JL Tate, Texas Ranger

by Lou Bradshaw

  No matter what I admired, she was not going to be very happy with me when I clamped those shackles on him and confiscated his gold for the Great State of Texas.

  The mules were loaded, the horses were saddled, supper was over, and the fire was burning. All that was left to do was move out. The gloom was closing in and night wasn’t far off. As soon as it was so dark, Burley led off down the bank. He was followed by Morgan and his mule friends; the last to go down the bank was Emma. Carson and I stayed on top to brush out the tracks with a couple of Manzanita branches. Then Carson rode down leading my horse while I got rid of the last tell tale tracks at the lip of the bank. I made my way down on foot and tossed my branch in a pile of similar debris.

  It was dark down there in that old riverbed-lakebed. We were at least twelve to fifteen feet below the surrounding desert and it was considerably cooler down there. Carson rode on ahead to take the point, and I stayed back as rear guard. I had to drop back a ways so I could hear over the clatter of the mule hooves. But there wasn’t anything to listen for, and there certainly wasn’t anything to see but dark.

  I didn’t know how the horses and the mules could get along so well in the dark. I heard an old Indian say one time those callous like spots on the inside of horse’s forelegs were their night eyes… My pa always called them horse chestnuts… who really knows?

  As long as the horses and mules could find their way around stones, boulders and drop offs, I guess I’d just go along for the ride.

  Chapter 20

  We rode for hours before stopping to rest the mules. They weren’t carrying as much weight as the horses except for Emma’s, but the motion of the rider seems to lessen the load. Those brick sized of ingots didn’t move or sway much; they just stayed where they were.

  I had no idea how far we’d traveled, but according to the stars and the pace we were traveling I figured it to be roughly eight or ten miles. Riding like we were with a limited view of the sky was like standing in a well, you could only see a small part of the sky and nothing to compare the movements of stars against.

  Carson and Burley came back to where I had dismounted. We compared notes and the general opinion was that we’d gone more than ten miles.

  “What d’ya think about getting up on higher ground?” Carson asked me.

  “I’m all for it.” I told him. “If they were to catch up with us… which ain’t very likely, but possible, we’d be dead meat down in that ditch.” They both felt the same, and Carson would look for an easy sloping bank.

  Within a half an hour, we were up on the bank, and the world looked a lot different. We had a little bit of moon and the animals all seemed to stretch out and move along at a better pace. We were making good time, so I dropped back a little more, until I was a good quarter of a mile behind.

  I rode on in the dark listening for anything that wasn’t what should be there. Maybe an hour later, I heard what shouldn’t be there. Hoof beats off in the dark behind us. That definitely wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Whoever it was back there wasn’t just drifting along; he was loping along at a pretty good pace. The best I could tell, it was only one rider.

  Up ahead, I saw where the hills to the left sort of pinched off the trail so that a rider would have to move close to the bank. That was where I wanted to be. The light wasn’t great, but I’d been working in it all night, so it would do.

  I stashed myself behind some boulders on the hill side of the trail. It wasn’t the side I wanted to be on, but I was flexible. He was getting closer with each stride, and I only had a faint shadowed image to work with. Within a few strides I could see him sitting up straight in the saddle, while his horse ate up the distance. When he was at the right distance, my left arm was in the air, and the rope was out of my hand. A couple of turns around the horn and I felt that old familiar jerk.

  Of course, the tug of a hundred and fifty pound man coming out of the saddle wasn’t anything like the jolt of a thousand pounds of beef coming to the end of the rope. But I still got the same thrill. Working with cattle, it seemed there was always one you couldn’t get at from the comfortable side, so I had to learn to use a rope with either hand… It wasn’t always pretty, but the job got done.

  That hombre hit the ground with a thump, and I could hear the air whoosh out of him. My horse was trained to keep the rope taut, and he hadn’t forgotten a thing. The first thing I did was cut one of the rawhide tie strips from my bedroll and get that fellas hand tied, while he was still gasping for breath. Then I loosened the loop and fixed it around his ankles.

