Ranger's Trail

by Darlene Franklin

  “God protected them.” The pastor smiled. “I cannot say the same for all on this day.”

  “Andy.” Leta breathed his name.

  He shook his head. “Peter Jordan was wounded and—Dan Hoerster died immediately.” He took her hands in his. “I saw your brother. Cooley and his men are riding around town as if they will answer to no one.”

  At his words, Leta wilted, her ankle tilting to one side on the gravel. Reverend Stricker held her arm to steady her. “I should not have spoken so plainly. Please, let us return to the church, where we can speak in private.”

  “Thank you.” Leta reached for the sense of God’s presence that had touched her earlier.

  I am here. Do not fear.

  Strength seeped into her legs and back.

  Stricker walked quickly, his smile encouraging her to follow. She moved to the cool interior, her eyes blinded in the shadows of the church. A blurry figure moved in her direction, then sharpened. She made out a familiar yellow jacket, hair dangling in front of dark eyes. Andy!

  Leta rushed forward and threw her arms about her brother. “Thank God you are alive. I have been so very worried about you.”

  He moved back. His appearance hadn’t altered, but he had changed in a myriad of ways. He had become a man in the brief span of time of their absence from one another. He pushed her away, with gentle arms. “I can’t stay.”

  “You must.” She stepped back, fighting her desire to command him to her will. She had to respect his right to make his own decisions. And pray for God to change his way before he hardened into an outlaw.

  “Leta. I’ve seen things, done things …” Andy took her hand and led her away from the pastor. “Derrick’s murderers are still alive. I can’t rest as long as they still walk the land as free men.”

  “I heard that Peter Jordan was wounded today,” Leta probed.

  “Bad luck.” Andy’s half smile expressed the paradox of that statement.

  “But Dan Hoerster has never been anything but good to us. Extended us credit at his store when we needed it.”

  Andy’s face hardened. “He was involved with Williamson’s death.”

  Cooley’s vendetta was still exacting its toll.

  The church door opened again, and Ricky burst in. “Uncle Andy!” He shouted like he was in the schoolyard.

  How had he escaped Julia’s supervision? Leta stepped to the window and saw children streaming from the schoolhouse. “She said I could come over here and eat with you.” Ricky opened his lunch bucket and frowned at the contents. “You take half the sandwich, Andy. I’ll share the rest with Ma.”

  “That’s all right, kid. I’ll get something to eat later.” Andy disengaged himself from Ricky.

  “You are coming home with us, aren’t you, Uncle Andy?”

  Leta looked at her brother, daring him to disappoint his nephew. “I can’t force you to live with us. But will you at least join us for the evening? Or even stay a few days until I can hire ranch hands?”

  Andy glanced to the front of the church, where Reverend Stricker knelt at the altar. “I promised him I would listen. I’ll do as you ask.” He stretched to his full height, several inches taller than Leta. “I can’t say more than that.”

  “That is all I ask.”

  The long trip to south Texas from Mason County gave Buck plenty of time for a lengthy conversation with God. He still didn’t have clear direction, but he was more at peace. He arrived at Company E ready to get to work chasing the enemies of Texas and securing her borders.

  Buck sought out Captain Neal Coldwell and explained his presence. “I have been seconded to your company by Major Jones for the length of your current scout.”

  “Morgan. I’ve heard good things about you. I’m glad to have you with us.” Captain Coldwell introduced him to the members of the company. “Rest while you can. We leave before first light. We’ll see action on the morrow.”

  The captain’s promise of action the next day didn’t come to fruition. About noon they ran across an Indian pony, sore used of back and foot. The sweat on the horse had dried, and their scout decided the Comancheros had passed that way about sunrise. “They’re thirty-five or forty miles ahead of us and still moving. We’ll be lucky to catch up with them today.”

  “Let’s keep pressing forward,” Coldwell said.

  The men of Company E rode for the day without stopping to eat until they found a creek late in the day. Buck didn’t know how long they could have continued without finding a water source—not much longer. The good news was, the Comancheros they chased faced the same conditions.

