Ranger's Trail

by Darlene Franklin

  They all agreed and soon they had settled for the night. Buck dug in his saddlebag and pulled out a pouch. “I’ve got rice to add.”

  “Remember the time that new recruit cooked all that rice?” Steve grinned.

  “It’s grown into such a tall tale that there was enough rice to soak up all the water in the Gulf of Mexico.” Jim chuckled. “I remember.”

  “Growing up, I ate too much aroz con frijoles to not know how to cook rice.” Buck dumped a measured amount into the water Jim had boiling on the campfire.

  “I’ll add the frijoles.” Steve settled a crock of beans in the pot with the rice. “We’ll have ourselves a feast. Hot food, strong coffee, and a full night’s rest. What more could a Ranger want?”

  Buck thought about the letter of resignation waiting in his pocket. He looked at the sky, clear tonight, with the Big Dipper pointing to Ft. Worth and Indian Country and other stops north all the way to the North Pole. From childhood he’d dreamed of joining the Rangers, rejoicing when Governor Coke reinstituted the service. He had lived his dream for the past twelve months.

  And now he was ready to leave. All because of a widow woman, her outlaw brother, and her accusations against his own flesh and blood.

  Buck couldn’t tell Steve and Jim about his decision to leave the Rangers without spewing anger across the still night. His natural reticence won out, and he said nothing.

  Stella had stayed busy in the kitchen, fixing supper last night and breakfast this morning. Between meals, she cooked enough food to feed all the Fleischer clan, ranch hands, and any neighbors who happened by for the funeral. Ma would be impressed with her efforts.

  Bypassing American dishes like peach pie, oatmeal cookies, and cole slaw, Stella concentrated on Oma’s Texas-style strudel and a chocolate torte.

  Someone knocked at the front door. She headed that way, but Lisel arrived first. “Guten morgen, Herr Hoerster, Frau Hoerster.”

  Frau Hoerster headed straight for the kitchen, bearing a pot of Rubensuppe, beet soup. Soon the sideboard was groaning with food—good, solid, German dishes. Bringing food to comfort the grieving was a tradition probably as old as Abraham and just as universal. If only the sight of food didn’t make her feel sick.

  Mason’s German community filled the parlor. Several women came alone, unescorted, their husbands dead at the hands of the Anglo gang. Stella didn’t wonder that they were angry. She dashed in and out of the kitchen, cleaning plates and refilling dishes as they ran out. The men gathered in groups of two or three, but Henry stayed glued to Lisel’s side.

  The door opened and Buck came in. He caught Stella’s gaze and nodded. Tears prickled behind her eyelids. She hadn’t realized how alone, how sad, she felt, so far away from her parents and everything familiar, until that moment. As far as Fred’s death, she wavered between grief and shock. She wanted to feel more grief, but she just hadn’t known him all that well.

  Reverend Stricker arrived, and Tante Ertha gestured for her to bring him a drink.

  “He has a sweet tooth.” Lisel handed her a plate of their best china with strudel, and Stella poured a glass of lemonade. Nothing but the best.

  Homesickness for her beloved Onkel Peter, for Ma’s mouth-watering apple pie, her father’s deep smile, swept over Stella. She handed Reverend Stricker the plate and pushed through the crowd into the yard.

  Buck joined her a few moments later. He sat down with her on the swing Onkel Georg had built on the porch. She wanted one of her own some day, when she had her own house. Would she live in a nice house like Onkel Georg’s or a simple cabin like Leta’s?

  As long as she shared her home with a husband she loved, she wouldn’t care. A porch swing or two didn’t matter in the long run. It could wait. She leaned against Buck’s side. She wouldn’t mind finding someone like him—strong, dependable, kind.

  A sob caught in her throat. Daydreaming beat the grieving in the parlor. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of newly dewed grass.

  Buck nudged her. “It’s time.”

  The family’s guests exited the house. Their cousins with their families came at the end. Lisel leaned on Henry’s arm, their young son and daughter dressed in somber colors and exhibiting a formal demeanor. Last of all, Reverend Stricker accompanied her aunt and uncle.

