handle firing a virtual cannon like the Colt. “I’m Captain Luke Dunn, Texas Rangers, and you are under arrest.”

  Strong held his revolver at his side. At shoulder level to his right was the rock outcropping he’d used to steady his rifle for the shot at Clyde Jones. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned to face Luke. The veins on his neck bulged from heat, exertion, and stress. The Ranger had him dead to rights.

  “Don’t move a muscle, Strong.” Luke saw what Strong could not.

  Strong didn’t realize Luke’s command was more than a warning not to shoot. He sneered with venomous hatred, cocked his head, and raised his own Colt. At the precise moment of the upward movement of his revolver, the rattlesnake on the rock outcropping struck him full in his neck. The fangs penetrated deeply into Strong’s throat, straight into the carotid artery. The full load of rattlesnake venom was released.

  A look of sheer horror swept across the outlaw’s face. He fired one shot wildly into the sky as he swept the rattler away with his free hand. He had become a dead man standing. The blood seemed to drain from him as he dropped to his knees with the realization that he couldn’t be saved from his fate.

  The last thing he saw in his consciousness was the snake slithering away. It had lost its rattles. There had been no warning. The venom acted far more swiftly than if it had been a bite in a leg or hand. The toxins in the bite worked quickly to begin to destroy Strong’s circulatory system as he began to hemorrhage internally. The venom was already working to immobilize his nervous system. He was racked with involuntary seizures. His breathing turned to shallow, rapid gasps, and then stopped as if he had been choked to death. He fell face first into the dust.

  Three Toes had moved beside Luke to watch the venom work. Going through the Comanche’s mind was how strong Luke’s medicine was that a serpent had been sent to destroy the evil-doer. Indeed, this was a powerful sign.

  Soon enough, Strong was finished. In the end, he’d not ev
en been able to say anything, much less fire his gun at Luke. His vaunted marksmanship didn’t matter. It was an ignominious finish for a craven killer.

  Luke shrugged, took another long look at Strong’s body, and walked down the hill to see to Clyde. Three Toes helped himself to Strong’s scalp. Luke wasn’t pleased with that but tried to be understanding.

  He reached Clyde’s body. As he’d suspected, Strong’s first shot had knocked Clyde from the saddle and immobilized him. It was a lung shot just below and to the right of his heart and had apparently continued clean through, partially severing his spine. The merciful finish had been a shot to the head. Clyde’s horse now stood idly nearby.

  Luke and Three Toes buried Clyde out there on a rise in the escarpment. They covered the shallow grave with rocks to discourage scavengers. Luke said a brief prayer, placed Clyde’s personal effects in a saddlebag, and threw the bag behind the saddle of his big grey stallion. They took Clyde’s and Strong’s horses in tow, having slung the outlaw’s body over one.

  Strong’s body was already beginning to swell from the toxins. They headed north back toward Laredo, where Luke could deposit Strong’s body and get credit for the bounty. He could send a message by courier to Captain Ford that his mission had been accomplished. Luke hoped the news might inspire some action in Austin to reconstitute the Texas Rangers.

  As they began to depart, Luke pulled up. “Three Toes, you don’t have to go back to Laredo with me. Go in peace back to your people and tell the story of your adventure.” Luke knew it would make for a great tale when shared around a tribal campfire. He pretty much figured that Three Toes would properly embellish the story. It was as though the Comanche had just a touch of what the Irish might call blarney. Luke handed Three Toes the lead to Clyde’s horse. “Take this horse as a gift of thanks for your help.”

  “I have been honored to ride with you, Luke Dunn. You have strong medicine. I will tell my people to protect Ghost-Who-Rides. Go, and ride with the spirits.” Three Toes then turned his pony eastward toward his Penateka Comanche encampment and moved off with Clyde’s horse in tow. His adventure with the Texas Ranger had far exceeded his expectations.

  Luke began the trek to Laredo to turn in Strong’s body. By now, it was an ugly, blackening, bloated mess. The venom had done its work quite efficiently. While he was saddened by the loss of Clyde Jones, Luke felt blessed to have avoided further bloodshed. He figured he’d spend the night in Laredo and head back east toward Nuecestown in the morning.

  When he got to Laredo, he pulled up in front of Texas Jack’s Saloon. He tied the big grey to the rail and then walked the fifty feet or so across the street with the roan behind him carrying Strong’s now grossly deformed body. The horse had become skittish, likely as not from the pungent odor of Strong’s remains.

  Luke banged on the door. “Sheriff Stills, I’ve got a very special present for you!”

  Stills opened the door and stepped out on the little gallery across the front of the building. “Why, Luke Dunn! Whatcha got there, Ranger?” He peered past Luke at what was draped over the roan. He could smell it from where he was standing

  “This here’s a fella named Bad Bart Strong. He ain’t so bad anymore.”

  “Holy crap, Luke. He don’t even resemble the fella in the wanted poster description.” Stills held a bandana over his nose and examined the body from a distance. “Where’s his hair? Don’t look like you had to shoot the varmint.” The corpse reeked so that the sheriff’s eyes were beginning to water.

  “Rattlesnake will tend to mess a body up, Sheriff. I had Strong in my sights, but the rattlesnake did the job. As to his hair, I had a helper who wanted a souvenir. You won’t find any bullet holes in his sorry carcass.”

  “Shoot, Dunn, what was he? Apache? Comanche?” Sheriff Stills had a thing for how the various tribes scalped their victims. Some took strips of scalp, others took bigger pieces. This looked suspiciously like a Comanche scalping.

