by Sean Lynch
“That’s comforting,” another Ranger said.
“Don’t be too hard on ’em,” the mayor said. “A lot of the womenfolk watched their husbands gunned in front of them. Some of them had to bear children sired by the men who did it. That’ll leave a mark on a town.”
“I reckon it would,” Captain Franchard said.
The mayor recognized Pritchard. “You’re Smokin’ Joe Atherton, ain’t you?” he asked, as Pritchard dismounted.
“I’m Atherton,” he acknowledged.
“I read about you,” the mayor said. “The paper said you’re the deadliest gun in Texas. Faster, even, than Bill Hickok.”
“Don’t believe everything you read,” Pritchard said.
“It’ll be reassuring for my wife to know the best gun in Texas is going after Dalton Stiles and the murderin’ gang of cutthroats who killed her brother. He was a deputy here in town.”
“We’ll be stayin’ the night,” Franchard said, “and pullin’ out, come morning. We’ll need our horses boarded and some grub. I can pay in Texas gold.”
“We’ll accommodate you,” the mayor said.
“I’d also like to have a word with anyone who eyeballed, firsthand, the robbery here a few years back.”
“Everybody in town witnessed what happened,” the mayor said. “I reckon not many are going to want to talk about it. I’ll talk to ya. Saw the whole shootin’ match, from right over there in front of the post office.”
“Tell me about Stiles,” Franchard said. “Whatever you can remember.”
“He’s a husky man,” the mayor began, “of medium height. In his late forties, I’d guess. Has red hair and muttonchop whiskers. He wears one of those wide-brimmed, Johnny Reb hats with a feather in it. Rides a big, black horse, too. You can tell he’s the one in charge; ain’t no doubt about it. Meaner’n hell. Didn’t bat an eye when he ordered his men to shoot the sheriff and deputies, my brother-in-law included, after they’d already surrendered.”
“What can you tell me about his men?”
“Not much to tell,” the mayor said. “There was about forty riders, maybe fifty. All white men. Murderin’ saddle trash, they were. Armed to the teeth, every one of ’em. They laughed as they shot our menfolk down. Shot two of our women, too; those who refused to let themselves be soiled during what came . . . after the killin’.”
“You don’t remember anything special, or unusual, that stood out in your mind about any of Stiles’s men?” Franchard asked.
The mayor, a rotund man in his fifties, rubbed his chin. “Come to think of it,” he said, “there was one of the gang who stood out. He was a tall, skinny fella with only one eye. Doesn’t wear a patch over it, neither, like he’s proud of it. Just a black hole and a big ole scar where his left eye should be. I kinda got the feeling he was the second-in-command.”
“What made you believe that?” Franchard asked.
“When the rapin’ began,” the mayor lowered his voice, “he was next in line, right after Stiles. The others made way for him. If I remember right, the rest of the gang called him ‘Rube.’ That’s right; I’m sure I heard someone call him Rube.”
Pritchard’s ears perked up. He recalled Jackson County Deputy Eli Gaines had an older brother named Reuben; a brother he claimed had run off to join Shelby’s Missouri Iron Brigade. Major Dalton Stiles was reputed to have been in command of a detachment of that same brigade. The physical description, with the exception of the missing eye, certainly fit the Gaines family as Pritchard remembered them, and the loss of an eye was a common war injury. Could “Rube,” of the Stiles Gang, be Reuben Gaines?
“Anything else you remember about Rube?” Pritchard spoke up, causing Franchard to raise his eyebrows.
“Yes,” the mayor said, “now that you mention it. There was one thing about that cruel, skinny, bastard I remember.”
“What’s that?” Pritchard asked.
“He was fast on the draw. Faster than hell.”
Chapter 40
Five cold, dusty days later, Captain Tom Franchard led his Rangers into the town of Magdalena. The first thing they noticed was the lack of menfolk.
They rode in midmorning, and saw plenty of people on the streets going about their daily routines. Only a handful were male, and of those, most were very young boys. The rest were a mixture of old men, both white and Apache, and were engaged in various menial chores.
