The Ghost Riders

by James J. Griffin

  “Your turn, Obadiah,” Ty said. Obadiah spit in his face. Ty reversed his rifle and buried its butt in Obadiah’s belly. Obadiah doubled over and dropped to his knees, crying in pain. Ty wiped the saliva off his face, then grabbed Obadiah’s collar, pulled him to his feet, and shoved him into the wagon, with a kick to the butt for good measure. Obadiah was quickly secured.

  “It’s a long trip to Huntsville,” Ty said. “You men can make it as easy, or as hard, as you like. Your choice.”

  Isaac and Moses loaded readily enough, their faces stolid. Joshua stopped short when he reached the wagon’s tailgate.

  “You don’t expect me to ride in that thing, trussed up like a hog, all the way from here to Huntsville, do you?” he said. “How’m I gonna eat? What if I have to pee? You think I’m gonna be able to do that with my hands chained?”

  Charlie drove the butt of his Winchester into Joshua’s groin, jackknifing him, then slammed the barrel of the rifle across Joshua’s mouth, smashing his lips and knocking out four teeth. The man dropped like a rock.

  “I guess you won’t have to worry about either of those for a while now, will you?” he said. “Couple of you deputies, load him up.”

  The unconscious Joshua, blood dribbling from his mouth, was lifted into the wagon, his shackles secured.

  “Anyone else have any objections?” Charlie challenged. He was met with silence.

  “Good. Mister, you get up there. And don’t say a word,” he told Samuel, who shook his head and climbed meekly into the wagon. The prisoners’ shackles were given one final check, then Ty tied his horse to the tailgate, and climbed into the driver’s seat. He and Charlie had decided one of them would drive, while the other rode horseback, scouting ahead and behind, looking for any signs of an ambush. They would switch places every four hours, and travel, weather and roads permitting, for approximately twelve hours each day, more if the horses held up. At that pace, they should reach Brownsville in seven or eight days.

  Charlie mounted up.

  “Good luck, Rangers,” Thornsby said. “I still feel bad I can’t spare any men to go with you as far as the county line, but with the ones that got themselves killed or shot up bringin’ in this bunch, I really don’t have any I can spare.”

  “Don’t fret about it, Sheriff,” Charlie answered. “Ty and I can handle this bunch. Sometimes fewer is better than more.”

  “You’re right about that,” Thornsby agreed. “Well, vaya con Dios.”

  “Adios, Sheriff,” Charlie said.

  “Yep. Adios,” Ty added. He clucked to the team and slapped the reins on their rumps, putting them into a slow walk. Charlie, his rifle across the pommel of his saddle, heeled Splash to just ahead of the wagon. He made the Sign of the Cross, and uttered a silent prayer that he and Ty would, indeed, deliver their prisoners to Huntsville Prison without incident.

  For the first few miles, they would head due east, into a blood-red sunrise, before cutting slightly more southeast. The next town of any size they would hit would be Waco, four days hence.

  ● ● ●

  The first three nights on the trail were, much to Charlie and Ty’s surprise, uneventful. Their prisoners gave them little trouble, not much more than the usual grumbling almost all prisoners made. The Haskells rode mostly in silence, and protested but little when, one at a time, they were unchained to eat, drink, and relieve themselves. After supper, the four brothers were chained to the wagon wheels for the night, while their two cousins remained secured in its bed. Despite the apparent acquiescence of the Haskells to their fate, Charlie and Ty remained constantly vigilant, whichever was on horseback riding ahead and behind, making a wide loop, taking advantage of any ridgetops to survey the surrounding countryside, always on the alert for any possible spots suited for an ambush. Whichever was driving had his eyes in constant motion, scanning the horizon for any signs of approaching riders. And at night, one or the other was always on watch.

  They were camped for the night alongside an unnamed stream, a tributary of the Brazos River. Charlie had just returned to the fire after making certain the prisoners were secure, for one last time. He would be taking the first watch this night. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then hunkered on his heels. Ty was already stretched out on his blankets, lying on his back, his Colt at his right side, his Winchester at his left.

  “Somethin’ botherin’ you, Charlie?” he asked. “You seem a mite uneasy.”

  “Yeah, there sure is,” Charlie answered. “This whole trip, up ’til now, has gone far too smoothly. Soon as we left Brownwood, these hombres settled right down. They’ve been real quiet ever since. Too quiet.”