  When he started breathing again, I asked him, “How far back are the rest of them?”

  “No comprendo! Señor.”

  “Well, you habla this.” I gave a couple of tongue clicks, and my horse moved forward. “How far back are they?”

  “Five mile, Señor… maybe six mile. My yob is to find you, Señor and let them know.”

  “Were you part of that bunch that attacked us back at the river?”

  “No, Señor! I farmer… grow corn and beans.”

  I walked to my horse and mounted. He hadn’t cracked, so I gave him a little spur, and he took off at a fast walk dragging the farmer behind. So I nudged him again and he went into a trot. The farmer started yelling, so I drew up. Turning in the saddle, I asked him again, and he confessed that he was a bandito who grew up as a farmer.

  “I’ll spare your life… but I want you to tell Drummond to…..”

  But he interrupted with, “But Señor, Drummond no de boss… Señor… Incendio… ju know like fire… He de boss now… mucho hard man.”

  “Mucho Rat.” Was my reply.

  Behind me, I heard the sound of horses. Knowing my prisoner wasn’t going anywhere, all I had to do was touch my horse’s flanks and the farmer turned bandito would behave himself. I shucked my rifle and held it ready to meet whoever came. There shouldn’t have been anyone but friends ahead of me, but I was prepared for surprises.

  “What kinda critter you got roped there, Tate?” Burley asked as he rode into view with the bandit’s horse in tow.

  “I don’t know what to make of it, Clayton. This fella came lopin’ along and run himself right into my lariat… Seems like he’s got some friends about five miles back… ‘Maybe six mile’, according to this hombre.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Do now, but we had to get the rules straight, and we became old friends.”

  “What kinda rules?”

  “He don’t lie to me and I won’t drag him to death on these rocks and cactus…. He brought some other news too… seems that Blaze has joined up and took over Drummond’s. gang.”

  Burley winced and shook his head. “That ain’t gonna be good for us or anybody. He’s bloody and cruel. He don’t care who gets hurt or how bad, as long as it ain’t him.”

  “That’s probably why they didn’t lay back and wait for us to come to them.” I told him. “What do you want to do with this one?”

  “Disarm him and leave him. We’ll leave his horse a couple of miles up the way.”

  I found his six-gun in the sand. It was a cap and ball not worth carrying, so I tossed it into the lakebed. Then I retrieved my rope, took up the reins of his horse, and we left him sitting in the sand cussin’ in Spanish and English. We needed to get across the river as soon as possible, if we could make it by sunup… so much the better.

  When I stopped to tie the bandito’s horse to a bush, I took his rifle out of the sling, and found it to be an old single shot that we didn’t have ammunition for. So I smashed the barrel against a rock. If he doesn’t check it before he pulls the trigger next time, it just might blow up in his face… He shouldn’t have lied to me.

  From there on, it was a race with the sun. We won, but just barely. The sky was gray when we started up the American side. When we were safely over the lip and up and on the trail, we took a breather. I felt sure my horse could put his tail in the air and take me on into El Paso, but I didn’t know about some of the others. I
wasn’t at all sure about the mules. Even though I was raised in Missouri, I knew little about mules. Spade said they were good for a long while yet.

  Since we were back on US soil, I was expecting Carson to pull his Ranger star and arrest Burley Clayton, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Well, he was the boss of this assignment… I’d just let him work it out.

  We’d watered the stock when we first reached the river, so they were good to go on and make a dash for it. I was eager to go, but everyone else seemed to feel that we’d already gone and we were there. I think the run through the night had everyone worn out. I understood that Burley probably didn’t have too many nights spent pushing loaded mules through dark lakebeds while in prison. This was likely more exertion Emma than ever had. I could understand them being worn out and exhausted, but this was all in a day’s work for Carson and me.

  Just about the time Carson turned to Clayton and said, “I think we’d better go, Burley” and turned to start tightening cinches. They came into view across the river.

  “Here they come.” I called out.