The second thing the Rangers noticed was the women were armed. Those not wearing pistols had rifles within reach. When the Rangers rode in, the women looked up at them with suspicious expressions. Some appeared fearful. All either put their hands on their holstered sidearms or picked up their long arms.
“Texas Rangers,” Captain Franchard called out, raising a hand in greeting. “We come in peace.” He halted the column in front of the general store, but gave no signal to dismount.
“What’s your business here?” a woman stepped forward and demanded. She was a handsome brunette in her early forties, with an excellent figure and an old Colt Dragoon belted around her waist.
“We’ve come at the request of Governor Giddings,” Franchard said, “to capture or kill the Stiles Gang.”
The woman spat on the ground in front of Franchard’s horse. “Little late for that, ain’t you?”
“I reckon so,” Franchard said. “May I dismount, ma’am?”
She appraised Franchard and his men for long seconds before answering. “You may,” she finally said.
“Captain Tom Franchard,” he said, removing his gloves and extending his hand. He still gave no signal for the other Rangers to climb down from their saddles.
“My name’s Margaret Chase,” the woman said, ignoring Franchard’s proffered hand. “Folks call me Maggie. I’m the closest thing to a mayor we have right now in Magdalena. My husband used to be the mayor, but he and the rest of the town council are currently holding court at the bottom of the mine.”
“I understand,” Franchard said.
“Do you?” Maggie said. “Do you understand it’s been four months since Dalton Stiles and his outfit rode in and buried damned near every man in town in that infernal mine? Four months since he took almost every penny we had? Four months since he stole most of our horses? Four months since his boys lined up our women, who’d just watched their husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers die, and defiled them in the town square? Four months since we sent word to Fort Wingate for help and got nothing but a telegram in return? Is that what you understand, Captain Franchard?”
Franchard lowered his hand and removed his hat. “I chose my words poorly,” he said, “and I apologize. There ain’t no way anybody but those who’ve suffered here can know what you folks have been through. I can’t do nothin’ about what’s already happened. All I can do is give you my word as a Texan, a Ranger, and a man that I’ll do everything in my power to see Stiles and his men catch a bullet, or swing from a rope, or die tryin’. And these Texas boys I’m a-ridin’ with will be following me all the way.”
“To hell,” Pritchard said, “and then some.” The other Rangers nodded their assent.
Maggie silently counted the Rangers. “There ain’t nearly enough of you,” she remarked, almost to herself. “Where’d you come from?”
“Fort Worth,” Franchard said.
She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “You boys rode almost seven hundred miles just for the opportunity to get bawled out by me and killed by the Stiles Gang?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Franchard said. “And glad to do it.”
Maggie shook her head. “I suppose you’re tired and hungry,” she said. “Have ’em get off their horses and come into the saloon. We use the place for our town hall, now that there’s no men to drink in it. I’ll see about getting some coffee and grub going.” She turned, headed for the saloon, and motioned for Franchard and his men to follow her.
Franchard signaled to his men, who dismounted. “Tell ’em to be on their best behavior,” he discreetly addressed Sergean
t Finley. “We may be going into a saloon, but there’ll be no drinking or other foolishness. Pass the word; any wood needs choppin’, water needs totin’, or any other chores have to be done, we’ll do ’em. Also, I want the men to clean themselves up. Shave and wash at the earliest opportunity. That’s an order.”
“But, Cap’n,” the sergeant grumbled, “we’re Rangers, not store clerks or saloonkeepers. We don’t need to pretty ourselves up for a bunch of—”
“I wasn’t askin’, Sergeant Finley,” Franchard cut him off. “I don’t want my men looking anything like the men who committed murder and rape in this town. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.
The men secured their horses and went into the saloon. Franchard removed two heavy bags from his saddle and brought them in with him. Shortly after entering, women began filing in. Old women, young women, and teens soon filled the establishment. Coffee was poured, and a simple meal consisting of bowls of cornmeal hash and bread was served to the hungry Rangers.
