Lone Star Ranger : A Ranger to Ride With (9781310568404)

by Griffin, James J.

  “Yeah. I needed to replace the ones I lost when our ranch was burned.”

  “Just leave those on the shelf until you’re ready to get dressed. Take as long as you like.”

  “All right. And thanks, Mr. Mason.”

  “No need to thank me, son. It’s the least I can do.”

  Once the barber left, Nate stripped out of his dirty clothes and stepped into the tub. He settled as deeply as possible into the steaming hot water, letting it soak aches from his body and grime from his skin. As he lay there, a feeling of deep sadness came over him. After a while, he realized it was more than just the loss of his parents and brother. He now understood what was troubling him. Despite his previous dislike for Texas, he now knew it was home. He had no desire to return to Delaware. And he wanted to be there when the men who had killed his parents and brother were brought to justice. With a sigh, he settled even more deeply into the tub. As Lieutenant Berkeley and Jeb had said, there was no future for him in the Lone Star State. Like it or not, he would need to go back to Wilmington.

  ***

  “Boy howdy, you look good in those new clothes, Nate,” Jeb said as they headed for the livery stable after their baths and haircuts. “That hat’ll fit you better once those bandages come off. Just too bad we couldn’t find any Eastern-type clothes for you. You’re lookin’ like a real cowpuncher.”

  “That’s all right, Jeb. My friends back in Delaware all thought I was gonna be a cowboy. This way when I get home, I’ll at least look like one.”

  “That’s the spirit. Nate, Ranger pay ain’t all that much, so we can’t often afford a hotel room. I can usually talk the hostler at the stable to let me sleep in the loft for a couple extra bits a night. Besides, I like to stay close to my horse. You mind doin’ that? If not, you could use some of your money to get yourself a room for the next couple of nights.”

  “No, sleepin’ in the loft will be okay,” Nate said. “It’ll probably be a lot more comfortable than crowdin’ into a bed with two of three of my cousins once I get back home.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do. After Dudley’s in a stall and fed, it’ll be time to think about our supper. You about ready to chow down again?”

  “Now that you mention it, yeah. But I’m also real tired.”

  “You’ve been through a lot. We’ll get supper, then turn in early.”

  ***

  With nothing to do until the stage arrived in two days, Nate and Jeb had little to do the next day. Most of the time they spent sitting on barrels in front of the stable, watching people as they walked by. Nate grew more quiet as the day went on.

  “Nate, you feelin’ all right?” Jeb asked. “Your head ain’t botherin’ you, is it?”

  “No, not at all,” Nate said.

  “How about your belly? You seem to be eatin’ all right, but is that kick from Dudley gettin’ worse?”

  “No, it’s fine, except for the funny purple color it turned where Dudley got me.”

  “I’m sure sorry about that, but I’ll bet you’ll never grab a horse’s tail again.”

  “You can be certain I won’t. Dudley taught me a good lesson. No, I’m okay. Just feelin’ kind of down.”

  “Well, that’s understandable, with all you’ve been through. Losin’ a family like you did would throw a man twice your age. You’ll start to feel better once you’re with kinfolks. Things’ll never be the same, but the hurt will lessen with time. Meantime, you ready for supper?”

  “I guess so.”

  ***

  Nate merely picked at his meal that night. When he and Jeb bedded down in the stable’s hay loft, he lay staring at the roof for quite some time.

  “Jeb, you awake?” he finally whispered.

  “Yeah. I’m still awake,” Jeb answered. “Why?”

  “I’ve gotta tell you something. I don’t want to go back to Delaware. I want to stay here, in Texas.”

  ***

  Jeb and Nate spent the entire next day trying to figure out how the boy could remain in Texas. By the end of the day, they still came up empty. A feeling of hopelessness settled over Nate. It looked like he would be getting on the stage the next afternoon.

  “Tell you what, Nate,” Jeb said, about eight that night. “Sometimes I can think better over a beer or two. Let’s go to the Dusty Trail Saloon. I’ll buy you a couple of sarsaparillas, we can get some ham and eggs, and mebbe we’ll come up with somethin’.”

  “All right. Maybe you can buy me a beer, too.”

  “Mebbe I can’t,” Jeb retorted. “You’re way too young for red-eye. Don’t get any ideas from the ladies in there, either. There’ll be time enough for those in a couple of years.”