  “We’ll spend the night here,” the captain said. “We’ll leave before first light.”

  One kid—tall, bony, and so young he had little more than peach fuzz on his chin, stretched out next to Buck. Buck closed his eyes, knowing the value of rest on scouts like this. He recited Psalms to himself, drifting off.

  Beside him, the boy stirred. “Sergeant Morgan?”

  Buck came awake. “Yes?”

  “You ever fought Comancheros before?”

  “A few times.” Buck resigned himself to the inevitable questions.

  “What is it like?”

  “In some ways it’s easier than you expect. Once the fight starts, you just react, and it feels like it’s over before it hardly even started.”

  The boy didn’t say anything for a minute. “You must have seen men die.”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you afraid?” The last question came out as little more than a whisper.

  “Every time.” Buck repeated it under his breath. “Every time.” Louder, he said, “But I did my job, and so will you. You have the makings of a fine Ranger.”

  After that, the boy let him sleep.

  Shortly after noon the following day, the shout went down the ranks. “Comancheros ahead.”

  Captain Coldwell gave the orders: ride double file. No talking. Sneak up on the Comancheros if possible.

  They closed the distance: One thousand yards … eight hundred … they might keep the element of surprise.

  At five hundred yards, their cover broke.

  Coldwell raced down the line, shouting orders. “Dismount! Shoot low! Kill as many horses as possible!”

  Almost the same exact words Captain Roberts had used on Buck’s first scout. It had worked then. It should work today.

  The lust of battle rushed through Buck’s veins, and he jumped from Blaze’s back, rifle cocked.

  A Comanchero rushed at him, rifle aimed.

  Mason County disappeared from Buck’s mind as he fired his weapon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I find it impossible to get a consistent or reliable account of the troubles and am sorry to have to report that very few of the Americans whom I have met yet manifest any disposition to assist in the arrest of the perpetrators of yesterday’s deed.

  Letter from Major John B. Jones to

  Adjutant General William Steele,

  September 30, 1875

  While Leta brought her ad to the telegraph operator, Andy stayed at the church. Reverend Stricker walked out with Leta. “I’ll make sure he stays put.”

  “Thank you. Again. Please pray that I find reliable hands. It’s either that, or I have to give up.” Unfortunately Mason didn’t have a newspaper of its own. Fredericksburg had a paper, but she doubted the largely German population would care to work for an Anglo rancher. She wanted to advertise in the Austin Daily Statesmen, San Antonio Daily Herald, and the Burnet Bulletin. After Rab Turner, the telegraph operator, named the price, she checked her money and decided to skip the Austin paper.

  “If you’re looking for help around the ranch, you might go around to the stores. They could put you in touch with people who are looking for work,” Rab said.

  “I’ll do that.” Thinking of local stores brought Dan Hoerster to mind. What a horrible waste of another life. Would Mrs. Hoerster welcome her condolences, one untimely widow to another? Leta decided to try. After recei
ving confirmation of receipt of the telegrams, she headed for the Hoersters’ store to offer her sympathy.

  As she rounded the corner for the store, Leta hesitated. The townspeople must have seen Andy with Cooley, as surely as Reverend Stricker had. She reached for that peace, that reassurance of God’s abiding presence, she felt earlier. All the more reason why she should reach out to her sister in Christ. After sending up a brief prayer for God’s protection, she crossed the street to the store.

  A CLOSED sign hung on the door, but a soft light lit the interior, and the quiet murmur of voices reached Leta. Countless people had passed in and out of her cabin following Derrick’s death; names and faces had blurred, but their support had carried her through the darkest days. She would offer the same to Mrs. Hoerster. Gathering her heart with her skirts, she climbed the steps.

  An older matron, a woman Leta didn’t recognize, was keeping guard at the door. Her eyes widened when she saw Leta. “You. You are not welcome here.”

