by Ralph Cotton
‘‘I’m beating it, all right,’’ Rojo said, his hand out, snapping his fingers toward the money. ‘‘I’m beating it out of here as fast as I can! Give it to me!’’
‘‘I’m a judge, you idiot!’’ said Bass. ‘‘Listen to what I’m telling you! This ranger can’t match me when it comes to legal skills!’’
‘‘It ain’t legal skills that put them three facedown over their saddles, Judge!’’ Rojo argued. ‘‘You stay and hash it all out in court if you want. But give me my money so I can skin out of here!’’
‘‘Your money? Your money for what?’’ Folding the money and stuffing it back inside his coat, Bass said, ‘‘Keep your stupid mouth shut and pay attention, you fool, and maybe you’ll learn something here.’’
Rojo seethed, watching the judge turn and walk to the open front window. ‘‘Ranger Burrack,’’ Bass called out, ‘‘there have been several mistakes made here in Sibley. But I trust that you, myself and even Texas Bob Krey can work them out, if we apply ourselves like reasonable people.’’
Sam called out, ‘‘Bass, get away from there, don’t turn your back on—’’
But the ranger’s words came too late. Texas Bob, Mary Alice, Andrej and Sam all four ducked aside as the judge’s forehead exploded in a long streak of blood, bone fragments and brain matter. The impact from the rifle shot at close range picked him up and tossed him half out the open window. He hung there limply, head down, his arms swinging back and forth above the dusty boardwalk.
Sam winced at the sight, but then went back to the task at hand. Waving Texas Bob and the others aside, he called out, ‘‘Rojo, lay down your gun and step out here with your hands up.’’ From all parts of town came the sound of slamming doors and running feet, a murmur of voices.
‘‘I’m going to hang for this, ain’t I, Ranger?’’ Rojo called in a sobbing voice.
‘‘It’s likely, Rojo,’’ Sam said. ‘‘But you did it. Now you got to pay for it.’’
‘‘I can’t sit around wondering how it’s going to feel, hanging!’’ he said. ‘‘You understand that, don’t you, Ranger?’’
‘‘I do,’’ Sam replied. He sidestepped, taking himself farther out of the circling glow of a streetlamp. Then he walked to the middle of the street and stood in silence.
‘‘Boy oh boy,’’ Rojo called out. ‘‘I sure wish I’d been a different kind of person my whole danged life!’’
The ranger didn’t answer, but to himself he thought, I wish you had too, Tommy. He watched the door burst open, and he heard Rojo yell as he lunged out, his rifle blazing, but the quickly levered shots going wild.
The ranger’s rifle bucked once in his hands. The shot silenced Rojo’s rifle and sent him back onto the boardwalk, dead, the rifle flying from his hands and landing in the dirt.
As the ranger stepped forward, he levered another round into his rifle chamber out of habit. But he saw right away that he wouldn’t need it. The killing had ended. Standing on the boardwalk, he looked down at Rojo’s wide, frightened eyes. He looked over at Judge Bass hanging down from the window, bleeding into the dust on the boardwalk planks.
‘‘My goodness!’’ said the telegraph clerk, who had eased up beside him, ‘‘I almost walked smack into the middle of this!’’
The ranger just looked at him.
‘‘Yes, it’s true!’’ the clerk said. ‘‘I saw you ride into town and I immediately came running. I have a telegraph from Bisbee for you. It appears important.’’
‘‘From Bisbee,’’ Sam said, giving Texas Bob a look as he and Mary Alice stepped up beside him.
Bob watched closely as Sam read it, shook his head and folded it back up. Seeing the questioning look on Texas Bob’s face, he said, ‘‘Bisbee says they appreciate the importance of the situation here. They’re going to try to have somebody here by the end of the month.’’
Texas Bob let out a breath. ‘‘You saved my life, Ranger. I’m obliged.’’
Sam didn’t reply. He touched the brim of his sombrero, turned and walked toward his horse.
Mary Alice looked at the ranger, then at Bob, and asked in surprise, ‘‘You’re obliged? Is that all you’re going to say, Tex, after everything he’s done? You’re obliged?’’
‘‘Yep,’’ Texas Bob replied quietly. He watched the ranger walk away, his rifle hanging loose in his hand, a tail of his duster lifting on a chilled evening breeze. ‘‘It’s enough said between us. Between men like the ranger and men like myself.’’
