A Ranger Redeemed (Lone Star Ranger Book 7)

by James J. Griffin

  “Just ahead,” he whispered.

  In a little hollow to the side of the valley, ten men had bunched a herd of about fifty cattle. Two of them had roped one of the cows by its horns and heels, and had it stretched out on its side. While the Rangers watched, a third man removed a branding iron from the fire, and pressed it to the animal’s left hip, over the brand it already wore. The cow bawled in pain and terror as the red hot iron scorched its hair and sizzled its hide.

  “Now, boys!” Jeb ordered. He came to his feet and threw his rifle to his shoulder. “Texas Rangers!” Jeb shouted to the rustlers. “Don’t make a move. You’re all under arrest.”

  Instead of obeying Jeb’s order, the rustlers went for their guns. Three of them were instantly cut down by Ranger bullets. Before the others could react, or the Rangers get off any more shots, the already nervous cattle, now thoroughly panicked by the sound of gunfire and smell of powder smoke, broke into a stampede. They were heading directly at Jeb and his men.

  The Rangers had to dive for cover behind trees or rocks to avoid being trampled under the maddened beeves’ hooves. The surviving rustlers took quick advantage of the Rangers’ predicament. Not wanting to face the deadly guns of the lawmen, and knowing they faced a noose if captured, they raced for their horses, jumped into their saddles, and spurred them into a dead run.

  “Everyone all right?” Jeb shouted, once the last of the cows ran past, and the dust began to settle.

  “Nate’n I are, over here,” Phil called back. “How about you and Hoot?”

  “We’re okay,” Jeb answered. “Let’s hope that stampede didn’t spook our horses, so we can get after those hombres.”

  They scrambled to their feet and dashed back to where they had left their mounts. The horses were snorting nervously and tugging at their reins, but were still where they’d been left. The Rangers untied them, swung into their saddles, and galloped after the fleeing outlaws.

  The outlaws had gotten a good start on the Rangers. However, the lawmen had superior horses, speedy, and with plenty of stamina. They began to close the gap between themselves and their quarry quickly. Two of the outlaws were lagging behind, their horses struggling. One turned in his saddle and leveled his pistol to take a shot at their pursuers. Just as he did, his horse stumbled, and the bullet he’d intended for one of the Rangers caught his hapless comrade square in the chest, knocking him off of his horse.

  Seeing his partner fall, he turned back in his saddle and leaned low over his horse’s neck, urging him on. Jeb returned the man’s fire, his first shot missing, his second, luckier shot striking him in the back. The rustler threw up his arms and slewed out of his saddle. He hit the ground, rolled over several times, then lay face-down and unmoving.

  The remaining five outlaws reached a bend in the trail. Just beyond that a large live oak had fallen across the trail, its huge trunk and tangled branches now an obstacle blocking their way. Hearing the Rangers rapidly approaching, they jumped their horses over the trunk, then dismounted, two of them pulling their Winchesters from the saddle boots as they left their saddles. They sent their horses down the trail with slaps on the rumps, then took cover behind the log, and the rocky embankment at the tree’s base. They settled in place, waiting. When the hard-charging Rangers rounded the bend and swept into view, they sent a barrage of pistol and rifle fire at the luckless lawmen.

  Phil Knight was in the lead, on his rangy chestnut, Parker. At the first shots, Parker went to his knees, then rolled onto his side, throwing his rider clear. Blood pumped from a gaping wound in the horse’s chest. Phil landed on his back, lay stunned for a moment, until he got his wind back, then rolled onto his stomach and began crawling back to his stricken horse.

  Jeb, Nate, and Hoot had also been shot out of their saddles. Despite their wounds, they managed to crawl off the trail and behind some rocks, safe from danger, at least for the moment. They had been unable to pull out their Winchesters before they’d been hit, so they reloaded their six-guns and began returning the outlaws’ fire.

  Phil reached his horse’s side and patted his neck. Parker responded with a weak nicker.

  “You sons of—” Phil screamed an oath, then came to his feet. Forgetting everything but revenge for his dying horse, he charged straight at the outlaws, firing his pistol as rapidly as he could. “You killed my horse!” Phil put two bullets into one of the outlaws’ guts.