  “Close, Sheriff. Let’s just say he was a big help and deserved a reward.” Luke was tired and the bit of banter that Stills was throwing at him wasn’t all that humorous. “Sheriff, I lost a Texas Ranger on this manhunt. I hear you lost a deputy a bit ago. I just want to turn Strong in for the record so I can collect the bounty.”

  Sheriff Stills rightly judged that he’d better end his game of feigned doubt as to Strong’s identity. He’d heard of Luke’s reputation when he got seriously irritated. In fact, it was apparently a trait with the man’s entire family. These Irish immigrants only joked around when they drank.

  “You’ve hit the jackpot, Luke. The bounty on Strong was upped to three hundred fifty dollars just yesterday.” His voice was slightly muffled, owing to keeping his mouth and nose covered with the bandana.

  Luke handed the roan’s reins to the sheriff and strode back across the street to Texas Jack’s Saloon.

  There were about a half dozen men inside and half of those were Mexicans. Four young ladies were receiving a lot of attention. One, a redhead with a freckled face, was right pretty. Luke tipped his hat to her as he sidled up to the bar. Soon enough, she left the table where she had been seated while enjoying the attentions of a couple of cowboys and sashayed across the room to check on the big hunk of a man that had just walked into the saloon.

  Luke was not exactly aromatic, but then, neither were the others in the saloon. He ordered a whiskey. He rarely drank but figured he’d earned this one.

  “Hi, my name is Scarlett. How are you, mister?” The little redhead was no shrinking violet. “You lookin’ for love?” She got right to business.

  Luke looked at her and took a deep breath. The images of Clyde lying dead in the dirt and the bloated body of Bart Strong weighed heavily on his soul. His just wanted to sip the whiskey and find a reasonably comfortable bed to catch some shut-eye before heading out to Nuecestown in the morning. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman, and that had been someone back in County Kildare that truly mattered.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, “you are indeed a pretty little gal, but I’m really not up to whatever you’re offering.”

  She feigned insult. “Why, you sonofabitch, did you think I’d go to bed with you?! I ain’t no two-bit whore!” She placed her hands on her hips and slinked back to the gaming table.

  Luke turned to the bar. She wasn’t worth arguing with. Turned out the pretty little thing had a trash mouth, anyway.

  The saloonkeeper leaned toward Luke and handed him a brass key. “Up the stairs and first door on the left, sir. Should be pretty quiet tonight.”

  Luke didn’t waste any time. He took a scan of the bar to be sure there was no trouble brewing, went upstairs, and plopped himself in the bed. He did give a passing thought to that man in black that Clyde had pointed out. He’d have to check on that one. He thought he’d go right to sleep. He certainly was tired enough.

  He wondered how that little lady he’d helped in Nuecestown was making out. Was she working the farm? Had she had any more problems with Comanche? How was her little brother? Why was Luke even thinking about her? She was only sixteen. He simply didn’t need thoughts of women on his mind at this time in his life. It was inconvenient.

  When he awakened in the morning, he headed downstairs to a nearly empty saloon. Only the barkeeper was around. He had gotten up early to clean up a bit.

  “Where can I find some grub this morning, barkeep?” Luke asked.

  The barkeeper pointed him to a place across the street. “The lady that owns the boarding house across the street can fix some great bacon and biscuits, Mr. Dunn. I’ll be heading over there myself shortly. That was fine work you did with Mr. Strong.”

  Luke didn’t quite know what to make of the barkeeper addressing him by name. Apparently, he was building some sort of reputation as a lawman.

  TWELVE

  Nuecestown

  It had been a couple of weeks since the Comanche attack on her farm. Elisa was working at picking up the pieces of her life. Every now and then, she
’d succumb to a crying spell as grief overwhelmed her. But these episodes became fewer. Eventually, she found the need to head to Nuecestown for a few supplies.

  Doc had come out once to check on her and Mike. Her brother was healing well, and the bump on his noggin had all but totally disappeared. In fact, Mike was becoming a solid helper with chores around the cabin. Elisa even started to teach him about the rifle and how to aim and shoot it. They were low on ammunition, so they didn’t do a lot of actual shooting.

  Her nights had been difficult mostly. Despite young Mike being around, there was a palpable loneliness. She struggled with getting the image of Bear Slayer out of her mind. She finally found that the only thoughts that gave her peace and drove the fear and sadness from her dreams were of Luke Dunn. Would he return? Would he be attracted enough to see her as more than a young girl? Would he realize that she was a woman, not a girl?

  She recalled standing against him after the Comanche attack at her father’s funeral. She dreamed of what it might feel like to hold him truly close to her and what might a kiss be like? She’d never kissed a man on the lips before. Nor had any man deigned to kiss her. The boys in Nuecestown were a bit wary, even intimidated, by the strength of this teenage woman who’d fought off Comanche and was running a farm single-handedly.

  She hitched the wagon and boosted Mike into the seat. The mules seemed to understand where they were headed and needed very little urging. The five-mile trip into Nuecestown was uneventful except for chasing longhorns off the road once or twice.

  Bernice was first to see her enter the town. She waved at Elisa as the girl drove the wagon on by and pulled up in front of Colonel Kinney’s little general store. By little, it was just that it didn’t feature a huge inventory. It offered only the most basic necessities of tools, food, cloth, and the like. Occasionally, something special would be sent, like ladies’ dresses or men’s cowboy hats or some sweet-smelling bath salts.