Ranger's Trail

by Darlene Franklin

  Ricky nodded, and Buck took the saddle. He draped all but the blanket over the fence. “We start with this.” He shook out the blanket.

  Andy swung up next to the saddle. “Never heard it took so long to break a horse.”

  Buck knew the look. He had seen it—felt it—on plenty of boys’ faces, including his own. The need to prove himself, to be strong and brave—women might call it recklessness.

  Buck turned the horse rug over, running his hands over the surface, checking for burs and anything that might irritate the colt’s skin. “This is good.” He approached Shadow with a chunk of carrot in his palm. He took it, his lips snuffling over Buck’s skin, and followed him around the corral. A few feet away from Andy, he stopped and stroked the colt’s nose. “A man depends on his horse out here. You treat a horse right, he’ll give you everything he’s got.”

  Andy snorted. “I figure he’ll do that for anyone who shows him who’s boss.”

  “You listen to Mr. Morgan,” Leta said. “He’s right.” Her sleeve brushed his hand as she reached out to pet the colt’s neck.

  Ricky scrambled up the fence. “I’ll be in school before I get to ride him.” His lips turned down.

  Buck had enough of explanations. He returned his attention to the colt, rubbing his nose, speaking softly. He moved down his neck, along his withers before coming to rest on his back. Still whispering in the colt’s ear, he laid the rug on his back so quickly that he might have been a hummingbird flapping his wings. Shadow quivered and flicked his tail but didn’t bolt. “Good boy.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Buck removed the blanket and stepped out of the corral.

  “Is that all you’re doing today?” Dirt would jump into Ricky’s mouth if his jaw dropped any lower.

  “That’s it.” Buck lifted the saddle but looked at Ricky. “You know where this goes?”

  Ricky accepted the equipment and lumbered to the barn. Andy jumped from the fence. He stared at Buck. “I figure you didn’t get your name by whispering to a horse.”

  Laughter tickled Buck’s throat, and he let it go. Andy scowled. “I’ll check on Ricky.”

  Humor glinted in Leta’s eyes like the sun poking fingers at the sky before dawn. “After that, you’ll have to tell the story.”

  He smiled, twirling his hat on his hand. “Another time.” But Buck had never wanted to tell the story of how he came by his nickname, not until now. Not until he knew he wanted to make Leta smile like that as often as possible.

  The names on her list leapt to mind. Jordan and Jordan. Hinke and Schmidt. Fletcher.

  How could they have peace when Buck’s cousin was involved in the murder of her husband?

  CHAPTER NINE

  “[To] every man who is in sympathy with Scott Cooley … and who does not wish to pursue him … I will issue him an honorable discharge …” The major paused and about fifteen men stepped to the front.

  James B. Gillett in Six Years

  with the Texas Rangers: 1875–1881

  Leta watched Buck’s departing back for a fraction too long. How good he looked on that horse, a man who promised to hunt down the men who murdered her husband. If he managed to corner them, she’d grab his Winchester and shoot them herself. Of all the men involved, she most wanted the head of the man who had tightened the noose and kicked the horse out from under Derrick.

  John Schmidt. The man was too young to have such a blot on his soul.

  Buck disappeared in the trees. The sun was high overhead; she had wasted the coolest hours of the day, hankering after a lawman, a Ranger at that, who would ride away someday and never come back. If she ever married again, she wanted someone settled—a rancher, or maybe a farmer; even a storekeeper.

  Shaking the woolies from her brain, Leta headed for the barn. If she didn’t give Andy direction, he’d loll about all day.

  The door hung open, and Leta entered the dusty darkness. Her ears found the boys before her eyes did, soft voices drifting down from the hayloft.

  “I never saw so many bullets in my life.” Ricky’s voice arched higher when excited.

  “Guess he has to be ready to shoot Indians.”

  “Have the Indians come back?”

  Leta swallowed. It had been impossible to shield her son from the recent raids in Loyal Valley in the southern part of Mason County. People would talk, and he caught every word like a leaf seeking water.