  The man screeched, threw away his rifle, then fell belly down over the fallen oak’s trunk. Phil shot a second man in the chest, then staggered when two bullets slammed into his stomach. Another of the outlaws rose from his hiding place, to put yet another bullet through Phil’s middle, doubling him over and pitching him to the ground. Before the man could duck back into cover, concentrated fire from Jeb, Hoot, and Nate tore into him, smashing him to the dirt. They turned their attention to the two remaining outlaws, keeping them pinned down behind the log. When one of them took a bullet in the shoulder, he threw his rifle over the log, raised his hands, and yelled.

  “I’m hit, Rangers. I give up. Don’t shoot anymore, please.”

  “What about your pardner, mister?” Jeb called back.

  “I give up, too,” the other man called. “Your shootin’s too good. I ain’t hankerin’ for a bullet through my brisket, either.”

  “All right. Both of you, throw out all your weapons where we can see ’em, then get up, slow and easy-like,” Jeb ordered. “Keep your hands over your heads. Make one false move, and we’ll drop you where you stand.”

  “You’re givin’ us no choice,” the first outlaw said. Two more pistols were tossed over the log, then the two men came to their feet, holding their hands shoulder high.

  “Hoot, you get a rope, and tie those two hombres up. Nate, you keep an eye on ’em until he does. I’m gonna check on Phil,” Jeb ordered. “If they even look like they’re gonna try somethin’, you plug ’em. Check the others, too. Make certain they’re done for.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Nate said. “But how about you, Jeb? It appears to me like you’re bleedin’ pretty heavily.”

  Blood was soaking the left side of Jeb’s shirt.

  “I’ll be okay, at least until I can see to Phil,” Jeb answered. “Besides, you and Hoot look like you could use some tendin’ to yourselves. Take care of these two hombres, then give me a hand with Phil. After that, we’ll see to our own needs. Now, get movin’.”

  Blood was running freely down Nate’s forehead, over the right side of his face, and dripping from his chin. Hoot’s left arm was hanging uselessly at his side, with a bullet hole through it, between his elbow and shoulder. A bloody tear was also apparent in the right leg of his denims, where a bullet had clipped his thigh.

  “All right,” Hoot answered. He headed to where Sandy and Big Red were now peacefully pulling leaves off a live oak, to retrieve his and Nate’s lariats. While Nate kept the two rustlers covered with his Smith and Wesson American, Jeb went over to Phil and his dying horse.

  Somehow, despite the severity of his wounds, Phil had managed to crawl back to Parker. Struggling against the pain of the bullets in him and weakness from loss of blood, he was able to sit up. He was holding Parker’s head in his lap while he stroked the chestnut’s neck.

  “Jeb. We get…’em all?” Phil asked.

  “Yeah, we did, pardner,” Jeb answered. “All but two of ’em are done for. The others gave themselves up. How about you?”

  “I’m not gonna make…it.” Phil shook his head. “It don’t matter none…anyway. Parker’s dyin’…too. We’re both gonna go…together. Reckon it’s best…that way. We’ve been pards long as I’ve been… a Ranger. It’s fittin’ we both leave this world…at the same time. Ain’t that right, pal?”

  Tears streaming down his cheeks, Phil leaned over and kissed the side of Parker’s head, then stroked his velvety muzzle. Parker lifted his head slightly. He managed a weak nicker. Blood from the wound in his chest now soaked Phil’s denims.

  “Don’t t
alk like that,” Jeb said, a bit more harshly than he’d intended. “We’ll get you to a doc, and get you patched up. You’ll be okay in a few weeks.”

  “Uh-uh.” Phil shook his head again. “Don’t try’n…fool me, Jeb. I took…three slugs right through… my gut. Ain’t nobody can survive bein’ shot up…that bad.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Phil,” Jeb answered. “Just mebbe, with any luck, those slugs didn’t hit your vitals.”

  “Don’t matter. Like I said, don’t want…to live without Parker, anyway.”

  Jeb looked up as Nate and Hoot approached.

  “Are those two hombres tied up?” he asked.

  “They sure are,” Hoot answered. “Got each of ’em tied to his very own tree. They ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

  “How about the rest of ’em?”

  “They’re all finished. Deader’n a week old mackerel,” Nate answered. “How about Phil?”

  Jeb silently shook his head.

  “What Jeb don’t…want to say, boys, is…I’m a goner,” Phil said. “My guts’re all tore up. Looks like me’n…ol’ Parker, here, will be…crossin’ the Great Divide… together.”

