Ranger's Trail

by Darlene Franklin

  “Stay safe. I’ll be praying.”

  The weight of worry grew heavier as his figure grew smaller in the distance.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  GALVESTON DAILY NEWS

  October 12, 1875

  It appears that the contest is gradually becoming one of nationalities, the Germans being pitted against the Americans. Which is in the right is “one of those things no fellah can find out.” Even the parties themselves are not a unit on that subject.

  Buck was grateful that Steve left him alone. He had just told Leta the wrong location of the thieves’ supposed hideout. What had possessed him to tell such a lie to Leta?

  Because of Andy, that was why. He couldn’t escape the suspicion after a cold examination of the facts. While Buck was riding to the D-Bar-D, Leta’s ranch, his mind drew a map from point A to point B to point C. A—Henry’s name hadn’t come up in any of the accounts of the German mob, and Cooley’s men had no reason to suspect him. B—Leta had listed Henry as one of the men involved in her husband’s death. C—less than a week later, Henry had been chased by members of the Cooley gang.

  Buck hoped he was wrong, but he feared his conclusions were built on a firm foundation.

  Drizzle fell, sprinkling his jacket like a shirt before ironing. He shook off the droplets.

  “Want to talk about it?” Steve broke his silence.

  Buck turned his mind from the questions about Leta. “Which do you think we should do first? Cooley or Hoerster?”

  “Hoerster. If your information is correct, find Hoerster and we might find Cooley. I only hope we get there in time to prevent more bloodshed. If we had a list of the people involved with Williamson’s murder, maybe we could round them all up and keep them safe.”

  “If we could identify the people involved with Williamson’s murder, we’d have to arrest them.” The corner of Buck’s mouth lifted. “Some people think Cooley is saving the county the cost of a trial.”

  “If I believed that—”

  “—you’d be on the Indian scout with Roberts.”

  “Thanks for your confidence in me.”

  Even with the long summer daylight hours, dusk was approaching before they reached the campsite on the Llano. They explained the situation to Jim as they headed out. “From the map I have, I figure we can reach Hoerster’s ranch by dawn.”

  “Am I coming with you or do you want me to bring word to the captain?” Jim said.

  “Come with us. From what my cousin said, Hoerster is in imminent danger.” Buck drained a cup of the campfire coffee and chomped down a bowl of cold beans. He wouldn’t mind forty winks, but that would have to wait. Long days and even longer nights—that was a Ranger’s life.

  Night was full dark when they reached the entrance to the Valley. His uncle’s ranch lay to the west. How soon would the information he had planted with Leta come to fruition? Maybe never. That was the best outcome.

  Their route took them within a mile of his uncle’s ranch house. The buildings lay in darkness, vague shapes in the darkness of the moonlit night. Where was Henry on this night? At home, safe in his bed, Buck prayed.

  A light mist fell, and clouds covered the moon. The lack of light slowed their progress until dawn spread pink fingers to the east. They rode to the southwest corner of the county.

  Jim stopped and pulled out his flask. He broke a piece of jerky in pieces and handed them to Steve and Buck. “It seems like we would have seen some sign of trouble by now.”

  “I agree. I wonder if we made the wrong call.” Steve looked at Buck.

  “We’ll find out, soon enough.” Buck shook his head. “If we can prevent more killings, that’s more important than catching up with Cooley.” He closed his eyes and scanned the map he had memorized. “We’re close now. No more than a half hour’s ride. We keep going.” Buck tapped the pocket where he had tucked the notebook. “Cooley’s hideout is bound to be on the opposite side of the county. Away from the German settlements. If we don’t find him here, we’ll take a brief rest and start over.”

  Left unsaid was the fact they were no closer to locating Cooley.

  They covered the remaining distance to the Hoerster ranch in under twenty minutes. An eerie quiet greeted them, none of the hustle and bustle of early mornings around a ranch.

  They circled the farm buildings—nothing, no one in sight. They paused, checked their guns. “Let’s do it.” Buck spurred Blaze out of cover.