Ralph Cotton brings the Old West to life—don’t miss a single page of action! Read on for a special preview of the next Ranger Burrack adventure. . . .
Nightfall at Little Aces
Coming from Signet in March 2008
Emma Vertrees stood in her backyard spreading a damp white bedsheet along the clothesline. She stopped what she was doing when she saw the four armed riders move their horses at an easy gait along the alley toward the livery barn. Three of the four men seemed to not even see her as they passed by single file, no more than thirty feet away. But the last man turned his eyes to her and touched the brim of his hat. Emma stood rigid, giving no response.
There was nothing unusual about armed men riding into town. In fact, an unarmed man in Little Aces, New Mexico, would have been more of a rarity. But being the wife of a town sheriff for over seven years had conditioned Emma to closely watch the comings and goings of armed men, especially those riding in off the southwestern badlands.
She had learned intuitively to read a man’s purpose by the manner in which he rode into town along the dirt street. It was a skill her husband, Dillard, had learned as a lawman, and while it was not something one person could teach to another, having been made aware of it, Emma had learned. She had gotten good at it, she reminded herself, watching the four men stop their horses halfway up the dusty alley beside the livery barn.
These men rode into town with a purposeful bearing about them, yet she sensed no immediate danger. They were cowboys, she determined; and while cowboys could turn as wild and unpredictable as the wild broncs and range animals they lived among, they were for the most part not bad men.
But with cowboys you can expect most anything, she recalled Dillard telling her. She pictured him saying so as she touched a wet cloth to his most recently bruised, or sliced, or punctured flesh—battle scars acquired on the streets of Little Aces. Enough of that, she told herself, feeling a bitterness slip into her thoughts.
She let the picture of her husband pass from her mind and watched the four dust-streaked young men saunter toward the battered wooden table where Blind Curtis Clay sat, his sightless eyes fixed straight ahead.
‘‘I keep hearing how fast you are with your big Remington, Blind Man,’’ said one of the four, a cowboy named Hank Lindley. As he spoke he lifted his Colt quietly from his holster. ‘‘I figured it’s time I rode in and found out for myself.’’
Clay heard the faint sound of gun metal sliding up across holster leather. His were the only ears to detect the sound. Others might have heard it had they been listening for it, but Blind Curtis never missed such sounds. Nor did he take such sounds for granted. His ears distinguished in sound what his eyes could not see in the engulfing darkness that lay before them. He sat perfectly still behind the wooden table out front of his shack in the alley alongside the livery stables.
‘‘My, my,’’ was Clay’s only response. His large black hands lay atop the table, the big Remington between them on an oilcloth, like some demon at rest. A silence passed as he smelled whiskey, beer, cigar smoke, horse and sagebrush on the four young cowboys standing before him. Clay finally asked, ‘‘What kind of gun do you have pinted at me?’’
Hank gave his friends a half smile, not even wondering how the blind man might know that the Colt was directed at his broad chest. ‘‘It’s a Colt pinted at you,’’ Hank said, a bit mockingly. But he tipped the barrel upward. ‘‘Does that make any difference?’’
Clay seemed to consider the question for a s
econd, then said, ‘‘Naw sir, I expect it don’t.’’
‘‘I ought to warn you, I’m fast,’’ said Hank, the half smile still on his face. ‘‘I’ve been practicing ever since I heard about you.’’
‘‘I thank you most kindly for telling me,’’ said Curtis Clay, ‘‘but I take on all comers.’’
‘‘What I’m saying is, I’m danged fast.’’ As Hank spoke, he looked at a tall hickory walking stick leaning against the table beside the blind man.
‘‘Are you more than fifty cents fast?’’ Curtis asked respectfully.
‘‘Oh yes,’’ Hank said confidently. ‘‘I’m more than fifty cents fast. I might be five dollars fast. Are you sure you want to try me?’’
With no expression on his broad face, Curtis said flatly, ‘‘You’re the one come looking.’’
Three of the four cowboys exchanged grins and nodded. ‘‘He got you there, Hank,’’ said Dennis Barnes. ‘‘I expect you’ll have to put up or shut up.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ said Rupert Knowles, ‘‘I don’t mind telling you, I’m betting a dollar on the ni—I mean, Mr. Clay here,’’ he corrected himself. ‘‘So get your money up and let’s get on with it.’’
