by Sean Lynch
“So much for the honeymoon,” Winston Boone shrugged.
The station house air smelled of gun smoke. Pritchard looked up at the ceiling, as his vision rapidly faded. He felt Caroline’s warm body against him. He tried to put his arms around her, but found he couldn’t lift them. He could hear the farmer’s wife sobbing, and Winston Boone giving orders.
“Saddle up our horses,” he said. “And get them other passengers outside. How’s Toby?”
“Toby’s done for,” he heard Wesley answer. “He just don’t know it yet. She stuck him good. Can’t you hear him a-hackin’ and a-sputterin’?”
Pritchard couldn’t see the man dying from the throat wound Caroline had inflicted, but he could hear him. The all-too-familiar sound of the death rattle, as the cowboy’s life dwindled, was unmistakable.
“His own damned fault for lettin’ the spitfire stick him,” Winston Boone said. “Once he’s finished, get his carcass on a horse.”
Pritchard heard men scrambling to comply, and sensed the hostages being herded from the station house. His vison had completely gone, and darkness was all he could see. He felt Caroline being pulled off him.
“She’s dead,” Wesley announced, “and the Ranger’s gettin’ there.” Pritchard heard a revolver’s hammer click back. “You want me to finish him?”
“Nope,” Winston told his son. “That’d be doing him a favor. He’ll bleed out before too long. Leave him be, to contemplate. I want him to spend his last minutes ruminating on the wedding he ain’t gonna attend.”
“Whatever you say, Pa.”
The last thing Pritchard heard, before slipping into unconsciousness, was the sound of gunshots outside the station house.
Chapter 32
“You surely are one hard man to kill,” a familiar voice said.
Pritchard slowly opened his eyes. He found himself in pain, lying in bed, in an unfamiliar room. He also found himself staring into the worried face of Ditch Clemson.
“How . . . long?”
“Ten days,” Ditch said. “The next stage passing through that station found you just this side of perdition. You refused to die, like the stubborn Missouri mule you are. You were shot three times, Samuel. When they got you here to Waco, your life was hangin’ by a thread. Some famous doctor from Austin came up and put you under his knife. They say he saved your life. You’ve been conked out, recovering, ever since.”
“The other passengers?” Pritchard asked, already knowing the answer.
“Dead,” Ditch said. “Driver, shotgun messenger, and station agent, too. They were all shot and left to rot where they fell.”
Pritchard lowered his head.
“I’m awful sorry about your fiancée,” Ditch said solemnly.
Pritchard closed his eyes, tears squeezing from the corners. The image of his beloved Caroline, shot to pieces in his arms, flooded his memory.
“It was—”
“Winston Boone,” Ditch finished for him, “and his boys from the Triple B. I know. They left a trail a blind man could follow. Twenty horses, at least.”
“Closer to thirty,” Pritchard said. “Where’re they going?”
“They abandoned their spread. It looks like the whole outfit is headed south to Mexico. Captain Franchard and a detachment of Rangers is ridin’ after ’em.”
“How’d you find out?”
“The Triple B spread is just north of ours, remember? When the Rangers came through, looking for Old Man Boone and his outfit, they stopped by the ranch to water their mounts.”
Pritchard struggled to sit up.
“Take it easy,” Ditch said. “You don’t want to start those stitches a-leakin’. That doctor is a mean old cuss. He wasn’t going to let me in to see you. I had to insist. Practically had to threaten him. He saved you, all right, but he sure don’t act like he’s very fond of you.”
“He has every right to be angry with me,” Pritchard said. “He’s Caroline’s father.”
“Oh, hell,” was all Ditch said.
“I hate to ask you,” Pritchard said, wincing as the words came out, “but can you loan me a few dollars? I need a horse and a gun. Everything I had was taken from me at that coach station.”
Ditch knew his friend wasn’t referring to merely his property.
“You can barely sit yourself up,” Ditch said. “What do you plan on doing with a horse and a gun?”
“What I have to,” Pritchard said.
“It’s being done. I already told you, Captain Franchard and a company of Rangers are out scouring the Texas countryside for those Triple B boys.”