  “It was worth a try,” Nate said, with a grin.

  “There. That’s better. You’re smilin’,” Jeb said. “Let’s go.”

  It was only two blocks to the Dusty Trail, so rather than saddle Dudley, Jeb decided to walk. When they entered the saloon, it was mostly empty. A few men stood at the bar, several were playing games of chance, and one or two were talking with the percentage girls. A short, stocky, lantern-jawed cowboy, with brown hair tending to gray under his hat, was sitting at one of the tables, working on a bottle of whiskey. He nodded at the Ranger as Jeb walked by. Jeb nodded in return, then he and Nate bellied up to the bar.

  “Evenin’, Ranger,” the bartender said. “I’m Joe Hardy, the owner of this fine establishment. What’s your pleasure?”

  “Beer for me, sarsaparilla for the boy,” Jeb ordered.

  “Comin’ right up.” A moment later, a mug of beer and bottle of pop were placed on the bar in front of them.

  “Just call when you’re ready for another,” Hardy said.

  “Will do,” Jeb answered.

  Jeb only gave the saloon a quick glance. He’d been in dozens of others just like this one, all over Texas. There was the mirror-backed bar, the paintings of cattle drives and scantily clad women on the walls, the games of chance; poker, faro, chuck-a-luck and roulette, and the out of tune piano. Tobacco smoke swirled around the coal-oil chandeliers. The entire place smelled of tobacco smoke, spilled whiskey, and sweat.

  However, Nate had never even peeked into a saloon, let alone been inside one. He kept glancing around, looking from one end to the other, taking in the entire room. Try as he might, he could not avert his gaze from the percentage girls in their low-cut dresses.

  “Try to keep your eyes in your head, boy,” Jeb ordered, with a laugh. Nate blushed bright red.

  Jeb was working on his second beer and Nate on his third sarsaparilla when five men entered the saloon. Jeb glanced at their image in the back-bar mirror and stiffened. He turned to face the newcomers.

  “Nate, get over in the corner,” he ordered.

  “Why? What’s wrong, Jeb?”

  “Just listen to me. Get over in the corner, now!”

  Nate edged away from the bar.

  “Trouble, Ranger?” the stocky cowboy asked.

  “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” Jeb answered.

  “I’m not so sure about that. I think I might have to take a hand in this game,” the cowboy replied.

  “Appreciate the offer, but this is Ranger business. And five to one odds are just about right.”

  The newcomers were now halfway across the room.

  “Hold it right there, Stevenson,” Jeb ordered. “Rest of your boys, too. Keep your hands away from your guns, less’n you want to eat some lead.”

  The leader of the group stopped short.

  “Well, well, if it ain’t Ranger Jeb Rollins,” he said, with a sneer. “Of all the rotten luck.”

  “I’d call it good luck, Stevenson,” Jeb said. “The Rangers have been lookin’ for you and your bunch for quite a spell. Your cattle rustlin’ and horse-thievin’ days are over. You’re under arrest, all of you. Just shuck those gunbelts and raise your hands, nice and easy-like.”

  “You really are a barrel of laughs, you know that, Ranger? Here we are, five of us and one of you, and you
really believe you’re gonna take us all in. I don’t think so. We’ll be keepin’ our guns.”

  “Make that two of us, mister,” the stocky cowboy said. He came to his feet, his hand hovering over the butt of the six-gun on his right hip. His face was set in hard lines, his dark eyes grim and determined.

  Sensing trouble about to start, most of the patrons and employees of the saloon scrambled to get out of the line of fire, seeking cover behind posts or under tables. Several fled out the front door.

  “I told you to stay out of this, cowboy,” Jeb said.

  “Thought I’d even up the odds a little.”

  “Still got you both outnumbered,” Stevenson snapped. With that, he went for his gun.

  Jeb already had his gun out and leveled by the time Stevenson cleared leather. He put a bullet into Stevenson’s chest, slamming him back.

  Powdersmoke filled the Dusty Trail as Stevenson’s partners, along with the cowboy, pulled their guns and blazed away at each other. A bullet burned along Jeb’s ribs, then he shot one of Stevenson’s men in the right breast, spinning him to the floor.

