by Sean Lynch
“Thank you,” a woman exclaimed. She stood shakily and stumbled into Pritchard’s arms. She looked to be in her early twenties, and despite the exhaustion and fear in her eyes, was quite comely.
“Easy,” he said, lowering her back to a sitting position.
“Get these women some water,” Franchard commanded, “and round up all those renegade horses.” Rangers scrambled to comply.
“Over here, Cap’n,” a Ranger called out from across the camp. “Somethin’ you’d better see.”
Franchard and Pritchard walked past more than two dozen dead Comancheros to where a couple of Rangers stood staring at something on the ground. It was evidently what the Comancheros had been focusing on just before the Rangers rode in.
“Jesus, God, Almighty,” Franchard said under his breath.
Lying before them, staked out on the ground, was what was left of a young woman. She was naked and had clearly been attacked by multiple rapists, if not raped by every Comanchero in the camp. The Rangers couldn’t tell if she’d been bludgeoned, or cut, to death, so severe, and so many, were her wounds.
“Some Comancheros believe the value of their captives is higher if they haven’t been tainted,” Franchard explained, removing his hat and wiping his brow. “But sometimes they’ll pick one out and use her to slake their urges. After the last one has had his way, they’ll kill her, since they know she ain’t got any value left. Just like the rape, each one partakes in the killing, so they’re all equal party to it. They usually do it in front of the other women, to remove any notion of resistance. Makes for a docile herd of captives.”
“Bastards,” a Ranger said.
“Get something over her,” Franchard said. “I don’t want the womenfolk to see her.”
“They already saw,” another Ranger said, as he gently laid a blanket over the woman’s body.
The group of Rangers who’d pursued the fleeing Comancheros came riding back into camp, herding six men on foot at gunpoint. It was three whites, two Mexicans, and a Comanche.
Captain Franchard issued more orders. “Put the women up on those Comanchero horses and take them out of this gulch. Make camp on the ridge, get a fire going, tend to their wounds, and get them fed. Keep a solid watch. Five men will stay here with me for a detail. We’ll join you up at the crest by nightfall.”
Pritchard and four other Rangers elected to remain with Captain Franchard. The rest of the detachment, led by Sergeant Finley, helped the women onto horseback. After collecting the remaining horses and weapons from the dead Comancheros, they headed off to the place where they’d begun their fateful charge.
Captain Franchard turned to the six Comanchero prisoners, on their knees before him.
“You boys are going to dig,” the captain said, pointing to a stack of shovels left behind by his Rangers. “Two holes. One small hole for that poor, Christian, woman, and one big hole, for you and your filthy brethren.”
“Kiss my ass, Ranger,” one of the white Comancheros said. “You’re gonna shoot me anyways. Don’t see no point to workin’ for you none, before you do it. I’ll take my bullet now, iffen you please, and you can dig your own damned holes.”
“Who said anything about a bullet?” Franchard said as he kicked the man in the teeth. “Tie him up,” he ordered. “Bind his feet, too.”
Pritchard and two Rangers covered the other five prisoners with their pistols, as the remaining two Rangers lashed the once-defiant and now-semiconscious prisoner’s hands behind his back. They also hobbled his legs.
As they did this, Captain Franchard went to his saddlebag and extracted a bottle of whiskey. He poured half the bottle’s contents onto the bound Comanchero, which woke him from his stupor. Then he lit a match and tossed it on the soaking man.
The Comanchero burst into flames, howling and thrashing. Franchard let him cook for half a minute, before he began kicking dirt on him. He nodded to the other Rangers to assist in extinguishing the flaming prisoner. When they finished, the Comanchero was still alive, still conscious, and charred beyond recognition. He lay on his back, twitching and gasping in agony.
“Your friend was right,” Captain Franchard said to the other prisoners. “Your miserable lives are indeed going to end this day. He may take all night to expire, I don’t rightly know. All I know for sure is that his journey to perdition is gonna be a painful one. Iffen you boys want to die by a bullet, quick and painless, and have your remains put into the ground, you’ll earn it by digging. Otherwise, you’ll burn like your compadre and get left aboveground to feed the coyotes and buzzards, just like him. I’ve got three more bottles of whiskey, and it makes no nevermind to me.”