  Leta froze on the steps. “I don’t wish to intrude. I only wish to offer Mrs. Hoerster my condolences. I know what it is to lose a husband in this horrible conflict.” She felt like a Yankee soldier must have felt approaching the house of a Southern widow, out of place and unwelcome. No wonder so few people paid attention to God’s command to love their enemies.

  “Who is it, Irma?”

  “It’s Leta Denning, Mrs. Hoerster.” Leta took the silence that greeted her announcement as an invitation and made her way through the crowd. All eyes upon her, she didn’t stop until she reached the new widow. “I came to town today on business, and so I was here when the shots were fired.” She swallowed, finding the words hard to say. “Your husband was a good man. This is a terrible thing that has happened.”

  “Your brother was with them.” Mrs. Hoerster’s guardian frowned.

  What do I say, Lord? “Regardless of whatever my brother has done.” Leta closed her eyes and prayed for courage. “Or whatever anyone represented in this room may have done, we all agree that such a loss of life is wrong. I for one will no longer seek the men who killed my husband.”

  The words surprised her as soon as she spoke them. Murmurs floated around her. She laid a hand on Mrs. Hoerster’s arm. “I will pray for you.”

  “And I for you.”

  Mrs. Hoerster’s soft whisper followed Leta out the door.

  Buck relaxed among the men of Company E. Spirits ran high after the successful completion of their scout.

  “If we keep this up, pretty soon we’ll have the Comanchero problem under control. We might even work ourselves out of a job.” Abe Zeller lifted a flask to his lips.

  Whiskey wasn’t uncommon among the Rangers, but the fact didn’t make Buck dislike it any less. A Ranger might be called to battle on a moment’s notice. A liquor-addled brain diluted his focus. At least the men who gambled kept their heads clear.

  Captain Coldwell sought out Buck. “Appreciate your help today. The way you and that horse of yours corralled the head honcho when he was trying to escape, that was a pretty piece of work.” He grinned. “But hear tell, you come from a family of horsemen. The Rangers are proud to have a Morgan, horse and man, among their number.”

  Buck tipped his hat to accept the praise.

  “I was pleased to have your assistance. Didn’t expect to see anyone from Company D for a string of Sundays, with the trouble going on up in Mason. Is it as bad as the papers report? Murders in broad daylight with no one called to account?”

  Fred’s fallen body flashed into Buck’s mind, and he grimaced. He nodded but didn’t speak.

  A rider entered the camp and headed straight for the commander. “News from Major Jones, sir.”

  Coldwell took the missive and opened it. He glanced at Buck. “News from Mason. Cooley has struck again, this time getting to a Dan Hester.”

  Hoerster. Buck mentally corrected the pronunciation. Not that he blamed Major Jones. Onkel Georg had Americanized his Christian name to George and his surname to Fletcher.

  The captain finished reading the letter. “Apparently they pranced around town for several hours, celebrating, scaring everybody into staying inside, and no one stopped them.” He whistled. “Roberts has his hands full.”

  Conflicting emotions roiled through Buck. Was Andy involved in the firefight? Would Henry seek vengeance? Buck wondered if Major Jones would require his immediate return.

  No such request came, and Buck wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed. He could stay here forever, doing worthy, brave work. He could continue until he was too old to sit in a saddle, without shedding a tear.

  Unfortunately, it no longer satisfied him.

  The commander folded up the missive. “He’s asking for three volunteers to take the place of the men who admitted to a prejudice in favor of Cooley.” He peered at Buck keenly.

  “Send me back.” At last Buck had a clear sense of God’s leading.

  “We need to get hay for winter.” Leta bent over her account book. Andy had more than fulfilled his promise to her, staying for the better part of a week since the Hoerster shooting.

  Andy slapped his work gloves against his waist overalls, stirring up dust Leta would have to sweep out later, but she didn’t complain. Reverend Stricker had advised her to leave conviction to God. Leta was trying, but it was hard.

  “I was worried after that big rain last month.” Andy took a swig from his glass of cool well water. “But most of it dried out. There are three pastures ready for the sickle.”