  Another of Stevenson’s men went down when the cowboy shot him just above his belt buckle. The man dropped his gun, clawed at his bullet-torn gut, jackknifed, and fell to the sawdust covered floor, howling in pain. Then a bullet caught the cowboy in his left thigh, dropping him to one knee. The man who shot him then turned his gun on Jeb. Concentrating on the other man still standing, Jeb didn’t see the outlaw thumb back the hammer of his pistol, ready to put a bullet into the Ranger’s side.

  Nate jumped from the corner where he had taken shelter and hit the outlaw in a long, diving tackle, driving his head into the man’s ribs and knocking him off his feet. The outlaw’s gun spilled from his hand, firing when it hit the floor, the bullet harmlessly ripping a long splinter out of the front of the bar. Both Nate and the outlaw scrambled after the gun. Nate managed to reach it first, grabbed it, and clubbed the barrel on the base of the outlaw’s neck. The man stiffened, groaned, and slumped to the floor, out cold.

  Two last shots were fired, and the final member of the gang toppled to the sawdust with two bullets in his chest, one from Jeb’s Peacemaker, the other from the cowboy’s .44 Remington.

  Silence descended on the saloon, broken only by the moaning of the wounded outlaw and the curses of the cowboy as he struggled to his feet. Gun still at the ready, Jeb quickly checked the outlaws. Three were dead, the wounded man had passed out, and the one Nate had clubbed lay still as death, his breathing ragged. Nate was kneeling alongside him, still holding the outlaw’s gun. His gaze was fixed on the pistol.

  “Nate. You all right?” Jeb asked. There was no response. “Nate!”

  Nate didn’t answer. He kept staring at the gun.

  “Nate!” Jeb shook the boy’s shoulder. “You all right, son? Good work handlin’ this hombre. I reckon you just saved my life. I’m obliged to you.”

  “Huh? Oh. Yeah, I think I’m okay. Jeb, this is my brother’s gun.”

  “What?”

  “This is Jonathan’s gun.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. I’m positive. Look at the handle. See, right there. Jonathan burned his initials into it.”

  “Let me see that.” Jeb took the gun from Nate. As he had said, the initials “JAS” were burned into both of the Smith and Wesson’s walnut grips.

  The cowboy came limping over to Jeb and Nate. His right pants leg was dark with blood.

  “The boy all right, Ranger?” he asked.

  “Yeah, he’s fine. How about yourself?” Jeb answered.

  “I’ll be okay. Slug just took a chunk of flesh outta my leg. I’ll patch myself up. My name’s Carl, by the way. Carl Swan. And what about you? Looks like you caught a slug yourself.”

  The left side of Jeb’s shirt was also wet with fresh blood.

  “Jeb Rollins. Bullet just pinked my ribs. Appreciate your help. The boy here’s Nate Stewart. His family was all killed a few days back by a bunch we Rangers have been chasin’. Looks like this hombre might’ve been one of ’em. This here gun belonged to Nate’s brother, Jonathan.”

  “That’s my brother’s gunbelt he’s wearin’ too,” Nate said.

  “Oh, it is, is it? Let’s just find out where he got it,” Jeb answered. He rolled the unconscious outlaw onto his back, unbuckled the gunbelt from around his waist and slid it off him. He handed it to Nate.

  “Time this got back to its rightful owner. It’s yours now. Hardy!”

  “Yeah, Ranger?” the bartender answered.

  “Bring me some water. Time to rouse this coyote.”

  “Sure, Ranger. Comin’ right up.”

  Before Hardy could bring the water, the batwings swung open and the San Saba marshal, Jock Holmes, walked in. He held a double-barreled sawn off shotgun at the ready. He quickly took in the scene, the five men lying on the floor, four of them dead or dying, the patrons standing around, not daring to move, and the two men and a boy alongside one of the downed men.

  “Don’t anyone move,” he ordered. “Just what in the Sam Hill’s goin’ on in here?”

  “Everything’s under control, Marshal,” Jeb said. “Just had a bit of a ruckus is all.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Ranger,” Holmes said. “I might’ve known. What exactly happened?”

  “Man lyin’ over there is Mort Stevenson. He’s wanted for cattle rustlin’ and horse thievin’… or I reckon I should say he was wanted, bein’ as he’s in no shape to ever steal another horse or cow. Rest of these men are his pardners. When I tried to arrest ’em, they objected.”

  “I see. Mistake on their part.”

  Holmes glanced at the wounded Swan.