  “I know what you mean,” Ty replied. “It’s almost as if they want to lull us into a false sense of security. Tryin’ to get us to relax, and let down our guard.”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’. I figure their kinfolks are gonna hit us, hard, sometime before we reach Huntsville. Sure wish I knew where. When I checked on ’em just now, they were whisperin’ to each other. Clammed up right quick as soon as they saw me comin’. Just gave me some sly grins. They’re expectin’ help, all right.”

  “We’ll just have to be ready for ’em, whenever they come,” Ty said. “Anyway, I doubt it’ll be tomorrow. We’ll be in Waco tomorrow night. I don’t expect they’ll try anythin’ this close to a city of Waco’s size. I figure it’ll be somewhere between Waco and Huntsville. And at least we’ll be halfway there, once we cross the Brazos.”

  “That’s another thing that’s stickin’ in my craw,” Charlie said. “Havin’ to run this bunch right through town. You know people’ll be followin’ us, squeezing in close, tryin’ to get a good look at the Haskell gang. And there’s bound to be some reporter pesterin’ us for a story for his paper, and photographers wantin’ pictures. I sure wish we could go around Waco altogether.”

  “I feel the same way, Charlie, but you know that’s not possible. We have to take the bridge over the Brazos at Waco. We sure can’t chance puttin’ the wagon on a ferry. That’d leave us sittin’ ducks, if the ambush we’re expectin’ took place along the river. And we can’t float the rig across, not with all that iron attached to it. It’d sink for certain. We also need to send a wire to Cap’n Storm, lettin’ him know how we’re doin’. We’ve got no choice but to go through Waco.”

  “I know, I know. But Ty, I sure wish I could think of another way.”

  “We could just unhitch the horses, let the wagon roll into the Brazos, and drown the whole sorry lot of ’em,” Ty suggested, half-seriously. “Say we were gonna spend the night on this side of the Brazos, and when we unhitched the team the brakes let loose.”

  “It’s a temptin’ thought,” Charlie admitted. “But neither one of us is built that way. Sometimes, I have to admit, I sure wish we weren’t.”

  “That makes the two of us,” Ty said. “But we ain’t. And there’s no use stewin’ over what might or might not happen, and losin’ sleep over it. I’m gonna get some shut-eye right now. Wake me in four hours. G’night, Charlie.”

  Ty pulled his Stetson over his eyes, and let out a yawn.

  “G’night, Ty.” Charlie picked up his rifle and tool up his post, sitting down and leaning against the trunk of a cottonwood.

  ● ● ●

  Close to sunset the next day, they had reached the city limits of Waco. A branch of the Chisholm Trail crossed the Brazos here, over the Waco Suspension Bridge. When it opened, the bridge, designed by the Roebling Company, the same firm which would go on to build the Brooklyn Bridge in New York City, was considered an engineering marvel. It was the longest of its kind in the world, with a span of four hundred and seventy five feet. Its support towers were built of over three million, locally produced bricks. With the nearest railroad to Waco over a hundred miles distant, most of the rest of the materials used in the bridge’s construction had to be brought to Galveston by ship, then unloaded onto river steamers, which would haul them as far as Bryan. From Bryan, the materials would then be hauled
by oxen-pulled wagons nearly one hundred miles to Waco, over one of the worst roads in Texas.

  Cattle herds being driven north to the Kansas railheads became more numerous as the Rangers and their prisoners neared the city. Charlie and Ty gave most of them a wide berth. They were a half mile from the river crossing when Charlie reined Splash to a halt. Ty, who had taken over driving three hours previously, stopped the wagon alongside him.

  “Ty, let’s palaver a little, where these hombres can’t hear us,” Charlie said.

  “All right, Charlie.” Ty climbed down from his seat. Carrying his rifle, he followed Charlie about fifty feet from the wagon, where they could speak softly and not be overheard, yet still be close enough to put a bullet in any of the men who might try and break loose.

  “What do you want to talk about, Charlie?” Ty asked.

  “I’m not certain,” Charlie replied. “I’ve just got a gut feelin’. Mebbe it’s nothin’, but it seems to me our prisoners have been gettin’ more and more uneasy, the closer we get to Waco.”

