Until Darkness Disappears (A Saga of Texas)

by Will Cook

  “We are not afraid of the Army,” Vargas said. “I have an army of my own.”

  “You can’t fight the U.S. cavalry with Winchesters,” Hinshaw said. “The trouble with you, Pedro, is that you don’t know when you’re licked.”

  “Si, it is always the Mexican who is licked, who is stupid.” He laughed. “I will match my army against the army of that colonel. We have machine guns, too.”

  “You Mexicans couldn’t pay for a belly full of beans, let alone machine guns,” Hinshaw said.

  “I will see you stand before a wall and die,” Vargas said. “I will kill you with a machine gun.” He looked at Hinshaw for a moment, then fell into a sulky silence.

  “Kind of said a little more than you meant to, huh?” Hinshaw laughed. “Now who’d sell machine guns to Mexican bandits, anyway? What do you figure on doing, attacking Texas?”

  The conductor knocked on the door and identified himself. Hinshaw opened up to him. “How’s the old man?”

  “Resting,” Hinshaw said. “About that colonel… ?”

  “Gary? Quite an important man. Served for years in Texas during the last of the Indian troubles. What I came to tell you about was a telegram that came for the ranger. The Mexicans showed up at Victoria. So did the rangers. A hell of a gun battle. Three rangers killed and seven wounded.”

  “What about the Mexicans?”

  “I guess they got away,” the conductor said, and went on down the aisle.

  Major Carl Manners was an early riser every day, for in spite of his modern, college-bred methods he believed that a man was at his best when he went to bed shortly after sundown and got up at sunup. He was shaving when a ranger came to his room with a telegram. He read it and finished his shave. “Well, it isn’t the first wild-goose chase we’ve been sent on,” he said, and toweled his face dry. “McCabe used his head. Vargas likely had men waiting to stop the train and take him off. Saved a lot of lives there, for when he stops a train, he pulls the spikes and spreads the rails or puts sticks of dynamite under the ties.”

  The sergeant said: “Major, now that McCabe’s changed trains, do you want some of the other battalions alerted?”

  “Hell, no,” Manners said. “Let him go on into Laredo. We’ll be there to meet him at the dépôt.” He thought a moment. “I’d better not send a telegram to the sergeant at the Laredo station. The Mexicans might pick it up and wonder why we’re suddenly increasing strength. Order two companies to march readiness. Have them ready to leave in an hour. Rations for three days and all their belongings.” He went to his desk and sat down, tapping his fingers lightly on the blotter. “Vargas’s capture is a good bit of politics, providing we can hold him.”

  “There’ll be a hell of a fight if they try to take him,” the sergeant said.

  Manners smiled thinly. “Grady, no matter what kind of a trial Vargas gets, it’ll be in Texas, and the Mexicans will never believe it was fair. He’ll be a hero. Even more so. I want you to go to Laredo. Pick two of the fastest horses in the stable and ride hard. Leave right away and keep your badge and gun out of sight.”

  “I see,” Grady said. He was a man, forty-some, thin and listless in manner, as though he never in his life had gotten enough to eat or had enough sleep. “What am I looking for, Major?”

  “The condition of the town and the Laredo garrison,” Manners said. “It would be pure hell if we locked Vargas in the stockade and then lost him. Think of what the newspapers would do to that.”

  “They’re always doing something,” Grady said. He glanced at Manners and asked the question frankly: “Do you think you can really cover up the mess Standers made?”

  “I can try,” Manners said. “One thing they didn’t tell me about this job when I took it was that I not only had to enforce the law, but safeguard the ridiculous record of the Texas Rangers. It’s difficult to polish something that has always been a bit tarnished.” He lit a cigar and offered one to Bill Grady. “Our long history is filled with bad mistakes and periods of corruption that would sicken anyone. We’ve got our enemies, Grady, and they’re always waiting for another mistake. It makes good newspaper copy.”

  “Maybe it’s because we’re all human, Major. Except McCabe. He’ll be here when we’re all gone.” He laughed. “And they’ll probably put up a statue of him in the park at Austin. That’s the way life is.”

  “No doubt,” Manners said. “And we’ll both contribute five dollars.”

  “Sure,” Grady said, rising. “We’re both fools.”

