Ranger's Trail

by Darlene Franklin

  Andy paused, probably waiting for a lecture, then shrugged and ate the biscuit and drank the coffee.

  By the time he finished, she had gathered her thoughts. “When was the last time you checked the herd?”

  “When I went out looking with Ricky. Last Saturday.” Instead of looking at her, he glanced to the side.

  “Did you get a count?”

  He squirmed a bit. “We saw them off in the distance. We didn’t get close enough to count ’em.”

  As she had suspected, he had left the job half-finished. “So when was the last time you rode through the herd and counted?” She added more coffee to both their cups. “You’re not in trouble.” Not yet, anyhow. “But I need to know.”

  At length, he raised his eyes to meet hers. “It’s been a couple of weeks.”

  She held her breath for a moment. “None were missing?”

  “I would’ve told you.” His voice skipped an octave. “Someone stole the cattle?”

  “Stolen or lost. They’re missing. And not just the yearlings. I expect some of that. I’ve gone out with Ricky these last two days, and we’ve only found a half dozen.”

  Andy looked pale under the summer bronze of his skin. “It’s my fault. I should’ve kept a closer eye on them.”

  Leta shook her head. “I don’t blame you. You couldn’t confront rustlers by yourself. I just wish I knew when it happened.” She chuckled ruefully. “I don’t know if that would help.”

  “Have you told the sheriff?” He stopped. “Of course not. Sheriff Clark wouldn’t do nothing.”

  Leta didn’t bother denying his statement. They both knew Clark sided with the German mob that started the violence last year. She shook herself. “We’ll worry about that later. Let’s go watch this Ranger break Shadow.”

  Buck slipped the halter over Shadow’s head and paced the corral, holding the lead with his right hand. But the colt wasn’t cooperating.

  He looked over the horse’s neck at Leta but spoke to Shadow as if she was invisible. “So you don’t want to go where you’re led. I can’t say that I blame you, pal, but that’s life for a horse.” He slowed and circled to his left, holding on to the lead. The colt snorted but turned as the lead forced his head in Buck’s direction. Buck continued his slow turn, until they had completed a tight circle in the center of the corral.

  “What’s he doing, Ma?” Ricky shaded his eyes against the sun. “I suppose he’s getting Shadow used to going where he tells him to go.”

  “Oh.”

  Buck repeated the process, turning right this time. Then he stopped and petted the colt. “Good job.” He turned Shadow a final time, nearing the spot where the Dennings waited. He stopped, and the colt stood still, his body inches away from the fence posts.

  “Are you done?” Disappointment raced across Leta’s face. Buck was glad she had come out in time to see what he was doing with Shadow.

  “For today.” Buck smiled and tipped his hat. He removed Shadow’s halter. Free of the restraint, the colt raced to the far end of the enclosure.

  “Can I ride him now?” Ricky was already sliding off the railing.

  “Not yet. But soon.”

  The woebegone expression on Ricky’s face made Buck want to laugh. He tried to remember how old he was when he first had a horse to call his own. Younger than Ricky. Pa picked out a filly for his son the year he was born, so that she’d be saddle-broken by the time Buck was old enough to ride. He’d mourned Wind Spirit when she died, and even Blaze was getting up in years. Soon he’d have to get himself another Morgan horse. He wouldn’t have any other breed.

  Ricky’s colt wasn’t as good as the purebred Morgans his family raised, but he was a good animal. “You’ve got a good horse. He’s got plenty of spirit, and he’ll do you proud. But first he has to go to school, learn how to be a good work horse.”

  “Horses go to school?” Ricky scratched his head.

  “A different kind of school.” Leta smiled. “And now we must let Ranger Morgan go about his business.”

  Business. She would have to remind him of his real reason for being in Mason County at all. He turned to Andy. “I’d like to chat with you for a few minutes.”

  The kid’s eyes slanted toward his sister, and she jumped to his defense. “Andy doesn’t know anything more than what I already told you.”