The five remaining Comancheros hastily grabbed shovels and began to dig.
Chapter 27
Captain Franchard and his Rangers returned the ten surviving captives safely to their homes in San Angelo. Thanks to the technological wizardry of the telegraph, by the time they reached Fort Worth, more than a week later, word of their dramatic battle with the Comancheros and the rescue of the hostage women had spread far and wide.
When they rode into Fort Worth, filthy and battle-worn from weeks on the bloody trail, the Rangers were surprised to be met by cheering crowds, glad-handing politicians, and reporters from as far away as Chicago, New Orleans, and Kansas City. Everyone wanted a glimpse of the heroic, outnumbered, Sons of Texas who’d charged into a Comanchero camp, guns a-blazing, and rescued the cherished womanhood of the Lone Star State.
In the days that followed, they were swarmed by inquisitive townsfolk and newsmen alike. Each Ranger became a celebrity. Captain Franchard, who looked every bit the grizzled, veteran, mustachioed, lawman of legend, was cited by the governor for his extraordinary leadership and unfailing courage. The other Rangers in the detachment were individually singled out for their unique characteristics and contribution to the historic victory.
America’s appetite for all things relating to the western frontier was already insatiable, particularly back East, and few topics within the popular culture were devoured so voraciously as the subject of the Texas Rangers. Every newspaper across the nation heralded the story of the “Rescue of the Captive Women of San Angelo by the Fearless Texas Rangers!”
Ironically, it was Ranger Joe Atherton, the Ranger who least sought the spotlight, who ended up garnering the most attention.
Described by one breathless reporter as “. . . six and a half feet tall, with the powerful physique of a lumberjack, blond-haired, blue-eyed Texas Ranger Joe Atherton is the living embodiment of an ancient Viking warrior come back to life. Not yet twenty-four years old, and bearing an ominous bullet scar on his forehead, it has been reported to this journalist by those in good standing to know that this young man, whose origins and past remain a mystery, is a veteran of the late troubles on the side of the Confederacy. It has also been reported, again, by those in authority with privilege to such information, that Ranger Atherton is the fastest, most lethal pistoleer in all the Texas Rangers, with countless outlaws, renegades, rustlers, and road agents having fallen to the thunderous justice of his brace of revolvers.”
A photograph of all eighteen of Captain Franchard’s Texas Rangers was taken on the steps of the Fort Worth town hall and published in every newspaper across America. Pritchard, as the tallest, stood in the back alongside Captain Franchard.
The Rangers remained in Fort Worth, resting their horses, buying new duds, and having drinks and steaks bought for them by virtually anyone they met. Pritchard did his best to keep a low profile, but due to his celebrity, height, youth, and good looks, found himself more often than not hounded by reporters, gawkers, inquisitive citizens, and not the least of all, attractive young women.
Pritchard would politely decline the unwanted company, and ended up spending more than one afternoon hiding out with Rusty in the livery to escape the annoyance of pestering fans. He cleaned and oiled his guns, practiced with them, cared for his horse, and counted the days and hours until his Ranger unit would ri
de out of bustling Fort Worth and get back to the familiar anonymity of the dusty trail.
Captain Franchard explained to his men that as distasteful as being in town was, he had orders to temporarily remain in Fort Worth. Their overlords in the Texas Rangers relished the excellent publicity Franchard’s men had brought upon their organization and hoped to parlay it into political influence and greater funding from Austin.
The entire detachment was boarded at Fort Worth’s finest hotel, which made it that much more difficult for Pritchard to lay low and remain unbothered. He was walking back to the hotel from the livery, just before supper, when a distinguished-looking man wearing a bowler and a pressed suit approached him in the lobby.
“Are you Ranger Atherton?” the man asked.
“I am,” Pritchard said. “No disrespect intended, but I’m done talking to reporters.”