  We all dropped down and took cover along the lip of the bank. They hadn’t seen us and they were close to the lip, when Morgan jumped the gun… so to speak, and pulled his trigger. Clayton turned to him, and for a minute I thought he was going to hit him.

  Instead, in a calm voice he said, “Take the mules and Emma to El Paso… She knows where to go and what to do… We’ll catch up with you… if we can… Go!”

  Emma started to object by saying, “No Papa, I’m not leaving you. I can shoot.”

  “Emma, that wasn’t a suggestion. Get on your horse and go. You can shoot and you can get shot… Now… Go!” She turned to get on her horse, as Burley stood, turned, and said “I love…”

  A bullet from across the river smashed into his left shoulder blade. Blood splattered onto the rocks and he slumped to the ground. Emma started toward her father, but Carson told her to get on her horse in no uncertain terms. He and Morgan were hauling Clayton over the rocks and to his horse.

  “Come on Tate! We gotta get out of here. We need to get him under cover so we can stop the bleeding.”

  “Go on!” I yelled. “I’ll hold them off for a while… I’ll catch up. Find a place to fort up… I’ll find you… Oh, toss me my saddle bags I got extra cartridges in it.”

  He tossed the bags and yelled from cover… “Don’t be a hero… and don’t be a damned fool, get out as soon as you can.”

  They were gone before I could look up again. So I settled back to keep those who were over there… over there. In the first exchange, I had dropped one man, but I could see he was gone, so it wasn’t a kill. Trying to remember how many were down there, I got confused. There were either six or seven, but what’s the difference between being outnumbered by six to one or seven to one? It didn’t seem worth pondering.

  Providence had given me a nice big old dead log to hide behind, and it was getting heavier by the minute with all the lead those boys were pouring into it. The bank on the Mexican side was about twenty feet lower and roughly a hundred and fifty feet away. Most of them were back from the lip eight or ten feet, and I had a good shot at anyone trying to get to a horse. One of the big hats made a dash for the horses, and I broke the big bone in his right leg. It was either that big bone or his hip, because that side collapsed on him. He spun and fell face up. He was still alive because I saw his left knee came up, and he tried to scoot under cover. He needn’t have bothered, he was out of it, and I wasn’t going to shoot him for just laying there.

  I hadn’t seen hide nor feathers of Blaze. He was probably tucked away somewhere safe. A white man with a bandage on his arm, raised up and took a shot at me. He was shooting low, some folks never get the knack of shooting uphill. He was getting pretty regular with his rhythm. So I timed him between shots… one thousand one… one thousand two… and so on. He was coming up on one thousand six. I moved a few feet to my left and waited for six. We both came up at the same time, and he was where he was supposed to be, but I was off to the left.

  When he came up throwing the rifle but to his shoulder… I fired. I must have hit the rifle because it was twisted from his hand and his throat was a bloody splotch. For a second he stood there, with his hands spastically trying to find his rifle. I imagined his nerves and muscles were the last to get the message that he was dead.

  Barely smart enough to not sit there and look, I ducked down as bullets sent bark flying from my log. I heard the crack as one zipped by overhead. Those boys were serious. I reckoned a mule train loaded with gold is something to get serious about.

  Was that two or three out of the fight? I couldn’t remember… hell, I didn’t even know how many they started with. I knew there was one dead and one laying out there in the sun trying to scoot away… oh and there was one who went down and then got out of sight. I would count him as an active shooter. So that meant there were five at worst and four at best still able to fight. Four or five to one… I practically had them outnumbered.

  Moving back and forth along the log, I tried not to come up twice in the same place. I had them pinned down, but my shots were chancy. I had to remember where I’d seen a target and then in a few seconds pop up aim, shoot, and duck. At the far right end of my log, it had rotted and broken. It was a tangle of dead and rotted branches. I didn’t want to shoot from there because there were too many gaps for a bullet to get through, and most of those old limbs wouldn’t stop a .44. But if I could get in there maybe I could locate some targets.