  Parker was barely breathing now, the rising and falling of his belly and flanks as he took in shallow breaths barely perceptible. And, like his horse, Phil’s breaths were growing more shallow, and rattled deep in his chest.

  “Is what Phil’s sayin’ true, Jeb?” Hoot asked.

  “I’m afraid it is,” Jeb answered. To Phil he continued, “Don’t worry about bein’ left alone out here after you’re gone, pardner. We’ll make certain to get you back to camp, and then to Bandera for a decent burial.”

  Phil shook his head.

  “No. Don’t want that,” he said. “I don’t want Parker… left here…all alone for the buzzards and coyotes…to clean off… his bones. I want him with me.”

  “We can’t do that,” Jeb answered. “We don’t have any shovels with us. And even if we did, we couldn’t dig a deep enough grave for your horse. I’m sorry, Phil.”

  “You don’t need…to bury us,” Phil said. “All I’m askin’ is you set us… afire. Burn our bodies like…some of the Indian tribes…do.”

  “How?” Nate asked.

  “There’s plenty of…dead wood lyin’ around here,” Phil said. He stopped to pull in a ragged breath. “Take the whiskey… from my saddlebags. Splash some on…me ’n Parker. Pile some branches over us. Pour more whiskey… over those, then light ’em…on fire. That’ll do. Rather that than…bein’ put in a hole in the ground, anyway.”

  “It still won’t work. Your bones won’t burn,” Jeb pointed out. “We can’t make that hot a fire.”

  “That…don’t matter,” Phil answered. “At least the scavengers…won’t be pickin’ at ’em. Besides, if it’s just our bones…mebbe you could toss…some dirt and rocks…over ’em. Please, Sergeant? It’s the last favor I’ll ever ask from you. I reckon—”

  Phil stopped, when a harsh cough wracked his body.

  “You reckon what, Phil?” Jeb asked.

  “I reckon you can forget…about payin’ me the money… you lost…in our last card game. Use it for a good time… in town. Have a drink to…remember me by.”

  “All right, Phil. We’ll give what you’re askin’ a try,” Jeb answered. “And we’ll have that drink the first chance we get.”

  “Good. Good.” Phil lifted Parker’s head, and shook it gently.

  “You hear that, ol’ pal?” he said to his horse. “We’re headin’ to the Lord’s pastures…together.”

  Parker let out one last, long sigh, and was still. His head dropped back into his rider’s lap, as Phil also took his last breath, and slumped over his long-time equine friend and companion.

  “Is he—” Nate began.

  “Yes, Nate. He’s gone,” Jeb said. “They both are.”

  “Then we’d best start gatherin’ some wood,” Hoot said, his voice tight.

  “Not quite yet,” Jeb answered. “We’ll tend to Phil and his horse in a bit. We’ve got some other, unfinished business to handle first. C’mon.”

  ****

  “We gonna try’n patch ourselves up, Jeb?” Hoot asked, as he and Nate followed their sergeant. “Nate’s startin’ to look a mite pale. His eyes are gettin’ kinda glassy, too.”

  “No, treatin’ our wounds will have to wait a bit longer, as long as Nate thinks he can hold on a few more minutes,” Jeb answered. “How about it, Nate? Can you wait a little longer for me to take a look at you?”

  “Sure, Jeb. I’ll be just fine,” Nate assured him.

  “Bueno. What needs doin’ won’t take all that long,” Jeb said. He took the two young Rangers over to where the prisoners were tied, each to the trunk of a big-toothed maple.

  “It’s about time,” one of the men said. “Are you figurin’ on leavin’ us tied to these trees all night?”

  “Nope, not at all,” Jeb said. “You needn’t trouble yourselves about that. Nate, Hoot, untie these hombres. Once that’s done, tie their hands behind their backs. Then sit ’em on the ground.”

  “Sure, Jeb,” Nate said. He and Hoot untied the prisoners, used lengths of piggin’ string wrapped around their wrists to bind their hands behind their backs, then shoved them to the dirt. Jeb leveled his six-gun at them.

  “Hey, take it easy,” the second rustler protested. “We’re already stiff and sore from bein’ left tied to those trees for so long.”

  “After what you sidewinders did to our pardner, not to mention killin’ those cowboys and rustlin’ that herd, we ain’t exactly in the mood to go gentle on you,” Jeb snapped. “However, our business won’t take long. I promise you that. First, for my records, what’s your names?”