‘‘Not so danged fast,’’ said Hank, giving Rupert a stern look. ‘‘Before I put up any money, I ought to get some kind of idea what I’m up against.’’
The fourth cowboy, a serious-looking young man named Omar Wilkens, stood to the side, eyeing his companions and Blind Curtis Clay with equal contempt. ‘‘What a waste of time,’’ he grumbled to himself, hearing Hank Lindley begin to have second thoughts. ‘‘I’ll be at Little Aces.’’ He turned back to where he’d tied his horse alongside the others. ‘‘You can let me know who wins.’’
‘‘Stick around a minute, Omar,’’ Dennis Barnes called out. ‘‘This will be a hoot.’’
‘‘I’ve got better things to do,’’ Wilkens growled under his breath, snatching his horse’s reins and flipping himself up into the saddle.
‘‘Oh yeah? Like what?’’ Barnes barked.
Wilkens didn’t bother answering. Instead, he jammed his spurs to his horse’s sides and sent the animal bolting away in a hard run.
Standing at her clothesline, Emma Vertrees fanned the dust that had billowed and drifted across her small backyard behind the running horse. As the young man sped past her yard, he once again touched his hat brim toward her—and once again she ignored his gesture. Now she watched him rein his horse down to a halt at the end of the alley, where he turned the animal and sat gazing back toward her.
He nudged the horse forward at a walk back toward her yard. She looked away from him quickly, still hoping that ignoring him would send him on his way. But she was wrong. As she stooped slightly and picked up a damp pillowcase from her metal laundry tub, she watched peripherally as the horse drew nearer, sidling up to the weathered picket fence at the edge of her yard.
She wondered if it would be a good idea to simply walk away from her task and watch from inside her kitchen window until the young man left. Yes, she told herself, that’s the proper thing to do.
‘‘Begging your pardon, ma’am,’’ he said as she straightened and turned toward the back door. ‘‘That was most inconsiderate of me.’’
She stopped. An apology? She hadn’t been expecting that. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t an apology. She tried to make herself walk on to the door, yet something in his voice compelled her to turn back toward him. As she did so, she idly held a hand to the collar of her gingham dress. Her only response was a curt but tolerant nod, one that forgave yet dismissed him. That would be enough, she told herself. This was no rowdy drunken range hand. This one showed at least some signs of proper upbringing.
But as she once again started to turn away from him toward the door, he threw a leg over his saddle and slid down over her picket fence into her yard. Before she could object, he had twirled his horse’s reins on the fence and come walking toward her. He took off his battered Stetson and held it respectfully at his chest.
‘‘I hope my kicking up dust hasn’t spoiled your whole wash,’’ he said, coming closer and stopping seven feet from her. ‘‘I should have been paying more attention. I don’t know where my mind was.’’
‘‘That’s—that’s all right,’’ Emma replied awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.
‘‘No, ma’am, it’s not all right,’’ said Wilkens. As he spoke he looked down at the damp clothes wrung tightly and piled in the washtub. ‘‘A woman has enough to do without some dumb ole boy like me making more work for her.’’ He gave her a wary smile—a nice smile, she thought. But his smile only brought her attention to his face, his eyes. Something in his eyes caught her and held her.
‘‘It’s no trouble, really,’’ she said, realizing he was beginning to make too much of the matter. ‘‘We haven’t had any rain . . . it’s got the ground so parched . . .’’ Was she staring? Yes, of course she was. She knew it, yet she couldn’t bring herself to look away. If she looked away now, it would be even more obvious.
‘‘Where are my manners today?’’ the young man said, chastising himself. ‘‘I’m Omar Wilkens, one of Major Gentry’s cattle hands.’’ He took a step closer, as if somehow she’d given him permission. ‘‘And you, ma’am?’’ he asked politely. ‘‘That is, if I might be so forward?’’
His question was forward indeed, she told herself. But for reasons she did not understand she answered him without hesitation. ‘‘I’m Mrs. Vertrees—wife of Sheriff Dillard Vertrees.’’