  After Grady left, Carl Manners sat at his desk and wondered why he didn’t get out and open a law office somewhere and try divorce cases. But, no, he had to fill himself full of high-flung notions about being a Texas Ranger, about carving his name in the monument of Texas history. What a rude awakening that had been, and he hadn’t been the same since. There wasn’t one administration that hadn’t had some corruption in it, some stupidity in it, and some heroism that was undying. The records were filled with men who rode a hundred miles with a bullet in them to run down some criminal or another, but many times the truth proved less glorious than the deed. On one occasion a ranger had kept going when he suddenly realized that the chase had taken him into a Texas county where he was wanted for questioning concerning the ownership of a horse.

  The rangers, Manners understood, had enlisted all kinds of men on their rolls, and there weren’t really too many questions asked as long as he could ride fast, shoot straight, and be stupid enough to take the long hours and thirty-five dollars a month in pay. Or they commissioned men through politics, or kept on men like McCabe, or men like myself, he thought, and this turned him into a sour frame of mind.

  Being a public servant was hell, Manners decided. Being a public hero was impossible. To keep his mind from dwelling further on the subject, he reached for a stack of recent correspondence, particularly the letter bearing the engraved seal.

  Austin, Texas

  April 11,1905

  Major Carl Manners

  Texas Frontier Battalion

  On the Border

  My Dear Major:

  The governor wishes to advise you that because of the publicity in the Eastern papers concerning our minor brushes with the Mexican bandits, the true facts have so been distorted that the President of the United States has appointed a military man to come here and look the situation over. The governor does not wish to convey the impression that he is against government troops in Texas, but he is desirous of terminating these minor hostilities as quickly as possible so that the President’s appointee . can better exercise his time in some fine grouse shooting. There have been some rumors in Austin that El Jefe has armed his soldiers with automatic firearms. Please investigate this and send along your confidential report on where such weapons could be bought. Naturally the governor regards this as pure rumor, but he does not want the newspapers to get hold of it and distort it.

  Kindest regards,

  Paul Sterret

  Secretary to the Governor

  Manners folded the letter and put it away. It was plain enough that the Army man needed the grand tour, and it was just as well for these minor brushes with the Mexicans had taken over a hundred lives in the last year, and the country from Langtry to Brownsville was an armed camp where no one trusted his neighbor, and the poor Mexicans living on the Texas side were neither friendly with their own people across the river nor trusted by the Texans.

  The distorted facts, Manners decided, probably came a lot closer to the truth than the governor’s reports. Well, it was part of the job, he supposed, and wondered who’d be the best man to send along with the soldier, someone who liked to loafand who would show him a lot of country and damned little else.

  By the time the train drew near Laredo, Martin Hinshaw was as close to being worn to a frazzle as he had ever been. He had maintained a constant vigilance over the prisoner. Guthrie McCabe shook off the fever with surprising rapidity, although he still had a touch of it, evident in his cheeks and bright eyes.<
br />
  When the train slowed just north of the switchyard, five men boarded and came to the caboose with the conductor. They were armed and wore their badges in plain sight and put leg irons on Pedro Vargas and took him away.

  Martin Hinshaw was relieved to be rid of the Mexican, and he could see that Ella Sanders was, too. The trip had been wearing on her with McCabe’s being sick and getting no sleep at all. Hinshaw said: “It’s ten minutes into the depot. Let’s go to the observation platform.”

  “Why?”

  He grinned. “Because I’ve been alone with you longer than I ever have with a girl, and I haven’t really been alone at all. Are we just going to say good bye and let it go at that?”

  “Maybe we should,” she said. “Marty, there’ll be someone waiting for me in Laredo.”

  “I might have guessed it.”

  “No, we’re not married. Just engaged. His name’s Fred Early, and he owns the biggest store in town.”

  “Figures that you’d get a successful man,” Hinshaw said. “It’s like I told McCabe, my luck’s always been bad.”

  His manner, his readiness to play the underdog role, touched her, and she said: “Marty, why don’t you come to supper tomorrow night?” She wrote the address on a slip of paper and put it in his shirt pocket. “My father and I live alone. Please.”

  “It won’t put Fred Early’s nose out of joint, will it?”

  “He’ll understand,” she said.

  The conductor was going to see that McCabe was taken off the train. He explained that it was the railroad’s responsibility, and Hinshaw didn’t argue with him. He said good bye to Ella Sanders, took his satchel, and went to the nearest vestibule to wait. When the train pulled into the dépôt, he got off before it stopped completely and was walking toward the center of town before the rest of the passengers got down.