  Buck helped Stella to her feet and they fell in with the mourners. They walked to the newly dug grave. A pine box, placed there earlier that morning by a couple of ranch hands, waited by the hole. A plain cross, with “Friedrich Fleischer, 1859–1875,” carved in the wood. Sixteen short years. “I’m glad we can be here, for Ma’s sake.”

  Buck nodded. Reverend Stricker stood at the head of the grave. “I remember the first time I met Friedrich. He was preparing for his confirmation. He loved the Lord, no lad better, but he couldn’t remember the order of the minor prophets. He was so worried I would refuse his confirmation over such a little thing.” The pastor continued with simple anecdotes, introducing her cousin to her in a way she hadn’t known. Pastor Stricker was a shepherd to this flock, much as Onkel Peter was back in Victoria.

  When he quoted the Twenty-third Psalm—familiar to Stella in both German and English—she joined in the recitation. “Der HERR ist mein Hirte; mir wird nichts mangeln.” With his prayer, she felt comforted.

  After the amen, Buck touched her arm. “I must leave again. I’m not certain when I’ll be back.”

  The reality of the dangers her brother faced was reflected by the pine box being lowered into the ground. She didn’t voice a pointless warning. “I’ll be redoubling my prayers that this will reach a peaceful conclusion.”

  He waved as he headed for the barn. “Amen.” His voice trailed behind him.

  Buck patted the pocket where his letter to Major Jones waited. He couldn’t mail it until tomorrow. He could rejoin Jim and Steve, but he didn’t have the heart. Neither was he ready to stay at his uncle’s house and listen for any plans his cousin might be hatching. His soul felt raked over coals, and there was only one place he wanted to go. Leta’s simple cabin.

  All the way across Loyal Valley, crossing the Llano, riding the final miles to the ranch, Buck reminded himself of all the reasons why this wasn’t a good idea. Her brother was a suspect in the Cooley murders; Cooley’s gang was all but convicted in a court of law. He had seen Andy with his own eyes. For all Buck knew, Andy could have fired the shot that killed Fred, although he had observed only Cooley with rifle raised.

  Guilt warred with anger over Fred’s death. He blamed himself. He had no reason to expect his uncle and cousins to show up in that pasture. But on the other hand, if Leta hadn’t passed the information on to Andy, who in turn told Cooley, his cousin would have gone about his business, tending to his family’s cattle, with no harm. Matching his master’s mood, Blaze galloped at full speed until they arrived in Leta’s yard. The sun lowered in the sky, a cool breeze blowing pleasantly through the trees, redolent with the odors of a well-ordered farm. Leta leaned against the corral fence, where Ricky rode Shadow at a brisk trot.

  The boy saw Buck first. “Ranger Buck! You came back!”

  Buck slowed Blaze, ignoring the enthusiastic greeting. He scanned the yard, confirming what he already knew—no sign of Andy or his horse. He didn’t bother dismounting. “Where is your brother?”

  Leta looked at him as if she didn’t recognize him. “Ricky, go get ready for bed.”

  “Ma-a!”

  “You have school in the morning. It won’t hurt to get to bed early, while you’re still recovering from that fall.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Miss Moneypenny is depending on you to help her with the spelling lesson tomorrow. The black bat chased the black cat—”

  “—who wears an orange hat while he eats a big fat rat.”

  “Take care of the horse first,” Buck told the boy. The look Leta threw at Buck when she twisted around made him wish he had kept his mouth shut.

  As soon as Ricky disappeared into the barn, she spoke in a furious whisper
. “I don’t want my son any more worried than he already is.”

  “So you don’t know where Andy is. When did you see him last?”

  “Why do you want to know? Do you intend to boss him around too?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Taking away thirty men weakened my force so much that I abandoned my proposed scout, and … thinking it probable that I might be able to gain more towards restoring peace and quiet to this distracted community than could be done by a Lieutenant I started next morning on a forced march for Mason with twenty men of my escort, Co. A.

  Letter from Major John B. Jones

  to Adjutant General William Steele,

  September 28, 1875

  Do you think that’s what I’m trying to do with Ricky? Boss him around?” Buck sounded genuinely surprised that she would say such a thing. “You’re not his father. You don’t have that right.” She bit off the words.