“I am not a reporter,” the man said. “My name is Benjamin Woodruff. I am an attorney from Austin.”
“Good for you,” Pritchard said. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Actually,” Woodruff said, “I represent someone who very much wants to speak with you.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Pritchard said, “but I’m plumb talked out. I just want to be left alone.”
“I understand your desire for privacy,” Woodruff went on. “My client desires the same. I beg you, please indulge her? She has traveled quite a distance for the opportunity to converse with you.”
“I’d rather not,” Pritchard said.
“I would be happy to compensate you for your time.”
“I don’t want your client’s money,” Pritchard said. “Frankly, Mr. Woodruff, I’m tired of being gawked at. I never wanted to be famous. If you’ll excuse me?” He tipped his Stetson and began to walk past the attorney.
“My client is aware of your preference for anonymity,” Woodruff said, sidestepping to block Pritchard’s path. “She distinctly remembers you wanted no thanks when she last saw you.”
“Last saw me?” Pritchard said, puzzled.
“Allow me to introduce my client,” Woodruff said, stepping aside.
A stunning auburn-haired woman, perhaps twenty years old, walked toward them from across the lobby. She had huge, deep brown eyes and was wearing an elegant, and undoubtedly very expensive, emerald-colored dress that did a poor job of concealing the contours of her extraordinary figure. While there was something vaguely familiar about her, Pritchard was certain if he’d seen so beautiful a woman before he would have remembered.
“Good evening, ma’am,” Pritchard said as he removed his hat. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?”
“We met once before,” the woman spoke. “On the Ouachita River. You saved me, just like those women of San Angelo I read about in the newspaper. My name is Caroline.”
Chapter 28
A dumbstruck Pritchard sat across from Caroline at a candlelit table in a private dining room reserved in the Fort Worth Grand Hotel by Mr. Woodruff. He found it nearly impossible to believe the gorgeous young woman seated before him was the filthy, starved, abused waif he’d discovered tied to a chair in an Arkansas trading post, five years before. He found it even harder to keep from staring into her alluring brown eyes.
“I’m afraid you have me on my heels,” Pritchard said. “You don’t look a thing like the Caroline I remember.”
“Thanks to you,” she said, “I am no longer that girl. After you left me in the care of the pastor and his wife, I became very sick. No doubt it had something to do with what I had . . . experienced. I was at death’s door. Desperate, and not knowing what else to do, they took me to Hot Springs. It was the nearest town with a real doctor. By chance, a famous Texas surgeon named Dr. Jonathon Biggs happened to be visiting relatives there. Like you, he saved my life.”
“I’m indebted to him,” Pritchard said.
“As it turned out, Dr. Biggs and his wife took a liking to me. They had no children of their own, and adopted me as their daughter. After what I had gone through, to be taken into the hearts and home of such kind and loving people was beyond anything I could have dreamed of. My name is now Caroline Biggs.”
She looked down at her folded hands. “When I was in the hands of that evil man, Calverson, he . . . and other men . . . did things to me. When it was happening, I used to close my eyes and pretend I was a princess in a fairy tale. I imagined all the bad things that were befalling me were only occurring so that when a handsome prince came to rescue me, it would make the happy ending that much more wonderful. And then you showed up. You rescued me.”
“I’m no prince,” Pritchard said. He didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t thirsty, but suddenly found his throat dry, and tight, and the room oddly warm.
“Since that time, I have resided in Austin,” Caroline continued, “attending the finest schools, and in truth, living a fairy-tale existence. My adopted parents are quite wealthy, and I haven’t wanted for anything. But I never forgot the orphan I once was, or the tall, brave, young man who came to my rescue and made my fairy tale come true.”
She produced a gold coin and placed it on the table between them. Pritchard recognized it as the ten-dollar gold piece he and Ditch gave her when they deposited her at the church in Mount Ida, Arkansas.
“I still have the blanket and the clothes you bought for me, as well,” she said, staring at the coin and smiling. “Although, I must admit, they no longer fit.”
“They no longer suit you,” Pritchard said. “How did you find me?”