  Right hand on butt of rifle, Buck stood in the center of the yard, expecting someone to come out and greet them. At a gesture from Buck, Steve headed for the barn. Jim went up to the house and knocked on the door. When no one answered, Jim went in. “Looks like no one’s been here for a while. Maybe he’s hiding out from Cooley.”

  Steve came out of the barn, shaking his head.

  They regrouped in the yard. “So we head back to camp and start over?” Steve said.

  Buck’s thoughts swiveled to the information he had planted with Leta, and he shook his head. “No. I know where Cooley might head next.” He didn’t explain why. “But we need clear heads before we approach him. We’ll rest for two hours, then head out again. A shorter ride this time.”

  They grabbed oats from the barn to supplement the grass. Buck fried some bacon for them all. Then he leaned against a tree, keeping his hat on to cushion his head against the rough bark of the trunk.

  Steve settled down beside him. “Tell us about Cooley. No more secrets. I’ll die by your side if it comes to that, but I gotta know the truth.”

  Jim joined them at the tree. “I don’t want to ride another half day and not find anything at the end of the road. You like to play things close to the vest, but it’s time to tell us what’s up. Where are you taking us, and what do you expect to find?”

  Leta breathed a sigh of relief when Andy showed up at dinnertime. With the renewed threats, she wanted those important to her close by. God willing, the danger would end soon. The Rangers would capture the leaders of the gangs, and without heads, the followers would drift away.

  And justice would prevail and everyone brought to a rightful end? She swallowed a laugh. Her faith in justice had about disappeared a year ago. At least Andy sat at her kitchen table cracking jokes and teasing Ricky instead of chasing after Cooley. “Let’s you and me take a ride after we eat.”

  Ricky turned pleading brown eyes in her direction. “Ma, can I?”

  Leta wanted to scream no. Instead she said, “Where?”

  “I found a vixen with kits. Thought you might like to see them.” Andy looked over his plate at Leta. “It’s only a couple of miles. Near the river.”

  Baby kits. How cute. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Ma, I’ll be safe.”

  She put the plates in water to soak. “I want to see the babies too.”

  Ricky’s eyes opened wide. “You like foxes?”

  “Baby ones.” She grabbed her journal. She didn’t often draw, but this might be one of those times. She found a sketch she had done of Ricky, running her fingers over his features. She wished she had done more sketches of Derrick.

  Now when she tried to bring Derrick’s face to mind, instead of his open features and steady brown eyes, far-seeing blue eyes took their place, a hat obscuring his forehead.

  She tucked three cookies in a handkerchief and filled her canteen from the pump before climbing onto her horse.

  “You took forever.” Ricky squirmed and Shadow snorted.

  Before she could open her mouth, he straightened his back and Shadow settled down. Leta smiled. “Let’s go.”

  Andy led them to a quiet spot where they could watch. “You have to be quiet. If the mother fox hears you, she’ll chase them inside quicker than a lightning strike.”

  Ricky nodded and settled between his mother and uncle. “I don’t see anything.” His whisper could have filled a church.

  Andy lifted his fingers to his lips.

  Leta’s pencil caught Andy’s expression, his open eyes, his boyish
ness. With each passing day, she saw less of the boy he had once been. Yellow tinged the leaves hanging overhead. The breeze caught one and twisted it on the stem, and it fluttered to the ground. Before long they would cover the ground.

  Ricky sucked in his breath, and Leta knew the kits had made their appearance. Turning a page of her journal, she looked toward the burrow. A pointed, whiskered nose poked out. A thin red leg batted at the nose. The baby tumbled out head over head. All babies were cute, but she loved watching the way littermates played together.

  If only her baby had lived. Ricky needed a sibling. Tears sparkled in her eyes. She dashed at them and sketched the kit tumbling in front of the burrow. If only all evenings were this quiet and pleasant. “Maybe it will all end soon.”

  “What’s that?” Andy scooted onto his knees.

  “This whole business with the cattle thieving. Buck said they have a lead.”

  “When did he say that?” Wariness came into Andy’s expression.

  “After you left.”