  “I want to hear the man’s version of recent events.” A subtle challenge to the boy’s burgeoning manhood might encourage when a direct threat might not.

  Sure enough, the boy’s shoulders lifted. “I’ll help any way I can.”

  Buck nodded with his chin toward the barn. “Help me get Shadow settled while we talk.” While they headed into the darkness of the barn, Buck debated the best course of action to take with the kid. Seen through the lens of the violence sweeping the county, the boy’s disappearance ranged between foolhardy and suspicious. Seen through the lens of a boy growing into his manhood, maybe a different story would emerge.

  “How old are you, son?”

  “Seventeen.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be eighteen come January.”

  Seventeen going on eighteen. The War Between the States was raging when Buck was that age. He wanted to leave the dust of the Running M behind him and join the nearest cavalry company he could find, maybe join up with his cousin Riley. He felt chained to the ranch, every day a servitude designed to feel like a year. By the time he reached eighteen, the war ended, the Confederate soldiers streaming home in defeat.

  Andy was staring at Buck, probably wondering why he hadn’t said anything. He had learned that silence could sometimes provoke more information than a threat.

  “I don’t know any more than Leta already told you.”

  “I’d like to hear it in your own words.”

  The boy sat down on a hay bale. “We don’t … talk about that night.”

  “Anything you remember would be helpful.”

  “It was them Dutch. Everybody knows that.”

  Buck had heard too many slurs cast against “the Dutch,” the word for German, “Deutsch,” to let his words bother him. “Suppose it was. Could you name any individuals?”

  The kid ran a hand through his hair. “Might have been Henry Doell. Maybe August Keller. John Wohrle for sure.”

  The kid was smart. Everyone he named was dead. “Sounds like the same people who went after Tim Williamson.”

  Andy lifted two brown eyes, darkened as if by hidden secrets. “It stands to reason.”

  The kid probably thought Scott Cooley was a hero. Buck scratched his chin, wondering how this kid’s path might have crossed with the ex-Ranger’s. Nothing came to mind, but anything was possible.

  “You’re sure it was Germans who killed your sister’s husband?” Buck asked again, studying the boy’s face as he answered.

  “Who else would it be?”

  Buck dropped that line of questioning. Interrogations that led someone to dig in his heels only led away from the truth. The boy’s whereabouts the past few days was of greater concern. Whether the boy was innocent of wrongdoing or not, Buck hated the way his absence had worried his sister. It went against the natural order of things, for a fine woman like Leta Denning to be running a ranch and caring for a half-grown man.

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” Andy said. “If you want to help my sister, hunt down whoever it is that stole her cattle. That’d be more help than asking me a bunch of questions.”

  So Leta’s cattle had been stolen. Why hadn’t she told him when he came by the last time? But that wasn’t this kid’s business. Ire against his irresponsible actions prodded Buck into speech. “You’re right—you haven’t done anything. Everything on this ranch could use a little elbow grease.” Buck speared the kid with his gaze. “Acting like a man means more than taking off whenever you please. It means taking care of what’s yours. Like your family, and this ranch.”

  The kid’s shoulders drooped, and he hung his head. “Used to be okay, when Derrick was alive.”
<
br />   “Well, he’s not.” Buck thought of his own family. He knew he was blessed to have both his pa and his ma alive. “And nobody expects you to fill his shoes, but you can do more than you have been doing.”

  Maybe a challenge would do the kid good. He thought of the myriad signs of neglect he had seen around the place. “I’ll be back here every morning until that colt is broke for Ricky. That barn better be cleaner than a house ready for company, and the animals treated just as good. Plenty of clean hay and food. Every day.”

  “Is that all?” The boy half sneered.

  “That’ll do to start. Every morning. Stand up like a man.” “Yes, sir. I’ll do it.”

  At least the kid looked him in the eye. That was a beginning.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SAN ANTONIO DAILY HERALD

  September 14, 1875

  We fear this is but the beginning of a bloody solution of the difficulties about stock, that have become so serious of late.