  “I don’t want to see anybody else hurt.” He felt his face flush, and he turned away from her, his shoulders rigid in the grip of some strong emotion. Leta had never seen Buck like this. Ordinarily he was kind, considerate—controlled. He had almost convinced her that he cared about her and her family. She didn’t know why she’d ever thought this man was attractive.

  He took deep, ragged breaths. She waited him out. She would wait to see if he had an explanation. He had earned that right—just about. The color in his neck returned to a healthy pink.

  Ricky came out of the barn. She forced herself to smile. “Go ahead to bed. I’ll come in before long.” They didn’t speak again until the door closed behind him.

  “My cousin was killed yesterday. The latest victim of this ridiculous war.”

  Whatever explanation Leta expected, she never imagined this news. Her anger drained away. She put her hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off.

  “You don’t understand. Your brother was there when he died. For all I know, he fired the killing shot.”

  Leta’s mouth shut. She took a step back. “That’s impossible. Andy’s not a killer.”

  “You don’t even know where he’s been. You said so.” His eyes were as cold as polar ice. “I saw him there, Leta. I’m not making it up.”

  “You must have mistaken someone else for Andy.”

  His eyes darkened. “He was wearing that bright yellow jacket I’ve seen hanging from the peg by your door. The one the color of a harvest moon. Is it there today?”

  “I told you. He’s not here. Of course he has his coat. But he’s not the only one with a yellow jacket.” Even though she had stitched that one herself, from a golden-colored flour sack.

  “He was riding a sorrel, like Comet.”

  “There are other sorrels.”

  “Not that many. You forget, my family raises horses. That’s an unusual color combination. Every other horse was dark.”

  He leaned forward, danger sizzling like static between them. “I saw his face, Leta. It was him.”

  She stood her ground. “I don’t believe my brother has committed murder. He’s mixed up. He lost his father and my husband. I thought you could help him.” She bit her lip, feeling the sharp pain of Buck’s accusation. “I didn’t expect you to accuse him of murder.”

  “My cousin was even younger than your brother. I will find the men who killed him. Of all people you must understand how I feel.”

  Leta returned glare for glare. “Good luck with that. My husband’s killers still walk free.” She turned on her heels and walked to the cabin, willing him to walk away.

  The cabin had darkened in the deepening dusk, and Leta lit a lantern when she entered. “Ma?”

  Leta carried the light behind the curtain and stood by Ricky’s bed. “What is it, sweetheart?”

  “Why are you mad with Ranger Buck?” Ricky was curled up on his side of the bed. “Did something happen to Uncle Andy?”

  Leta resisted the urge to reassure him, to promise that Andy would be home any day. “I’m not sure where Andy is.” She made herself smile. “But he’s always come home safe and sound before, hasn’t he?”

  Ricky straightened, sitting up in the bed. His head hit the top of the headboard. She reached out and brushed the hair from his forehead. He looked more and more like his father every day.

  “Ma.” His voice sounded thin, uncertain. “I think I know where Andy went.”

  Leta set the lantern on the nightstand and sat on the chair still by the bed. “Where?” Lord, please let him have gone hunting or even to a saloon or run away. Anything would be better than …

  “He said he knows who killed Pa. And he said he’d joined the gang that’s hunting them down.”

  No. Leta fought to keep a neutral expression on her face. “When did he tell you this?”

  Ricky squirmed toward the middle of the bed, a little farther away from her. “After Ranger Buck left the last time. He told me not to tell.” Ricky hung his chin on his chest. “But I don’t like it when you argue with Ranger Buck.”

  Buck was telling the truth. She stood abruptly. “I’ll be right back.” She reached the door in three strides and yanked it open. “Buck? Are you still here?”

  Buck couldn’t explain his reason for staying behind, mucking out stalls and feeding the animals. The work wasn’t neglected, only behind, as if someone alternated daily tasks in order to keep up.

  The Bible said to take care of widows and orphans. No matter how mad Leta and her brother made Buck, he couldn’t let it go. So he cleaned the stalls, laid down fresh straw, using the time to consider his next move. He should go into town, spend a night at the local boardinghouse, mail his letter. Then he would be free to head for parts unknown, to wherever God led him next. The open road didn’t hold the same appeal as it had ten years ago.