The women eyed the Rangers as they ate. Many of the women were quite pretty. Pritchard noticed more than a few were pregnant.
“We’re going to have a population explosion around here, come September,” Maggie said, taking a seat at the table where Franchard sat with Pritchard. “Thanks to the Stiles Gang, we’ve got over twenty pregnant gals in town, and no doctor. But we do have Miss Bina. She’s as good as any doctor, I’d wager, when it comes to birthing babies.”
“Who’s Miss Bina?” Franchard asked.
“She’s our midwife. Bina’s young, but she knows her business. Her mother was Apache, and her father was a white trapper. They were killed during a Comanchero raid when Bina was a little girl. She splits her time with us, in Magdalena, and with the Apache, in their lodges just north of here. Sort of exists between two worlds, I guess. Learned her trade from midwives in both. Lucky for her, and us, she wasn’t in town when Stiles and his outfit rode in. They kill half-breeds on sight.”
“You wouldn’t have any idea where Stiles and his crew might be now, would you?” Franchard said.
“All anybody knows,” Maggie said, “is they fade into the Indian Nations after a job. They only come out to ply their wicked trade, like they did here in Magdalena last Christmas.”
“Why the Nations? Ain’t they afraid of the Apache?”
“Not Major Dalton Stiles,” Maggie scoffed. “He’s protected by superstition. The Apache, and every other tribe in the territories, believe Stiles is a cursed god and his men are demons. The Indians consider him very bad medicine. They steer clear of him and his gang.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he and his men take the scalps of their own tribe. They rape and torture their own people. To the Apache, who might be viewed as savages by civilized white society, such behavior is considered barbaric and unholy.”
“If you don’t mind me sayin’ so,” Franchard said, “things look a bit lean around here.”
“What did you expect?” Maggie said. “The mine’s shut down, if you hadn’t noticed on your way in. We have no money or livestock, and all we’ve been living on to get us through the winter is our stores of fruit and vegetable preserves, and what little grain we have left. We can’t even leave. Even if we wanted to pack up and pull out of Magdalena, which we don’t, we don’t have any horses left that are fit to pull a wagon. How long do you think a couple of hundred women and children would survive, marching across the territory, on foot?”
“Not very long,” he conceded.
“We’d have about the same chance as you and your Rangers,” she said, “of finding Major Dalton Stiles in the Nations. Or of staying alive after you do.”
“She’s right,” Pritchard said, keeping his voice low so no one but Franchard and Maggie could hear him. “Stiles and his men are experienced horseback guerrillas, and they know this territory much better than we do. Skilled as we are, Captain, we could spend twenty years wandering the Nations and never find ’em.”
“Even if we did find ’em,” Franchard said, “it would only be because Stiles wanted us to. And it would be at a place and time of his choosing. He’d cut us to pieces.”
“When I saw only twenty-four of you ride in,” Maggie said, “I knew you didn’t have a prayer. He has more than fifty men, and each one is a merciless killer. You go after Major Dalton Stiles, Captain Franchard, you’ll end up the same as my husband—dead and buried. I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but you and your Rangers are outmatched and outgunned.”
“Call me Tom,” Franchard said to Maggie as he opened his saddlebags and revealed the stacks of gold coins inside. “And who said anything about going after Major Dalton Stiles?”
Chapter 41
Captain Franchard’s plan was bold, clever, and simple. It was also the reason he’d been carrying over twenty thousand dollars in cash and gold, provided by the Republic of Texas and guaranteed by the governor of the New Mexico Territory.
The morning following their arrival in Magdalena, Franchard sent twenty-two Rangers, led by Sergeant Finley, on the two-day ride north into Albuquerque with a shopping list and a mission. There, they bought several dozen horses, over two hundred head of cattle, and four wagons, which they loaded with medical supplies, ammunition, two cases of dynamite, a large roll of barbed wire, and as much food and sundries as they could haul.
Finley and his men didn’t wear their cinco-peso stars. They’d been given orders to drink a little and talk a lot in the Albuquerque saloons while on their shopping spree.