  Leta arched her hand over her eyes to focus her vision and saw blue flannel shirtsleeves sticking out from the hay. “It’s time to get to work.”

  Scampering feet followed a grunt, and the boys landed at her feet, brushing straw from their hair.

  “Andy, I want you to fix that fence in the far pasture. Don’t want to lose more cattle because they knock down a few boards to reach the greener grass on the other side.”

  “Me too, Ma.” Ricky bounced up and down.

  Leta hesitated. Andy didn’t accomplish as much when he brought Ricky along, but she could use some peace and quiet. Maybe she’d grab some rest; she hadn’t slept well for several nights. “All right.”

  Leta hummed as they rode away. Today had turned into a perfect day, from the pleasure of Buck’s company to some treasured time alone. Cooler than usual for August, a thin cloud hinted at refreshing afternoon rains, but for now the air remained dry. She’d bring her rocker outside, read her Bible, and commune with God in the church of nature before starting housework.

  She opened to Psalms, expecting David’s poetry to lift her in worship. Instead, in Psalm 58, she found an imprecation that resurrected her feelings of the morning. “Do ye indeed speak righteousness, O congregation? do ye judge uprightly, O ye sons of men? Yea, in heart ye work wickedness; ye weigh the violence of your hands in the earth.” David could have been talking about Mason County. She scanned the reprisals David demanded of God: Break their teeth! Let them melt away like a snail left in the sun! Let them never be born! David put her feelings into words.

  Leta wrenched her mind away from the dark thoughts and turned the pages, looking for something to lift her spirits. She didn’t read Psalm 59, written when Saul sent men to kill David. Psalm 60 began “O God, thou hast cast us off, thou hast scattered us, thou hast been displeased.” Keep reading.

  In Psalm 63 she found respite, words precious to anyone who lived through a Texas summer. “My soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is.”

  Something brushed her arm, a fly maybe, and she batted at it with her hand. The feather-light touch returned. “Ma, are you awake?” Ricky’s voice was as light as his touch had been.

  Leta bolted awake and almost fell out as the rocker slid forward. She couldn’t have slept away the day. No. The sun was directly overhead, high noon. “What are you doing back so soon?” Her voice sounded sharp, sharper than it needed to.

  “I checked the fence all the way there and back,” Andy said. “There’s not a break to be seen. Some of it looks like fresh wood.”

  “Ranger Buck must have fixed it.” Ricky didn’t find anything strange about it.

  The glare in Andy’s eyes matched Leta’s mood. That man was becoming too much a part of their lives for her peace of mind.

  Lightning split the sky, roaring like it wanted to tear into the earth as well. Buck as well as the other Rangers in Company D had given up on tents or any kind of sleep. The wind picked up everything not nailed to the ground and tossed it a mile away like a tornado. Trapped by walls of water, they couldn’t escape the rain.

  Buck hadn’t seen rain like this since he had left the family ranch near the Gulf Coast. Rain fell in sheets, as if someone had turned the Llano River on its head, causing it to flow from heaven to earth instead of west to east. As big as he was, he didn’t want to risk standing. If he so much as unbent an inch, the wind might pick him up and drag him across the ground.

  Instead, he curled his body and huddled between Steve Sampson and Jim Austin. “I never seen weather like this in summertime,” S
teve said. “Winter either, except last January, when we hunted the Comanche up in the Panhandle.”

  A shiver swept across Buck’s nerves at the memory. Ten days hunting Indians in the winter desert, days as dry as a creek bed in summer and nights as cold as an angry woman. Not to mention one cold winter he spent holed up in a Colorado mountain town a few years back.

  Jim grunted. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so cold and so thirsty at the same time.”

  “And when we found water, we had to break the ice.” A smile tried to break through onto Buck’s face, but with rain driving through his clothes, he didn’t have the energy to smile. “Too bad we can’t bottle up this rain and carry it around for when we need it.”

  “It’d fill a well as big as the Rio Grande.” Steve drew the lapels of his jacket together. “Wish we had drawn guard duty with the horses before this storm started.”