  “I’m Jack Hardy, and my pardner is Emilio Gomez,” the first man answered. “You gonna take care of my shoulder, or are you gonna let me bleed to death, Ranger?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that, mister,” Jeb answered. “How about the rest of your outfit? You want to give me their names?”

  “You killed all of ’em, so what does it matter?” Gomez said. “I don’t reckon you’re plannin’ on given ’em a proper burial.”

  “You’re right. We’re not,” Jeb answered. “Even if we wanted to, we couldn’t. But I’d like to have the names to remove ’em from the Rangers’ fugitive list, any of them that are on it. Plus, if there’s any next of kin we can notify them.”

  “Ain’t none of those boys kin’ll care what happened to ’em,” Hardy said. “But I reckon it won’t do any harm to give you their names. The man lyin’ belly down over that dead tree is Mason Jones. The one closest to him is Dick Walters. The others scattered back there are Zeke Tottenham, Injun Dexter, he’s a half-breed, Ben Chilton, who was the leader of our outfit, Clem Williams, Ed Vallejo, and Marty Young.”

  “Bueno,” Jeb said. “You boys know you’re in real trouble, don’t you?”

  “I reckon so,” Hardy answered. “But, it’s a long way to the nearest town, and it seems to me you Rangers have been shot up pretty good. That young’n there sidin’ you is lookin’ real weak. You’re bleedin’ real bad, too, and the man you sent for the horses has also got a couple of holes in him. You just might not make it long enough to get us back for a trial. Anythin’ can happen between here and Bandera. In fact, the way I figure it, you lawdogs are in a heap more of a pickle than we are. After all, the rope ain’t around our necks, yet. Besides, you can’t prove me’n Emilio are the ones who actually fired the shots that killed your pardner, or those cowboys. All you’ve got on us is cattle rustlin’…mebbe.”

  “Uh-uh. You’re wrong, Hardy.” Jeb shook his head. “Just runnin’ from us when we tried to arrest your outfit and our pardner gettin’ gunned down makes both of you guilty of accessories to the murder of a peace officer, at the least. That’s a hangin’ offense, as surely as if you pulled the trigger yourselves. Now, just suppose we take you back to the Cross DJ? I’m certain we can get you at least that far. But, once
we get you there, if we’re in no shape to continue on to Bandera, what do you think the ranch owner and his cowhands will do to you?”

  “They’ll hang us without blinkin’ an eye,” Gomez said.

  “That’s right. So would a judge and jury,” Jeb agreed. “You two hombres are guilty as sin of cattle thievin’ and murder. And, since your friend there is right about us not bein’ in any condition to get you to town, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to hang you boys right here. Hoot, get their horses.”

  “Sure thing, Jeb,” Hoot answered. He started for where most of the rustlers’ horses were now gathered, grazing under the trees.

  “You mean you’re gonna hang us right here, without even a trial, Ranger?” Hardy asked.

  “That’s right,” Jeb answered. “Frontier justice, boys. You know how it works.”

  “But Jeb. You can’t,” Nate protested.

  “Can’t what, Nate?”

  “You can’t just hang these men without a trial. We have to take ’em to jail, then they’ll be tried. We’re not a judge and jury.”

  “Nate, I’m gonna say this just once, so listen to me good,” Jeb answered. “Texas ain’t Wilmington, Delaware, where you’re from. We don’t have it nice and civilized out here. It’s a rough territory, and you have to be tough enough to stand up to it. Sometimes, it just ain’t practical to haul prisoners for a long distance, to where there’s a jail cell waitin’ for ’em. Not like back East, not at all, where it’s a short ride or train trip to a town. That means, if we know for certain a man’s guilty, especially guilty of a hangin’ offense like murder or horse thievin’, sometimes we have to take the law into our own hands. I’m not sayin’ it’s necessarily right, but until real law comes to the frontier, occasionally, that’s just the way it has to be.”

  “But, Jeb…”

  “Don’t argue with me, son,” Jeb snapped, when Nate started to object. “Our job as Rangers is to civilize the Texas frontier, so there can be real law and order, and honest folks can settle here. Until that day comes, we’ll do anything that’s necessary to stop the outlaws that are runnin’ roughshod over the honest folks tryin’ to tame this land. Anything. Have I made myself clear?”