  Talk to her. God’s inner voice urged him.

  I tried, God. She didn’t listen.

  Remember when Paul warned to speak the truth—in love? You weren’t loving.

  She doesn’t want to talk with me. I lost my chance.

  “Buck? Are you still here?” Leta’s voice called through the darkness. There was only silence to answer her. “I know you are. Blaze is still in the corral.”

  Buck glanced through a crack in the barn roof at the heavens. I’ll try. He emerged from the barn. “Here I am.”

  “There’s something you need to hear.” She jerked her chin at the cabin and disappeared into the inky darkness.

  What was going on? God had opened the door, and he must follow. “Lord, let me speak Your truth. With Your love. I’m too angry to do it on my own.” No wonder he kept his mouth shut as much as he did. No good came from blurting out whatever came into his mind.

  He scraped the muck from the barn on the ground outside the door and knocked.

  “Come in.” Leta’s voice was muffled, coming from behind the blanket.

  Buck pulled back the blanket and went in. His face a pale oval in the dim light, Ricky sat with his back against the headboard. “Are you mad with my Ma?”

  A choking sound came from Leta’s throat. Maybe she was as uncomfortable with their earlier confrontation as Buck was.

  This boy deserved the truth after all he had been through. “Maybe I was, earlier. I’m sorry about that. God set me straight about that.” Shrugging, he smiled. “God’s whipping shed is a lot worse than my pa’s belt.”

  That brought a weak smile to Leta’s face, and Buck relaxed a little.

  “Ma doesn’t wear a belt.” Ricky giggled.

  Buck glanced at her and smiled. “Your mother’s got a good heart.” He sat down at the end of the bed and looked into Leta’s dark eyes. “She doesn’t like to punish people unless she’s sure they’ve done something wrong.” He stared at her, hoping to communicate his willingness to open the discussion again.

  She blinked. In a low voice, she said, “And if I think it will change bad behavior. Everyone deserves a second chance.” She turned her eyes from him and took Ricky’s hand. “Tell Ranger Buck about Andy.”

 
; “Do I have to?” Ricky’s lower lip trembled.

  “It’s important.”

  Buck sat back, trying to keep an open mind.

  Ricky looked from his mother to Buck and back again. “Andy said he knew who killed my pa, and he was going to join the men who were hunting them down.”

  Leta slumped over, her arms crossed over her chest. Oh, Leta. Buck wished he had been wrong about Andy. And if Buck hadn’t tested Andy’s loyalty, Fred might still alive. He gritted his teeth until it hurt.

  “When did he tell you this?”

  “After you were here the last time. He made me promise not to tell.” A tear trickled out of his right eye. “Is Uncle Andy okay?”

  Buck weighed his answer. “He was, the last time I saw him.” He paused. “Did he say who he was meeting?”

  Ricky looked at Leta, who nodded, his face solemn. “The man who used to be a Ranger like Ranger Buck. The one who came back. Colley?”

  “Scott Cooley,” Buck said with a glance at Leta.

  Leta tucked the quilt around Ricky and disappeared behind the curtain to get him a drink.

  Buck slipped out behind Leta. He cocked his head at the door but she shook her head, so he took a seat by the fireplace and stared into the ashes in the fireplace. He had interrogated plenty of men before, but hearing the truth from Ricky’s innocent lips broke something in Buck.

  Leta brought the glass to Ricky. She stayed with him quite some time, while the sky turned dark black. Rather than lighting a lantern, Buck remained in the dim interior, a small stream of moonlight leaking through the window. The soft murmur of voices ceased and Leta reappeared.

  “You’re still here.” A soft chuckle sounded in the darkness. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” She lit the lantern. Buck blinked against the bright light.

  She sank into the rocker and began moving back and forth, tapping her foot in time to the motion. He waited. The silence he kept wrapped around him like a shield seemed the wisest course.

  “You were right.” The speed of the rocker increased. “Andy is part of Scott Cooley’s gang. It’s my fault. I never should have written down the names of the men I suspected killed Derrick.”