“Last week, I happened to glance at a newspaper headline regaling the Texas Rangers. These Rangers, at great peril to their own lives, apparently rescued a group of captive women from a band of slave traders. Naturally, given the circumstances of my own history, I was keenly interested. I read the article.”
She looked up from the coin, directly into Pritchard’s eyes. Her own were brimming with tears. “You can only imagine how I felt when I saw your photograph and read your name. It was the same name you gave the pastor’s wife at the church, that morning in Arkansas, on the day of my salvation.”
Pritchard felt his face flush.
“After that, I devoured every news account of the raid I could find. One of them described you as the ‘fastest, most accurate, and deadly pistoleer in the Texas Rangers.’ Then I remembered how quickly you gunned down Calverson, even though he drew on you first. Any doubt I may have had about your identity vanished.”
“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Pritchard said.
“I’m not,” she said, brushing away her tears. “Though it’s probably not Christian of me to admit, I take great satisfaction in the memory of his death. I sincerely hope Mr. Calverson is, as your namesake implies, ‘smokin’ in hell.’”
“You read about that, too, huh?” Pritchard said, rolling his eyes.
“Of course. ‘Smokin’ Joe,’ they call you. I believe it’s an appropriate title.”
“That nickname wasn’t my choice,” Pritchard grunted.
“I’m sure it wasn’t. I spoke to my father. Once I explained that I’d discovered your identity and whereabouts, he agreed to allow me to take the stagecoach to Fort Worth as long as I was accompanied by Mr. Woodruff. He handles my family’s legal affairs, and had business up here. I hope you’ll forgive me for being so insistent on this meeting, but I simply had to see you in person.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Pritchard said.
Caroline Biggs stood. Pritchard immediately followed suit, as etiquette dictated. Caroline walked over to him, put her hands on his broad chest, and looked up at the tall Missourian.
“Thank you,” she said.
“No thanks are necessary,” Pritchard stuttered, “I was only—”
Pritchard’s words were cut off in midsentence, as Caroline Biggs suddenly threw her arms around his neck, pulled him down to her, and kissed him.
Chapter 29
Pritchard soon discovered firsthand what the phrase
what a difference a day makes truly meant.
The day before meeting Caroline Biggs in the Fort Worth Grand Hotel, he felt like a fish out of water. He disliked being stuck in Fort Worth, corralled by the bustling city and surrounded by so many people. He badgered Captain Franchard on a daily basis, inquiring when their detachment was going to leave the claustrophobic town and get back to ranging the Texas countryside in search of outlaws.
Franchard would placate his youngest and most valued Ranger by reminding him that not every duty assigned to a Texas Ranger was of their choice or liking. He would further explain the need for what their commanding officers called public relations, and finish his lecture by pointing out that his fellow Rangers seemed quite content to remain in Fort Worth, sleeping on feather beds instead of the cold prairie, slugging down free whiskey, and regaling gullible townsfolk with exaggerated tales of their derring-do.
Pritchard would glumly nod, walk away, and then the very next day would again be back at Captain Franchard’s door, first thing in the morning, asking when their detachment was going to move out.
This ritual went on each day. Pritchard’s visit to Franchard had become so regular, the captain was surprised one morning when Ranger Atherton didn’t interrupt his breakfast with his daily entreaty to depart Fort Worth.
Looking across the lobby at the Grand Hotel, Franchard noticed Pritchard escorting a remarkably beautiful young woman down the stairs toward the dining room. They walked arm in arm, seemingly oblivious to anyone or anything around them except each other. Grinning to himself under his mustache, Franchard approached the pair as they were being seated.
“Good morning, Ranger Atherton,” Franchard said. Pritchard stood up.
“Good morning, sir,” Pritchard said. “Captain Franchard, may I present Miss Caroline Biggs, of Austin.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” the veteran Ranger said. “I apologize for the interruption,” he continued, “but since I didn’t see you this morning, Joe, I thought I’d give you an update on your daily query as to when the company will be pulling out of Fort Worth, especially on account of how badly you’ve been pestering me lately to get back on the trail.”