  Her little brother. The same brown eyes that melted like hot chocolate when he smiled, the same cleft in his chin like their father, the way his eyebrow wrinkled when he was thinking about something—like now. She wished she could turn the clock back ten years to the day Derrick Denning had ridden into their lives. If only they had gone somewhere, anywhere else, someplace that would have avoided the heartache of the past year.

  If wishes were horses … Leta met Andy’s gaze with a steady look of her own.

  “I will get as much hay in as I can. I know you depend on it for the winter. But then I’ve got to leave.”

  Leta nodded. She’d been pleased he had stayed with them as long as he had. “Will you ride with Cooley again?” She forced the words past the lump of coal in her throat.

  “Our interests run parallel with Cooley. Some of the same men involved in lynching Derrick got to Williamson.”

  “But that’s the job of the law. To hunt them down.” Leta traced the names from her list with her finger. “I told Buck what I remembered about that night.”

  Andy scoffed. “A lot of good that did. He’s left for parts unknown from what I’ve heard. The Rangers are on our side, at least some of them.”

  Leta considered mentioning the deaths of Fred Fletcher and Dan Hoerster. The American faction weren’t the only ones who had suffered because of the war. But so far they hadn’t talked about either incident, and Leta wasn’t ready to bring it up right now. She satisfied herself with saying, “There are two sides to this.”

  Andy leaned back and gaped at her. “How can you say that? They killed Derrick.”

  Leta’s own words came back to haunt her. “Maybe I’ve finally learned that two wrongs don’t make a right. Adam didn’t make things any better in the garden when he ate the fruit after Eve did.”

  “The same Bible you’re quoting says an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—a life for a life.”

  Leta sighed. “I will not argue with you about it. I appreciate the help you are giving me. I care too much for you to let you act without speaking my mind, but I will not stop you from going. You are old enough to decide for yourself what is right and wrong.” A sad smile crept across her lips. “And to live with the consequences of your actions. For too long I’ve protected you as if you were still a child.”

  Andy’s brown eyes were alight with the love that bound them together. “I believe you mean it.”

  “Of course I do.” Standing, she pulled him close for one long
embrace, then let him go. “Use your freedom well.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SAN ANTONIO DAILY EXPRESS

  November 30, 1875

  They were … well mounted and armed to the teeth (not figuratively speaking either); dressed roughly, with hair and head unkempt, they certainly presented an appearance more like guerillas [sic] than officers of the law … these men were a portion of Capt. McNelly’s brave band, and were on the search for the authors of the Mason County troubles.

  Three men arrived on Leta’s doorstep on Tuesday morning in response to her newspaper ads. One of them she hired without hesitation—Bob Unger, the son of her nearest neighbor, hoping to earn some extra money before his Christmas wedding. “I can’t promise to work past the wedding.”

  She smiled at the earnest young man—only a year or two older than Andy, the kind of man she would love to see Andy grow to be. “I appreciate all the help you can give me. I’ll continue looking in the meantime. Andy will take you out to the hayfields for today.”

  The other two applicants posed more of a quandary. Mac Burnett had drifted south from Kansas, working with cattle before moving on when the mood struck him. She decided to try him for a week.

  The third candidate had a handful of sterling references, from his commander in the Union army to his sergeant with the Cavalry. Recently he had mustered out and hoped to find work as a cowboy. But he was a former slave. Leta had seen slaves in the days before the War Between the States, but she had never spoken to one face-to-face.

  Toby Lincoln had dark skin, but his speech was pure Texas. “You’ve no cause to be worried none about me. I don’t need no room and board; and I’m handy at anything that needs doing around a ranch.”

  “What brought you this way?” He must have passed a hundred bigger ranches on his way to the D-Bar-D. Given the high turnover on ranches, other ranchers must have offered him a job.

  “Why, I asked the Good Lord to show me the place He needed me. And His footsteps led to your front door.” Toby chuckled.