  “Ranger Buck said I can ride Shadow whenever Ma says it’s okay. He said I’m a good rider.” Ricky puffed his chest out. “He said the thieves were in Loyal Valley, near the caves. He told Ma.”

  “Loyal Valley.” Andy frowned. “Where the Dutch ranches are.”

  “Are they close, Ma?” Ricky raised his voice. “Will they come back and hurt us?”

  The vixen raised her head. She pushed the kits back in the burrow.

  Ricky twisted back. “Where did the baby foxes go?”

  “You scared ’em, little guy. We might as well go home.” Andy stood and helped Leta to her feet. “It’s getting late anyway. It’ll be full dark soon.”

  She glanced at the sky. Clouds obscured the light, darkening the sky earlier than usual. “You’re right. Let’s get home.”

  She stayed up later than usual, finishing the evening chores. In bed, she turned to the Song of Solomon, where she thought there were verses about foxes. Yes, there they were, in the second chapter: “Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes.” Poor little guys. She’d have to catch the kits if they raided her chicken coop or ate their plants.

  God made them all, hunter and prey. Germans and Anglos. She sent up a prayer for the Rangers on the hunt. Maybe this yearlong nightmare was coming to an end.

  She went out to the main room for a drink of water and stuck her head around the corner of the blanket. She couldn’t resist the urge to check on Ricky. To reassure herself that he was still breathing.

  He was curled up on his side of the bed.

  The other side of the bed was empty.

  Where had Andy gone?

  Jim shook Buck’s shoulder. “Your watch.”

  The three rangers had arrived at the watch point—a small ledge with a good view of the valley below—shortly before dawn. After Buck explained the situation—his suspicions that Andy Warren was in contact with Scott Cooley—Jim and Steve agreed that reconnaissance was a good idea.

  “Quiet as a giraffe.” Jim yawned. “Maybe things will get busy now that it’s daylight.”

  “Or not until tonight.” Buck scratched his chin. “A cup of coffee sounds good.” His mind flashed to the last meal he had enjoyed, in Leta’s kitchen. If his suspicions about Andy were true, she wouldn’t welcome him so warmly next time. He wasn’t sure how he wanted this stakeout to end. In the capture of a gang responsible for multiple thefts and murders? Or in a dead end, alleviating his suspicions about Leta’s brother?

  In justice for the many, or mercy for the few?

  He was glad such decisions were up to God, not him. He prayed God would direct the action on this day.

  “Splash some cold water on your face. That always helps me.” Jim stretched out next to Steve and pulled his saddle blanket over his shoulder, his rifle where he could grab and shoot.

  Rainwater had collected in an indentation in the rock face. Buck scrubbed it into his face. It did help. He found a comfortable spot where he could scan the valley below. He settled down, reciting his way through the Psalms—his favorite activity while waiting. Light crept across the valley, revealing trees and hollows and rock outcroppings. Of the three ways to the caves, he dismissed the route that crossed his uncle’s ranch. Cooley wouldn’t worry about someone not involved with the Williamson murder—unless Leta told Andy about her suspicions about Henry.

  He’d better keep his eyes on all three routes, just in case. Buck sent up a prayer for his cousin’s safety, until his guilt or innocence could be proved in a court of law. Once through several Psalms, he rotated his position so he could view from a different direction.

  When he reached Psalm 23—the bit about green pastures and still waters—ironic in this setting—tree branches dipped and Buck spotted gray and brown shapes coming through the trees.

  “They’re here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I open this letter to say that James Cheyney was shot this morning at his home about 1½ miles from town. Verdict of Coroner’s jury: “Shot by parties unknown.”

  Correspondence between

  Henry Jones and Governor Coke

  September 24, 1875

  Three guns lined up at the edge of the ledge. “There’s over a dozen people down there,” Buck said. “How do you want to handle it?” Jim eased back. “We want to avoid a shootout.” From this viewpoint, Buck couldn’t make out any features. “Could be some of my uncle’s men.”

  “We didn’t wait all night to second-guess ourselves now.” Buck nodded. The first rider emerged from the copse of trees. “It’s Cooley, all right. They won’t see us as long as we stay on foot.”