  “I hope they found a good spot to settle for the night,” Jim said. “I wouldn’t mind curling up against my old pony. That, or a good woman.” He laughed.

  Buck had to agree. Times like this he could almost envy married men who had the company of a good woman. His thoughts drifted to Leta Denning. There was a woman to tempt a man to settle down. How was this plague of wind and rain damaging the small repairs he had made here and there around the ranch? The best workmanship couldn’t withstand much of this weather.

  The sky edged a shade darker, and after a meal of cold beans, Buck spared a thought for the horses. They’d be standing, huddled together, forming a natural barrier against the relentless weather. He edged his Stetson over his forehead to lessen the damage to his face, leaned against Jim’s back, wrapped his arms around his chest, and closed his eyes. The wind blew from the southeast, drawing Buck’s thoughts to his parents’ ranch on the Gulf Coast.

  Rain pounded them for a night and a day. The hours dragged without a card game or a good book or pranks to pass the time. When at last it lessened, he approached Captain Roberts. “I’ll be gone awhile.”

  Roberts nodded. “You don’t report to me. Do what you need to.”

  Buck stopped by Major Jones’s camp and spoke with the commanding officer. “I see you survived the hurricane. Or did it miss you fellas up there in Mason?” Jones glanced at Buck’s still-soaked jacket. “I guess not. Take off the coat and take a seat by the fire. I know you won’t stay put long enough to dry out. Tell me how things are in Mason.”

  Buck scooted closer to the flames and tossed another log on the fire. “It’s been a quiet month.” Buck looked at the major. “Roberts says the Rangers are keeping the peace.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Until Cooley is accounted for—” Buck chafed his hands in front of the fire and spread them apart. “There’s a lot of support for him among the ranks, since he used to be a Ranger.”

  “I received a report that Captain Roberts dealt with that problem. That he asked the men who felt they couldn’t discharge their duty to step forward and they would receive an honorable discharge. And that fifteen men took him up on it.” Jones looked sideways at Buck.

  Buck coughed. “I was there. It was more like three men.” Should he say anything more? “Most of the men take great pride in being Rangers, sir.”

  “And they didn’t quit.” Jones ruminated. “Keep me informed.” He stood, the interview at an end. “Papers say the hurricane hit Victoria hard. I’m sure you’re worried about your family. Take a few days—a week if you need to—and check on your family.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.” Buck shrugged back into his jacket—now only slightly damp. He left before the major could ask if there was any progress on the Leta Denning case.

  Buck didn’t know how he would have answered that question.

  CHAPTER TEN

  VICTORIA ADVOCATE

  May 26, 2010

  The National Weather Service began keeping records in 1851 … Notable storms that struck the Texas coast include: The Category 4 1875 storm that struck Indianola, killing 176 people. The Weather Research Center reports that three-fourths of the town was swept away by the storm surge.

  The trip home took longer than Buck had anticipated. With roads destroyed and the countryside mired in mud, even Blaze found it slow going. Buck could have bypassed the town of Victoria to get to the ranch, but he wanted to see what damage the hurricane had done to his hometown. If anything, the newspaper reports hadn’t touched the full extent of the damage. Some sections of town were almost literally swept from the face of the earth; he estimated the number of buildings destroyed numbered closer to two hundred than the hundred suggested. The destruction down in Indianola would be much worse.

  Sunshine struggled to dry the land, but water still stood an inch deep in some places. Malodorous fumes announced the death left in the wake of the storm.

  One steeple remained a beacon of hope, and he turned in the direction of St. John’s Lutheran Church. The church had lost shingles, and a three-foot portion of the half-timbered wall had been shattered, but it remained standing.

  All manner of things hung from branches to dry in the sunshine. Smoke drifted from a fire, and the tempting aroma of beans drifted through the air. At least a dozen children, German, Mexican, and American, dashed across the lawn. The church must have opened its doors to all who had lost their homes. He expected nothing less from Tante Marion and Onkel Peter.