“They’ll never catch ’em before they get into Mexico,” Pritchard said, slowly swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Rangers have to stop at the Rio Grande. I don’t.”
“You’re planning on going into Mexico, all by yourself? After thirty armed men? In your condition?”
“That’s right,” Pritchard said.
“You’re crazy,” Ditch said. “That’s too many guns to go up against, even for you.”
“I took on more than that once, in Independence, Kansas. An entire company of Confederate guerrillas, if I recall. Besides, Old Man Boone and his Triple B hands don’t know I’m comin’ after ’em. They think I’m dead.”
“True enough,” Ditch had to admit.
“Are you going to loan me the money for a horse and gun,” Pritchard said, “or not?”
“Do I have a choice?” Ditch said. “Seems you forget that you own one third of the SD&P Ranch. Which is rolling, by the way. These past few years, while you’ve been away rangerin’, me and Paul have been selling all the horse and beef stock we can muster to the army and the railroads like whiskey to Irishmen. They can’t buy it fast enough, and pay top dollar. We’re gettin’ plumb rich. Could sure use you at the ranch, once you get healthy again.”
“I’m happy for your success, Ditch. For Paul, too. But we both know I ain’t a rancher, and I’ve got business in Mexico.”
“I didn’t really think I could talk you out of it,” Ditch said, shaking his head, “but I had to try.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Pritchard said, gingerly testing his weight on his feet, “but this is something that’s got to be done. You know it, too.”
“I reckon so. That’s why I brung you a fine horse. One big enough to haul your heavy carcass around. A good saddle, too. I also brung you these.”
Ditch opened a saddlebag he brought with him and produced two brand-new Remington revolvers. “I bought these pistols for you in Dallas. A gunsmith there makes them up special. They’re the same as your ball-and-powder guns, except they’ve been converted to fire .44 cartridges, same as your Henry rifle.”
“They stole my Henry along with my pistols,” Pritchard said. “All my money, too.”
“I know,” Ditch said. “I took the liberty of bringing you a new Henry, too. Don’t need a Gypsy fortuneteller to know what’s on your mind.”
“I’m obliged,” Pritchard said. “I’ll pay you back. You know I’m good for it.”
“You ain’t givin’ me a penny,” Ditch said. “There’s only one thing I want in trade for that horse and those guns, and it ain’t negotiable.”
“What would that be?”
“I’m going with you.”
“This ain’t your fight.”
“Hell, if it ain’t,” Ditch said. “You’re my brother, Samuel. Them bastards shot my brother and killed my brother’s bride-to-be. They’re gonna pay for that.”
“You sure about this, Ditch? You’d best know, I ain’t going after ’em as Joe Atherton. A Texas Ranger has to follow the law and must stop at the U.S. border. I’m going into Mexico as Samuel Pritchard. And I damn sure ain’t bringing any of ’em back for a trial by jury. I’m the only judge, jury, and executioner Winston Boone and his Triple B boys are ever going to face. I aim to send every one of them cowardly, back-shootin’ sons of bitches straight to hell, or die tryin’.”
“Just like old times,” Ditch
said. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Chapter 33
It took a week for Pritchard and Ditch to ride the 350 miles from Waco to the border town of Del Rio, Texas. The first couple of days, Pritchard was so weak Ditch thought he was going to fall out of the saddle. His complexion was sallow, his lean body was hunched over, and he spoke little, as if saving all his energy to remain atop his horse.
At Pritchard’s insistence, however, the duo pushed hard, riding all day with little rest. At Ditch’s insistence, they made camp each day by sunset, ate a hearty meal, and slept the entire night. It was a far different journey from the one they’d made during the war, when they were forced to travel by night and sleep by day to survive. By the third day, Pritchard had strengthened considerably, and by the end of the week he was sitting in the saddle almost like his old self.