  “No riding to the rescue.”

  Steve grunted. “No one to rescue today.” He led the file. “I see the Warren kid.”

  Buck’s gut clenched. “So he came along.” How many of the murders had he witnessed? Murder begot murder. He thought of King David’s admonition to his men. “Deal gently for my sake with the young man, even with Absalom”—after his son had plotted to take over the throne. He never could understand that, until now. He prayed that the men would give up without a fight.

  He knew they would not. Not men led by a former Ranger. Not someone who knew how the Rangers would react almost better than they did themselves.

  “I see movement, coming from the north,” Jim called from behind Buck.

  The three of them watched the approach of the second group. There were three men on horseback, working their way through bushes.

  Not bushes. Cattle. “They’re not with Cooley. Not unless he’s become a cowboy in the past week.” His uncle and his two cousins were headed straight into a trap. He jumped onto Blaze’s back. “We got to get down there. Now.”

  Buck’s mind sped through the possibilities as Blaze made his way sure-footed down the mountain. He had to reach his cousins before they were ambushed. When Cooley saw Germans moving cattle, he would assume they were the cattle thieves as promised and open fire. They had demonstrated their philosophy often enough: kill first, ask questions later.

  Onkel Georg was much too close to Cooley.

  A single gunshot rang out. Buck wished Blaze could fly down the mountain. If he urged the horse to go any faster, he would slip and fall. Cooley’s group was racing forward, guns drawn.

  By the time they reached level ground below the ledge, the two groups had reached the open pasture. His uncle motioned to his sons to move back; the men with Cooley increased speed.

  Now within firing range, bullets started flying. Frightened by the gunfire, the cattle ran in several directions, cutting off Fred.

  Cooley raised his gun and aimed.

  “No!” Buck spurred Blaze who spurted forward.

  The piercing sound of a gunshot filled the air. Buck felt as if he was living a nightmare as he watched the confusion before him.

  Fred slumped from his horse and hit the ground. Jim and Steve surged toward the gunmen. “Texas Rangers! Halt!”

&nb
sp; They were still too far away from the scene for their words to have an effect on the gang. But Andy glanced at the man who had been so kind to him in the past, and fear spread across his face.

  “You go see what you can do for your cousin. We’ll take care of Cooley.” Steve turned his horse west and galloped away in pursuit.

  Buck watched as the riders quickly disappeared into the distance. Signaling his horse for action, Buck gently spurred his side and together they raced to aid Fred.

  Stella wished she could have stayed with Leta. At least there she felt like she was contributing something to the household.

  Buck wanted her to sniff out any suspicious activity by his cousin. But Henry didn’t talk with her. How likely was that to happen? No man was going to tell his young cousin, “Oh, by the way, I was part of a lynch mob.”

  Tante Ertha couldn’t tell her anything. She knew no more about the violence than a fly trying to make its way out the window. But Lisel, her cousin Henry’s wife … maybe. Maybe she would talk.

  But so far, Lisel was about as likely to spill her husband’s secrets as she would share the details of childbirth to an unmarried girl. Stella would have to be her most charming, empty-headed self. Too bad she couldn’t have saddled up and gone out with her uncle and her cousins. That way, she might pick up clues.

  “What are you thinking so seriously about?” Tante Ertha looked up from the biscuits she was rolling out.

  “Thinking how fun it would be to go out with the men.” Stella put her hand to her mouth and quickly turned her attention back to the eggs she was separating. The hens had laid a bumper crop, and Tante Ertha decided to make a sponge roll and a meringue pie.

  Tante Ertha laughed, a light, tinkling sound that revealed her soprano voice. “I used to do the same thing. Say whatever thoughts came to my mind. It almost cost me your mother’s friendship.” She dusted the bottom of a glass and starting cutting biscuits. “But she was so kind as always. Your poor mother worries for you. Wande says you are still a tomboy at heart.” Even with the gray sprinkled in her red hair, Tante Ertha remained young at heart. Stella enjoyed her company.