‘‘Oh.’’ Her words caught Wilkens by surprise. He hadn’t been in the high grasslands surrounding Little Aces for long, but he’d been here long enough to know that the sheriff in Little Aces was Vince Gale, not Dillard Vertrees. Yet he recalled something about the name Vertrees. What was it? ‘‘Well then, Mrs. Vertrees,’’ he said, realizing he would have to think about it later. Right now he needed to say something. ‘‘I’m honored to have made your acquaintance, even under these circumstances.’’
Her acquaintance? They had not been properly introduced. How dare he. Remaining composed, she said a bit sharply, ‘‘I must ask you to leave now, Mr. Wilkens.’’ Before finishing her words she stooped to pick up the metal tub of damp clothes under the pretense of having to re-rinse everything. ‘‘As you can see, I have much work to do.’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am. I understand,’’ said Wilkens, but instead of turning away, he stepped between her and the metal tub and picked it up before she could reach the handles. ‘‘First, allow me to take this for you,’’ he said. He stood up holding the tub, his Stetson still in hand.
‘‘No,’’ said Emma, sounding more firm on the matter. ‘‘I will not allow it.’’
‘‘Please, Mrs. Vertrees, it’s the least I can do,’’ said Wilkens, his voice respectful, innocent, a young man speaking to an older woman.
Emma relented, looking toward the wooden washing machine standing on three legs beside the water trough nearer to the house. ‘‘That is courteous of you, Mr. Wilkens.’’ She gestured toward the water trough as she stepped toward it. ‘‘If you will, please, set it down right there.’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am,’’ Wilkens replied. He set the tub beside the trough.
‘‘Now, if you’ll excuse me,’’ Emma said curtly, walking away toward the rear door.
‘‘Allow me, ma’am,’’ Wilkens said. Anticipating her move, he hurried ahead of her to the door and opened it for her.
Emma walked warily inside. She did not like the way she’d permitted him to put himself so close to her, to her home, her place of safety. Yet she had done so almost before realizing it.
As soon as she stepped through the door, she turned around quickly, expecting to have to stop him from inviting himself inside. ‘‘Look, Mr. Wilkens—’’ Her words stopped short as she saw him closing the door behind her.
Hearing her speak his name, Wilkens re-opened the door slightly. ‘‘Yes, ma’am?�
�’
‘‘Nothing—Thank you, Mr. Wilkens,’’ Emma said, relieved, and at the same time feeling foolish. She noted that he had already placed his Stetson atop his head in preparation to leave. With a twinge of guilt she said in reply to his earlier remark, ‘‘Likewise, it’s good to make your acquaintance.’’
He smiled hopefully. ‘‘Yes, ma’am. I look forward to seeing you again soon.’’
Wait, no! Her words weren’t meant to offer him encouragement. She wanted to explain that to him, but it was too late. The door closed quietly in her face. What have you done? she asked herself.
Stepping away from the door, she ventured a guarded look out the kitchen window. ‘‘Omar Wilkens,’’ she said almost cautiously, under her breath, as if to record his name in her memory. At the rear of the yard, she saw him hop up onto the picket fence, over it and into his saddle.
Beside the livery barn, Dennis Barnes gigged Rupert Knowles and gestured toward Wilkens riding away from Emma Vertrees’s yard. ‘‘Look who’s leaving the woman’s place, Rupert,’’ he said with a chuckle. ‘‘Do you suppose Omar don’t know about her?’’
Rupert glanced at Wilkens for only a second, then shifted his attention back to the wooden table where Hank Lindley sat facing Curtis Clay. ‘‘I don’t know Omar from a broken boot heel—what he knows or doesn’t know,’’ said Rupert, irritated by Barnes’s interruption. ‘‘I’ve got money bet here.’’
On the table in front of Lindley, his Colt lay disassembled on a one-foot-square oilcloth, the same as the cloth lying in front of Curtis Clay. The blind man’s Remington pistol had been laid in pieces between his resting hands. At each man’s elbow sat his wagering money. On Clay’s five-dollar bill stood a bullet, holding it down. Lindley’s money consisted of three dollar bills held down by a handful of loose quarters.
Clay had heard mention of the woman, and he knew which woman Barnes referred to. He had heard Wilkens’s horse leave moments ago, then heard it ride back a shorter distance—he knew where the young cowboy had been, and he’d also heard him leave. ‘‘Are we all set?’’ Clay asked, his face showing no expression, his cloudy blind eyes hidden behind a pair of dark shaded spectacles.