  Snaking my way on my belly to the rotted end, I took what cover I could find, even if it was only cover from being seen and not being shot. There were three of them, that I could see, but none were good targets. Then I saw my bandito friend from last night. He was creeping from cover to cover trying to get into the trees that ran down the bank, off to the right. If he got down there, he’d be able to cross the river and flank me.

  My rifle wouldn’t do any good in this tangle of limbs, but I had to at least warn him off. So I pulled my Colt and worked it through the limbs. Holding it outstretched and resting on a branch, I found that I couldn’t even get my head down to sight it. So I took a chance and pulled the trigger. I missed by a foot left and low. Watching as I was trying to untangle my hand and pistol, he came up aiming. My gun came free and I got a complete roll in before he fired.

  The sound was awful. It sounded sorta like “Cra-doong!” as his barrel split and the chamber exploded. He flung the rifle and fell back with his hands covering his face. I guess the heating and cooling of his barrel finally caught up to the damage I’d done in the dark. I didn’t figure he was dead, but he’d be down for a while. He’d have some powder burns to brag about and maybe a finger or two missing, but he was now a liability to them.

  Back under cover behind my big old log, I sat with my back to it for a few minutes then turned and peeked over the top. I looked up at the sun and figured it was close to noon. This had been going on for hours… It seemed like minutes… I’d lost all sense of time.

  Chapter 21

  It was time for me to leave. I’d been going on only a few hours sleep for the last two or more days. I couldn’t remember exactly how long, and it really didn’t matter. If things went into a lull here, I was likely to fall asleep… forever. So I slipped back behind my good friend, the old rotten log. With my saddle bag over my shoulder and my hat crushed under my arm, I crawled back toward where my horse was tied. A broad brimmed hat can get a fella killed in a fight like that. It tends to announce your movements long before you show your head.

  When I got to my trusty horse, he had eaten half the bush I’d tied him to and was starting on the other half. We were far enough back and they were far enough below us that we couldn’t be seen, so I took the time to reload. Then I led my horse up the trail a ways, so they wouldn’t hear us leaving. I saw no sense in telling them.

  It took a little time to pick up the trail. Carson had done a credible job of hiding it for a ways. I
said credible because there just ain’t no way of hiding the trail of eight mules and four horses for long. We were approaching a few rocky hills. They were green with junipers and low growing brush. But anything that was growing there was coming out of cracks in the rocks. He had taken the bunch of them around the back side, which was mostly rock and sand. Off to the north was Sierra Blanco, another one of those big and very old mountains that seemed determined to bury themselves in the sand. And in a million years it just might succeed.

  I stayed in the same rocky sandy area they had followed. I would’ve sure hated to lead that cut throat bunch right to our camp. I found where he had taken them up into the junipers presumably to make a do or die stand. I was instantly sorry I thought of it that way… but then again, I’d be in some fine company.

  When I’d ridden into the junipers a short distance, I got down and went back to freshen up the area. I scattered dead juniper bristles. They can’t really be called needles, since they’re more like groups of very tiny leaf like bristles. There were enough to do a fair job of it.

  Reaching the camp, I softly hallooed them and told them who it was. Carson, being the cautious fella he was called back and asked, “Who’s Ben Blue?”

  “My old boss up in New Mexico.” I answered,

  “Come on ahead, Tater, and we’re glad to have you, boy.”

  I rode in and dismounted; Morgan took my horse and put him with the others. Looking around, I could see he’d done a good job of picking a place to defend. We were up about five or six hundred feet, and except for the way I’d come in, there was a good field of fire. We were at the base of a cliff that went up another hundred or so feet with no way up, unless you were a goat.

  Carson had cleaned Burley’s wound with some of Morgan’s whiskey and plugged up the holes so that there was only a little seepage. Emma had sacrificed some of what little ladies fixins she had brought to make bandages. The shoulder would need setting, and he wouldn’t be able to do much for a while, but he’d live if he didn’t get a fever. He’d be useless with a rifle, but we’d some spare pistols, so he’d have a fighting chance.