Ditch carefully watched his brooding friend. On several occasions, as they rode the trail in silence, he thought he saw Pritchard’s death-shadow descend for a brief instant, before rapidly flickering away. He’d only previously witnessed the lethal specter on Pritchard’s features during violent, life-or-death actions he was forced to undertake to save his, Ditch’s, or someone else’s life. That the dark cowl fell over him while simply riding, without being triggered by a deadly threat or the need to kill, was cause for concern.
Five days into their journey, a band of six Comanche braves on horseback began paralleling them from a distance. After a few hours of shadowing the two riders and their packhorse, the braves slowly began to close in. When they got to within two hundred yards, Pritchard stopped his horse, pulled his Henry rifle from the saddle scabbard, and stared at them. Ditch followed suit. After a long, tense moment, the Comanche turned their horses around and rode off. Ditch couldn’t help but wonder, as he watched the death veil again fade from Pritchard’s face, if the superstitious Indians had seen it, too, and its appearance was the reason they’d elected to depart.
The horse Ditch brought Pritchard was a palomino, eighteen hands tall, named Biscuit. Though not his beloved Rusty, Biscuit was a strong horse of reliable temperament, and he could tell his friend was pleased with the choice.
Each night, while Ditch started the fire, made the fixings for supper, and tended to their three horses, Pritchard practiced with his pistols. Just as he had years before, he unloaded his guns and wedged a coin into a tree’s bark at head level. Then he would draw, aim, and fire, over and over again, with each hand, for hours at a time.
The first night’s practice, Ditch could tell the pain from Pritchard’s healing wounds was hindering his movement. He was still lightning fast, but there was an awkwardness, almost a hesitancy, to his draw.
By the end of the week, after hours of training, no such impediment remained. Pritchard was faster than Ditch had ever seen him draw before, and quicker than he thought a mortal man could be.
On the evening of the sixth day, Pritchard kept his revolvers loaded. His first shot blew the coin from the tree, and the remaining eleven bullets, all fired in scant seconds, cut out a hole in the tree the size of a whiskey glass where the coin had been.
The following morning, Pritchard and Ditch entered the border town of Del Rio. As the two riders led their packhorse down the main street, a lone figure stepped out to block their path.
“Howdy, Joe,” Captain Franchard said. “Hello, Ditch.” Ditch nodded his greeting, having met the Ranger captain at his ranch when they were searching for Winston Boone.
“What’re you doin’ here?” Pritchard asked.
“Tie up your ponies, come into the saloon, and I’ll tell you.”
Once they were seated, Franchard ordered a bottle and three glasses. Pritchard noticed the captain wasn’t wearing his cinco-peso star. It was the first time he’d seen the tough old Ranger without it.
“We followed Boone’s trail down here to Del Rio,” Franchard explained. “It wasn’t hard to do. Thirty men on horseback leave plenty of sign. But we never got closer than two days behind them.”
“They had a solid head start,” Pritchard said.
“They crossed into Mexico a couple of days ago,” Franchard went on. “That’s when I sent my Rangers back to Fort Worth and wired Austin, requesting a leave of absence.”
“A leave of absence?” Pritchard said.
“Figured I’m due a vacation. I hear Mexico’s nice this time of year.”
“How’d you know I was coming?” Pritchard asked.
“You’ve been ridin’ with me as a Texas Ranger for five years,” Franchard said. “A fella can learn a thing or two about another fella in that time.”
“Iffen you want to come with me, Cap’n, I can’t stop you. I couldn’t stop Ditch. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told him; I ain’t makin’ any arrests, nor takin’ prisoners. This ain’t no posse. It’s a war party. You ain’t obliged to come along, if you ain’t comfortable with that.”
“First off,” Franchard began, “once we cross the Mexico line, it ain’t Captain. It’s Tom. Second thing, is that what befell you at the hands of Winston Boone and his tribe was set in motion because you once stood with me when you weren’t obliged to. I didn’t forget that. Third, why don’t you boys take a walk with me down to the livery?”
Franchard stood, grabbed the bottle and three glasses, and headed out of the saloon. Pritchard and Ditch shrugged to each other and followed after him.
They watched the tall Ranger captain’s back all the way down the main street to the livery stable. He went in, nodded to the attendant, and then set down the bottle and glasses and began digging through a large stack of hay.