  One of the older boys waved and ran to meet Buck. His cousin Karl had grown half a foot since Buck’s last trip home. He had his father’s good looks and his mother’s sweet nature; the family suspected he might follow his father into the ministry some day.

  “What are they feeding you? Growth tonic?” Buck jumped down from Blaze’s back and hugged his cousin.

  The boy ducked his head, and Buck grinned, remembering the embarrassment of sudden growth. He changed the subject. “It’s good to see you. I see the church survived.”

  “William Meino Morgan, as I live and breathe.” Tante Marion bustled out of the church, followed by her husband. “I thought you were off fighting Indians with the Rangers.” She flung her arms around him and looked into his face. “I declare, you look more like my brother every time I see you.”

  Buck grimaced at the use of his birth name. “It’s good to see you. How are my folks? Are they here?”

  Uncle Peter shook his head. “Both the Fleischers and the Morgans waited out the hurricane at the farm. Since the Fleischers’ farmhouse is half-timber, it withstood the winds fairly well. But …” His voice trailed off. “They had not yet determined the extent of the damage when we saw them last. This storm has been hard on my parish.”

  A question trembled on Buck’s lips, one he hesitated to ask. “Did everyone—survive?”

  Onkel Peter clamped his hand on Buck’s shoulder. “Your sister-in-law went into labor. It’s touch-and-go for both her and the baby.”

  Buck’s brother had been ecstatic about the coming child after five long years of a childless marriage. The family was hoping for a boy to take over the Running M some day. His throat went dry. He thought of the tiny mound back at Leta’s ranch, a loss she had never shared with him, and marveled again at her strength. He drew in his breath. “Are they still out at Opa’s farm?”

  “Yes.”

  Buck turned to leave, but his uncle tightened his grip on his shoulder. “Be prepared. The winds did great damage.”

  Buck looked into his uncle’s clear blue eyes. “I’m here to help. I have leave to stay for a few days.”

  “God go with you all. You remain in my prayers.”

  Nodding, Buck mounted Blaze and headed for the ranch.

  Leta glanced out the window as orange streaked the sky. Buck hadn’t come to the ranch ever since before the bad rain. She told herself it didn’t matter. He hadn’t promised anything, and she hadn’t expected him to stick around.

  Except she had begun to think this Ranger might be different. That he might be steady, reliable—dependable. She shook her head to clear aw
ay the thoughts. If wishes were horses, Ma used to say. Whatever happened, Leta would have to accomplish on her own. With God’s help, of course.

  Except for the few years God loaned Derrick to Leta, she had been on her own. She wished Buck had been able to finish breaking Shadow. He was almost ready, Buck had said. If he didn’t come back—since he hadn’t come back—she’d have to figure out something else. Soon. Ricky was ready to climb on his colt’s back, with or without Buck. She’d ask the livery owner about what to do next; he should know. She could convince Ricky to wait a little longer. Waiting for Buck to come back? Her traitor heart hoped he would.

  While she was in town she’d talk with Lucia Holmes, if she was still in Mason. She had heard rumors that she might leave the county. She almost wished she could do the same. All she wanted was a quiet spot to call home. Instead, she had ended up in Mason, the most dangerous county in all Texas, at least for the past year.

  So, she’d talk with … somebody … maybe the pastor … and get a sense of the mood in town. With Buck out of the picture, she wanted to lodge a complaint with someone about the missing cattle. Maybe she could ride out in the direction of the Ranger camp. Report the cattle theft and find out what had happened to Buck. In spite of her initial reaction to let the loss go, she had changed her mind.

  She busied herself getting the cabin in order so she could take a midweek trip to town tomorrow. Feeling better for having made a decision, she swept through cleaning and baking and made cookies. Andy and Ricky wandered home in the late daylight hours, chattering. Ricky sat in front of Andy on his horse, but he didn’t seem to mind, if his laughter was anything to go by.

  Andy’s eyebrows raised as he walked past the rugs hanging on the fence, where she had beaten out the dust. “You’ve been busy today.”

  “I hope you have too.” She kissed his cheek. “We’re going to town tomorrow.”