They spread rumors around the taverns that they were temporary hired hands who’d been employed by the widows of Magdalena, as they’d become known in the region, to fetch their horses, cows, and sundries. The Rangers bragged that the women weren’t destitute, as they’d claimed, and had fooled Major Stiles and his gang of thieves during the Christmas robbery and massacre.
The undercover Rangers claimed the women had hidden the bulk of the town’s bountiful silver stores, turning over just enough to make Stiles believe they’d gotten it all, and denied the outlaw guerrillas the mother lode. Their extravagant spending in Albuquerque, and the amount and quality of the merchandise they bought, provided all the proof needed to back up these undercover “hired hands” claims.
Less than a week later, Finley and his men were back in Magdalena, this time herding horses, cows, and four wagonloads of goods. As they rode into town through the center of the main street, the women came out to greet them, this time with smiles instead of scorn.
Captain Franchard and Pritchard spent their time while the other Rangers were away scouting the terrain surrounding Magdalena, conducting a detailed survey of the town’s entrance and exit points, and examining every building, alley, and rooftop within the small mining community.
That night, at the saloon/meeting hall, instead of cornmeal hash and bread it was steak and beer for dinner.
“I must admit, Tom,” Maggie said, sitting down with Franchard and Pritchard, “even if your plan doesn’t work, it’s mighty nice to have horses, beef, and a few sundries back in our cupboards again.”
“The plan’ll work, all right,” he said. “If Dalton Stiles is half the guerrilla fighter he’s reputed to be, he’s got eyes and ears all over the territory. It’ll get back to him, soon enough, that you women held out your silver on him.”
“That’ll get under his saddle,” Pritchard said.
“It surely will,” Franchard agreed.
“Then what?” Maggie asked. “He’ll be furious. He and his gang will come roaring back into Magdalena with blood in their eyes.”
“That’s kinda the point,” Franchard said.
“But you can’t stay here and protect us forever. What if Stiles sends only half his men? Then what? After you Rangers leave, the rest will return.”
“We’re not going let that happen,” Franchard reassured her. “We’re gonna wipe that vermin out to the last man, Maggie. If Stiles don’t send in all
his boys, which I believe unlikely, since there’s supposedly nothin’ but undefended women here, we’ll capture a couple of ’em. They’ll tell us where the rest are, and we’ll hunt ’em down and finish ’em off.”
“What makes you think they’ll tell you?” she asked.
“The cap’n can be very persuasive,” Pritchard said, remembering how Franchard had once convinced a group of captive Comancheros to dig their own graves.
“I wouldn’t have said this a week ago,” Maggie said, smiling at Franchard, “but I trust you, Tom.”
As ordered, the Rangers had cleaned up. All had shaved, including Pritchard, though many, like Franchard, kept their now well-trimmed mustaches. Pritchard had even allowed Maggie to cut his long blond hair while his fellow Rangers were off in Albuquerque.
While Maggie was giving Pritchard his haircut, in a chair in the barbershop, a number of women came to watch, point, and giggle as his Samson-length hair was clipped off. They stopped laughing and silently stared when the tall, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed, chisel-jawed, and now clean-shaven Ranger stepped out of the barber’s chair to examine his face in the mirror.
While trimming his hair, Maggie couldn’t help but notice the pronounced bullet scar, but said nothing. She wordlessly left enough on top to partly conceal the telltale mark when his hat was off.
“You’re a right handsome fella,” she smiled, brushing the hair remnants off his back and shoulders. “I must admit, though, you’re a mite younger than I took you for without those whiskers.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my own face,” Pritchard said, rubbing a hand across his bare jaw. “I forgot what I look like.”
Maggie gestured with her thumb at the women gawking at him from outside the shop. “If you forget again, I reckon there’s a few gals around here might want the opportunity to tell you, in private and up close.”
She was pleased to see him blush, which she took as a sign of his youth and good character. “Tell me,” she said, “do you have a gal back in Fort Worth? I’ve got a feeling there’re some in town would like to know.” She handed him his hat.