  “Carl, how’d you get yourself plugged? Mixin’ in where you don’t belong again? Someday your nosiness is gonna get you killed.”

  “Hey, the Ranger was outnumbered five to one. I evened up the odds a little, that’s all. Got me one of them renegades, too. Plugged him dead center, right in the belly. And shot another one, along with the Ranger.”

  “It’d probably be me lyin’ there in the sawdust rather than these outlaws if Carl hadn’t taken a hand,” Jeb answered. “So, you’ve got no call to hassle him, Marshal. Now, as far as mistakes, this hombre here was carryin’ Nate’s brother’s gun. That’s a mistake which could get him hung. I was about to wake him up and ask where he got that six-gun when you walked in.”

  “Don’t let me stop you. I’m a mite curious about that myself.”

  “All right. Hardy, where’s that water?”

  “Right here, Ranger.” He handed a mug to Jeb. “Only it’s not water, it’s beer. That was a bit handier.”

  “Seems a shame to waste perfectly good beer,” Jeb said, with a shrug, “but here goes.”

  He poured the beer over the outlaw’s face. The man came to, spluttering.

  “What the…?”

  His curse was cut short when he realized he was staring into the barrel of Jeb’s Peacemaker, which the Ranger held three feet from his nose, aimed right between his eyes.

  “Just hold it right there, Mister, or I’ll finish what Nate started. You’ve got some questions to answer, and you’d better come up with the right ones, real quick.”

  “Mort?”

  “He’s dead. So’s the rest of your pards, except one, and he don’t have long. And you’re lookin’ at a noose, so they might be better off than you are.”

  “What’re you talkin’ about, Ranger?” Despite the gun pointed at him, the outlaw tried to sit up, but fell back with a groan.

  “Ow! My head. What’d that kid hit me with?”

  “His brother’s gun. The gun you were carryin’. The gun that’s gonna put the rope around your neck and pull it tight.”

  “You’re loco, Ranger. You tryin’ to say I killed that kid’s brother?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m sayin’. His folks’ ranch was attacked a few days back. His ma, pa, and brother were killed. Place was stripped clean of cattle an
d anything valuable then burned to the ground. The gun you were carryin’ was taken off his dead brother.”

  “You can’t prove that.”

  “Oh, yes I can. First of all, it’s a Smith and Wesson American cartridge revolver. There’s not many of those in these parts.”

  “That doesn’t mean anythin’. There’s still more than one of those in Texas.”

  “Mebbe that’s true. But the man you killed was named Jonathan Stewart. He burned his initials into the grips of that gun. That’s all the proof I need to tie you to his murder. Or mebbe I’ll just let the kid take care of you. You’d like another crack at him, wouldn’t you, Nate?”

  “I reckon I would, at that.”

  “I wouldn’t mind takin’ him out behind this saloon, either,” Carl added.

  Sweat broke out on the man’s brow.

  “Now, hold on just a minute. I didn’t kill anybody, and I sure didn’t attack this kid’s ranch. Sure, I’ll admit to rustlin’, but I never took to killin’. I bought that gun.”

  “You got any way of provin’ that? And just what is your name, anyway?”

  “It’s Hawkins. Bob Hawkins. I bought the gun from an hombre who was with an outfit trailin’ a small herd of longhorns southeast three-four days ago.”

  “My dad’s cattle,” Nate exclaimed. “Guess that means the Rangers didn’t find ’em yet.”

  “Mebbe, mebbe not,” Jeb answered. “Men like the ones who attacked your place hit fast, get rid of the stolen beeves or horses quick as they can, then move on.”

  “But if one of ’em had Jonathan’s gun…”

  “I’ll admit it doesn’t look good,” Jeb conceded. “Most likely they got away from the boys somehow. We’ll find ’em, though. I promise you that. Hawkins,” he continued, “You got a name for this hombre you supposedly bought the gun from? And a description?”

  “I never met him before. Only have a first name, Manny. Looks to be half-white, half-Mexican. Ridin’ with eight other men. The one who appeared to be leadin’ the outfit was a scary-lookin’ dude. Real skinny and pale complexioned, hair so blonde it was almost white. Fancy dresser, too. Wore two matched pearl-handled .45 Colt Armies. His eyes were a real pale blue, and when he looked at you they’d freeze the blood right in your veins. If’n I didn’t know better I’d swear he’s a ghost, or someone back from the grave.”