  Your punishment will be death by hanging.” Before the words stopped echoing around the yard, the horse whinnied and ran away. The rope stretched and snapped …

  Leta sat up in her bed, cold sweat dotting her eyebrow. She lit the lantern and reached for the journal by her bedside. In it she wrote snatches of thoughts, drew pictures of things that drew her attention, put her most pressing prayers on paper. Lately she’d been recording her dreams ever since the

  Ranger had showed up at her doorstep, dreams had troubled her in the dead of the night. Dreams of that terrible night. Before, when they haunted her sleep, she had prayed for God to remove the memories. And they had stopped—until the Ranger came and stirred everything up.

  When the dreams came back, she fought past the fear for whispers of memory her waking mind shut out. For a few minutes, she retained scraps of memory, and she dashed the words on paper in an effort to capture them all. So far, she had cobbled together enough details to identify five of the men who took part in her husband’s murder.

  But should she show the list to the Ranger? Turn justice over to a representative of an organization that seemed intent on doing nothing? God, give me wisdom.

  She shut out the voice that reminded her, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. God might work through human agents to bring about that vengeance. From the look of the night sky, morning wasn’t too far off. Leta decided to get dressed.

  Buck had come by the last two mornings, continuing his slow courtship of the colt. Courtship described the process better than “breaking.” Buck didn’t jump on Shadow’s back or ride him until the colt was too tired to fight back anymore.

  Since Buck would return today for the third morning in a row, Leta wanted to serve him something special to thank him for all his time with Shadow. She had a few fresh blueberries set aside, and they’d make dandy flapjacks. Add eggs scrambled with all kinds of meat for a breakfast a man could sink his teeth into.

  She wanted to hum, but that would wake up the boys and she treasured the time alone. She settled for singing in her heart with a smile on her face. She hadn’t felt this way about breakfast since … that last day with Derrick.

  She refused to believe she was this excited because a man made her cabin a daily stop. God was using him to provide for her needs, like He promised, that was all.

  Lured by the kitchen aromas, Andy and Ricky woke up early. Andy disappeared in the direction of the barn, as he had yesterday.

  Movement outside the window caught her attention, and she poured a cup of coffee, adding two sugars. She handed it to Buck when he walked through the door. “Take a seat. Breakfast will be ready in just a minute.”

  Ricky tugged at his sleeve. “Can I ride Shadow today?”

  Buck laughed. “Soon.”

  Selecting the only plate without a chip in it, she piled it high with eggs and pancakes. He raised his eyebrows. “This is a feast.”

  “I wanted to thank you for all your hard work with the colt.”

  “It’s been my pleasure.” He kept his eyes steady on hers, and heat crept into her cheeks.

  “Riding the colt is all Ricky’s talked about. I tell him he has to wait until you say he’s ready.”

  “After I get the colt broke, I’ll stop by and teach Ricky some tricks for riding him. It’ll take a big boy to handle that horse, but I think he’s up to it.” Buck winked. He reached for the honey and paper crinkled.

  My list. Leta reached for it, but he didn’t let it go. “Sorry, I forgot I left my recipe on the table.”

  He frowned. “You need one Ernst Jordan to mix flapjacks?” His raised eyebrows demanded an answer.

  Leta set down the plate she was fixing for her son. “Ricky, go on out to the barn and see if Andy needs any help.”

  “Ma! I’m hungry.”

  She wrapped a flapjack around a spoonful of eggs. “That should hold you over.”

  Stuffing the flapjack in his mouth, Ricky banged out the door.

  “I’ll ring the bell when I’m ready,” Leta called after him, but she doubted he heard.

  Buck studied the paper he held in his hands. She wanted to grab it back, but she couldn’t call back the names. They were branded in her mind. Ernst Jordan. Peter Jordan. Henry Fletcher. Adolph Hinke. John Schmidt.

  Buck studied the list for a few minutes, then turned it over. She suspected he could recite all five names, back to front if need be, as well as she could. He didn’t speak, but she matched him, silence for silence.

  “Are you sure?” He tapped the paper with his forefinger.