  “I noticed that, too,” Ty said. “They’re on edge, kinda like they expect somethin’ to happen, at any time now. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’ve got the same hunch you do. What do you think we should do?”

  Charlie thumbed back his Stetson, and rubbed his whisker-stubbled jaw.

  “I dunno,” he admitted. “You think mebbe I should ride on ahead, and scout out the crossin’?”

  “That wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Ty answered. “That way, if anyone is layin’ in wait for us, you might spot ’em.”

  “You think you’ll be okay, handlin’ this bunch alone until I get back?” Charlie asked.

  “I’ll be just fine,” Ty said. “And if anyone does make the mistake of tryin’ to bushwhack me, they’ll have six dead Haskells on their hands. They might get me, but not before I take care of their kin, permanently.”

  “Good. Then that’s what we’ll do,” Charlie agreed. “Give me forty-five minutes. If I’m not back by then, start headin’ for the Brazos. And if you hear any gunshots, come on the double.”

  “Same goes for you, if you hear any shots back this way,” Ty said.

  “Of course. You’d best get back to the wagon. I’ll return quick as I can.”

  Charlie heeled Splash into a lope. As he walked back to the wagon, Ty carefully observed their prisoners. The Haskells were exchanging startled looks. Obadiah was muttering under his breath.

  There sure is trouble ahead, Ty thought. I just hope Charlie can figure out what it is, before we find ourselves filled so fulla lead we’d crash through that bridge and sink clean to the bottom of the Brazos.

  ● ● ●

  Charlie was less than a quarter mile from the bridge when he came across a herd of longhorns, being circled and bedded down for the night. He called out a greeting to one of the cowboys bunching the cows.

  “Howdy,” he said. “What outfit is this?”

  “It’s the Circle M,” the cowboy answered.

  “Who’s ramroddin’ the outfit?”

  “George Cummings, the hombre wearin’ the black hat, ridin’ that roan over yonder,” the cowboy answered. “But I wouldn’t bother him if I were you, Mister. We don’t need any more hands, and the boss is in a real foul mood.”

  “I’m not lookin’ for a job,” Charlie answered. “Just want to talk with him for a minute. Much obliged for pointin’ him out.”

  He put Splash into a jog, and rode up to the Circle M foreman.

  “Mister Cummings?” he said.

  “I’m George Cummings, yeah. What do you want, cowboy? We’re not takin’ on any more hands, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

  “Nothin’ like that. Just wanted to know how many other cattle outfits are between yours and the Brazos. I’ve got a wagon I’d like to get across the bridge before it’s closed for the night.”

  “Then you’re plumb out of luck,” Cummings answered. “The bridge is already shut down for the night.” He added a curse for good measure. “That’s why we’re stuck here, on this side of the Brazos, until mornin’. We’d planned on makin’ the crossin’ tonight, and beddin’ the herd down in the stock yard corrals on the other side the river, so I could let the boys have some fun in town, but the blasted bridge keeper has the gates down, and says they won’t open again until eight tomorrow mornin’. I offered to pay him a dime a head, double the usual toll, but he still said no.”

  “That makes no sense,” Charlie said. “The sun won’t set for another eighty minutes or so, and the bridge never closes before full dusk. A herd your size would be across well before dark.”

  “I sure know that, but that blasted bridge keeper wasn’t havin’ none of it,” Cummings answered. “Said he was too sick to open the gate, and count our beeves. We’re not gettin’ across, and neither are you. Now, if you’re done jabberin’, I’m real busy here tryin’ to settle these cows.”

  “Understood. Much obliged,” Charlie said. He touched the brim of his hat, then turned Splash back to the road.

  “Somethin’ funny’s goin’ on, Splash,” he said to his horse. “Somethin’s real wrong. And we’re gonna find out what it is.” He headed the paint for the bridge, riding at a slow walk. Two hundred yards before reaching the span, he stopped, dismounted, and tied Splash to a live oak.

  “You wait here, and keep quiet,” he told the horse, as he pulled his rifle from its boot. “I’ll be right back.” He removed his spurs from his boots and hung them from his saddlehorn, so their jingling wouldn’t give him away, then started toward the bridge.