Pritchard and Ditch looked at each other again, puzzled. Franchard uncovered three wooden crates. One of them was small, and the two other considerably larger.
“Take a look, boys,” Franchard said. “I brung along some supplies for our Mexican vacation.”
Pritchard and Ditch knelt and examined the crates. The smaller one contained five hundred rounds of. 44 caliber ammunition. The larger crates contained dynamite.
Pritchard and Ditch accepted the glasses handed to them by Franchard. He poured three generous shots of whiskey. They clinked glasses and drank.
“Still think I’m interested in takin’ prisoners?” Franchard asked, wiping his mustache on his sleeve.
Chapter 34
“That’s three of ’em, all right,” Pritchard said.
“You’re positive?” Ditch asked.
In response, Pritchard just looked at his friend and said nothing.
“Just askin’,” Ditch said sheepishly.
A trio of Triple B hands were seated in a small cantina, speaking with two Mexican men. It was after dark, and Pritchard, Ditch, and Tom Franchard watched them enter from a different cantina across the street. Ditch was carrying his Henry rifle, and Franchard a double-barreled coach gun.
Pritchard had wanted to cross the Rio Grande and enter Mexico immediately, to continue the pursuit, but was talked out of it by Franchard. He explained to Pritchard and Ditch that their best bet was to remain in Del Rio for a few days and wait until a few Triple B hands returned.
Franchard informed them that Winston Boone made his money by rustling horses and cattle in Texas, herding them over the Rio Grande, and selling them to the Mexican army. The BB&B outfit would be expected to continue delivering stolen American stock, regardless of what troubles the rustlers had created for themselves in the United States with their attack on the stagecoach station house. If not, the Mexican government wouldn’t continue to grant the men of the Triple B the unofficial asylum they enjoyed below the border; sanctuary they now required to escape the hanging justice above it.
Franchard believed that small parties of Triple B hands would be sneaking back into the U.S. to scout for herds of cattle and horses to rustle. When a potential herd was located, which could be at any ranch or stockyard from El Paso to San Antonio, all the way south to Laredo, the scouting party would split up. Part of the crew would remain in Texas to ke
ep an eye on the targeted herd, while the others would return to Mexico to alert Winston and the rest of the hands. The entire outfit would then meet up at a prearranged location on the U.S. side of the border to commit the stock theft.
Franchard claimed it made better sense to wait in Del Rio and capture a member of one of the Triple B’s scouting parties. A prisoner could tell them exactly where Winston Boone and the rest of the Triple B hands were hiding out, as opposed to traipsing all over Mexico in search of them.
Pritchard and Ditch couldn’t argue with Franchard’s logic, especially since Pritchard insisted that the face of each and every one of the Triple B men who were present at the coach station when Caroline was murdered was burned into his memory, like a brand.
“How do you want to play it?” Franchard asked Pritchard.
“You take the front, Tom. Ditch, you cover the rear.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going into that cantina to get me a prisoner.”
“Alone?” Ditch said. “Don’t be a fool. Let one of us come with you.”
“Not necessary,” Pritchard said.
“Let him go,” Franchard said to Ditch. “He’ll make out.” To Pritchard, he said, “Just be sure to leave one of those hands alive. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to keep one of the Mexicans they’re parlayin’ with this side of perdition, too. Those Mexes brokerin’ the deal with ’em in there probably know quite a bit about the area Winston is hiding out in. Could be, they could provide us with valuable tactical intelligence.”
“Okay,” Pritchard said, adjusting his pistol belt. “Be back out in a minute.”
Pritchard waited a moment for Ditch to make his way to the rear door of the cantina. Then he nodded to Franchard, at the front doors, and went inside.
He wasted no time. He knew a white man as big as he was would be noticed immediately, so he strolled directly over to where the three Triple B hands sat drinking tequila at a corner table.
Three sets of eyes widened as the Triple B hands looked up and recognized Pritchard. The two Mexicans looked from their seated companions, who were clearly shocked by the arrival of the newcomer, to the giant man looming over them.