  She could lie, say she was uncertain when her mind had settled the matter. But under the icy calmness of those blue eyes, she could only nod.

  “So … the sheriff and his deputy aren’t here, Clark and Wohrle.”

  She wished she could say they were there. They were linchpins of the Hoodoo bunch, and she laid much of the blame for what had happened in the county at their feet. And Wohrle was dead. Again she felt compelled to speak the truth. “No. I’d recognize them for sure, and they weren’t there.”

  “How do you know Ernst Jordan was there?”

  “I saw his beard underneath the hat. Pure white, it was.”

  “Blond hair can look white in the moonlight.”

  She shook her head. “He was the right height. I’m sure of it.”

  “Peter Jordan?”

  “His hair sticks up all over the place. His hat never sits straight on his head.” “Henry Fletcher?”

  “He was one of the youngest men there, away at the edge.

  His horse shifted into the light long enough for me to see his face. The same thing with Adolph Hinke.”

  “And John Schmidt?”

  “I’ll never forget him.” Her voice trembled. “He’s the one who put the noose around Derrick’s neck.”

  Buck took her over the same material three times, asking his questions in different ways. Her answers remained consistent. “How many more do you think were there?”

  “At least three more, maybe as many as five.” Her mouth twisted. “They talked about meting out justice, as if they had assembled a jury of twelve men, but there weren’t that many.” She had turned a shade of gray.

  Buck regretted the necessity of asking her to relive those awful minutes, but she had displayed a strength that reminded him of his mother. “I’m surprised you didn’t pull up stakes after what happened. Move closer to your family.” He paused. “You don’t have family about these parts, do you?”

  If possible, she lost a bit more color. “Andy’s all the family I’ve got left. Our ma and pa died a short while before I met up with Derrick.”

  For a moment, Buck felt a pang of jealousy for the man who had rescued Leta in her time of grief. Had theirs been a marriage of true love, gratitude, or convenience? He had no business asking the question, even if only in his mind. “You’ve seen hard times.”

  Her chin went up with that. This one had spunk and pride, and he’d better remember that.

  “No one’s life is
free from pain. Even the Lord said, ‘In the world ye shall have tribulation.’ There been good times as well. I have no complaints overall.” She flashed a smile and a small bit of color crept back into her cheeks.

  He nodded, letting his smile express his approval. Maybe someday she’d trust him enough to tell him the secrets behind the dark pools that crept into her eyes from time to time.

  But not now. “Call the boys. The food is getting cold.”

  “I’ve had it in the oven.” When she rang the bell, the boys came running, and the food disappeared quicker than ice on the 4th of July. After they ate, Leta came outside to watch Buck work with the horse. Her daily presence pleased him.

  Ricky ran to the barn and returned with the saddle. “You said you’re going to ride him today.” The boy squirmed like a worm inching its way across topsoil.

  “No. I said we would start training him to the saddle today.”

  “That’s the same thing.”

  Buck grabbed a fair-sized rock from the ground. It dragged on his arms, a good weight. “What do you think weighs more? You or this rock?”

  Ricky’s face scrunched in concentration. “Me, I suppose.”

  “Yup.” Buck nodded. “I bet that saddle is heavy.”

  Ricky’s shoulders went back. “I can carry it. I’m strong.”

  “I know. Just like Shadow is strong.” He pointed to the colt’s back.

  Ricky’s face mirrored Leta’s enthusiasm and confusion mixed in equal measure. Buck winked at her before turning back to the boy. “I bet you’re strong enough to carry this rock as well as the saddle.” Without warning, he dumped the rock on top of the saddle.

  Ricky lunged forward, thrown off balance. “What did you do that for?”

  “An object lesson.” Buck grabbed the stone and tossed it aside. “You weren’t expecting the weight of the stone, and you didn’t like it when I added it to your pile.”

  Ricky’s mouth flapped open, but Buck didn’t allow an interruption. “I know you’re strong enough to carry the extra weight. But you didn’t like it, and that colt won’t like it either. We have to get him used to the idea.”