  Charlie had crossed the Waco Suspension Bridge several times in the past, so he knew its approaches, and how to get close to it without being seen, despite its location close to the center of a bustling cow town. He wouldn’t approach the bridge directly, but would circle around to a location on the Brazos’ bank, just downstream. He took advantage of the cover of barns, sheds, and outbuildings to make his approach. The lengthening shadows of the setting sun also helped conceal him. Once he drew near the river, where the vegetation grew more thickly, he took to the brush, blending in as best he could, dropping to his hands and knees to crawl most of the remaining distance, then falling to his belly and dragging himself by his elbows the rest of the way. He hit the riverbank two hundred feet below the bridge. Still concealed by the tall grass and thick brush which grew alongside the river, he studied the bridge. Sure enough, as Cummings had said, the gates were down, and the bridge keeper was nowhere in sight.

  “What the devil’s goin’ on?” he muttered. As Charlie continued to watch the bridge, he caught a slight movement, at the top of the nearest tower, on its right side. As he looked more closely, he could barely make out the top of a hat, and the sun glinted off a gun barrel, for just a split second.

  “Someone’s up there, with a rifle,” he whispered. “Bet that wasn’t the bridge keeper Cummings talked to at all.”

  He studied the bridge further. At the top of the left hand side of the farther tower, where the suspension cables entered, he could now make out the face of someone who had made his way up the tower, or crawled along the cables, and concealed himself inside, lying hidden just inside the opening.

  “Two of ’em, at least,” he muttered. “I’d bet my hat there’s one inside the keeper’s cottage, too. That’ll make three of ’em.”

  He studied the bridge a bit longer, spotting the form of one more man, lying flat atop one of the cables where it curved upward from the bridge deck, about three-quarters of the way up.

  “One more. That’s all I can see. There’s three on the bridge. Figurin’ there’s at least one, mebbe more, in the cottage, that makes at least four men waitin’ to plug me and Ty, and help the Haskells escape. They’re dug in real good. Gettin’ past ’em’ll be well nigh impossible, and shootin’ ’em off that bridge even tougher. I’ve gotta think of somethin’, and fast.” He glanced at the westering sun. “It’s gonna be dark soon, and we can’t wait until mornin’ to cross this br
idge. I’d better get back to Ty, before he starts thinkin’ somethin’s happened to me. Mebbe between the two of us we can come up with an idea.”

  Charlie slithered out of the brush, hurried back to Splash, jerked loose the reins and threw himself into the saddle. He put the big paint into a hard gallop. A few minutes later, he had to slow his horse to a walk to avoid startling the resting Circle M cattle, possibly starting a stampede.

  “Splash, I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Mebbe we can get some help from this outfit.” He looked for the trail boss, Cummings, and spotted him behind the chuck wagon, where he was just dismounting. Cummings glared at Charlie when he rode up.

  “I thought I told you to quit botherin’ me, mister,” he said. “And you just couldn’t take my word for it, could you? Had to go and see for yourself the bridge is shut down.”

  “Mr. Cummings, what would you say if I told you there was a way you could get your herd across the Brazos tonight? Would you be interested?”

  “Darn certain I’d be interested,” Cummings replied. “But just how do you think you can pull that off?”

  Charlie reached into his vest pocket, pulled out his badge, and pinned it to the vest.

  “I’m a Texas Ranger, name of Charlie Blawcyzk. Me’n my pardner, Ty Tremblay, are haulin’ six prisoners to Huntsville. Ty’s holdin’ ’em in a wagon about a half mile back. That ain’t the bridge keeper who told you the bridge was closed. There’s at least four men on that bridge, waitin’ to ambush me’n Ty and take our prisoners from us, if we try’n get across. They’ll plug us, easy, once we set foot on the bridge.”

  “Why, those…” Cummings issued a curse. “But how can we help you, if they’re up on the towers, which I’d guess they are. They’d gun me and my men down, too. And much as I’d like to help you, this ain’t really my problem.”

  “Two of ’em are on the towers. One’s on the cables,” Charlie confirmed. “There’s at least one in the bridge keeper’s house, mebbe more. My guess is they either killed the keeper and his family, or have them tied up and are holdin’ ’em hostage. As far as it not bein’ your problem, no, it’s not, except you can’t get across the bridge. Did I forget to mention it’s the Haskell gang we’ve got?”