  He found a hotel that was clean enough and cheap enough and took a room there, stowed his suitcase and revolver, then went in search of a shave and a bath. He had a bath first, then a shave, and all this felt so good that he spent an additional thirty-five cents on a haircut.

  His intention afterward was to go back to the hotel and sleep for three days, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he walked along the main street until he saw the sign he looked for:

  FRED J. EARLY

  DRY GOODS—GENERAL MDSE.

  LAREDO, TEXAS

  Hinshaw stepped into the store and was immediately surrounded by the smells of leather and cloth and oil finely coating the racks of shovels and tools. A few customers were being waited on, and Hinshaw walked about as though trying to make up his mind about something. He identified the clerk right away and Fred Early; one gave the orders, and the other took them.

  Early was thirty, Hinshaw guessed, a very successful thirty. Tall and Texas straight, Early’s hair was dark and wavy, and he wore a thin mustache and a white shirt with slick cuff protectors.

  As Early waited on a customer, Hinshaw studied him while pretending to study a case of pocket knives. Early had a smooth, easy manner with people, and a way of smiling that convinced all that he was a friend, even while his hand rang up profit on the cash register. It wasn’t difficult to see why Ella Sanders had picked him, for Early would amount to something. He had that serious turn of mind found in important people.

  The customer left, and Early came over. “May I help you?”

  Hinshaw realized then that he would have to buy something. “I like that little pearl-handled penknife,” Hinshaw said.

  “A very fine knife,” Early said, taking a tray of them from the case. “I sell a lot of these, here and all over. Import them from Germany, you know. Famous for their steel.” He demonstrated the keen edge on some paper he moistened. “Only a dollar and a quarter.”

  “I guess I’ll take it,” Hinshaw said.

  Early took the money and made change. “New in Laredo, aren’t you?”

  “Just got in on the train.”

  Early’s interest grew. “Say, what’s this rumor I hear about El Jefe being taken prisoner?”

  “I guess it’s so,” Hinshaw said, putting the knife in his pocket. “Some ranger had him on the train.”

  “Heard the ranger was flat on his back,” Early said. “There was another fella”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Hinshaw said. “You hear all kinds of things these days. How’s jobs around here?”

  “Holding,” Early said. “Which is about all that can be expected with the Mexican trouble and all. Out of work?”

  “A man either has it or he hasn’t,” Hinshaw said. “I may look around.”

  “Jobs are hard to find without a recommendation,” Early said. “Any stranger in this part of the country is looked over pretty good.”

  “I make friends quickly,” Hinshaw said. “But thanks for the suggestion. If I need a recommendation, I know of someone in town who might give me one.” He smiled pleasantly and went out.

  His hotel bed was lumpy, and the afternoon was turning out hot, but it really didn’t bother him for he was too tired to care. He slept until a cool breeze coming through his window woke him, and he found that it was dark outside. There was some traffic noise coming up from the street, but he paid no attention to it and went back to sleep.

  Someone knocking at his door woke him. Hinshaw grumbled and lit the lamp, then opened the door. Two men stood there. One said: “The name’s Bill Grady. Martin Hinshaw?”

  “Guilty,” Hinshaw said, and sat down on the bed.

  Grady looked at his friend, then back to Hinshaw. “What do you mean by that?”

  “What? Oh, just a form of expression. What do you want?”

  “We had a devil of a time locating you,” Grady said. “This is Corporal Anderson. We’re Texas Rangers. The major got in an hour ago. He’d like to talk to you.”

  “Some other time,” Hinshaw said. “I’m catching up on my sleep.”

  Bill Grady frowned. “I’m sorry, but the major don’t like to be kept waiting. Now he’s not asking much, just a little of your time.”

  Hinshaw looked at him. “Friend, I’ve got a few dollars to my name, the clothes on my back, and no job. But I have plenty of time and, since that’s all I have, I’m inclined to be selfish about it. If he wants to see me, he can come here. Now leave me alone.”

  “He’s not very friendly,” Corporal Anderson said dryly.

  “No, and I don’t think he’ll improve,” Grady said. “All right, Hinshaw, we asked you nice.”

  They moved together, and Hinshaw came off the bed. He hit Anderson an axing blow that spun him completely around and slammed him against the door, but it cost him dearly, for it gave Grady a chance to grab, him, trip him, and pin him to the floor while Anderson recovered and snapped on the handcuffs. Hinshaw was hauled to his feet, and Anderson rubbed his jaw.

  “Did you have to do that?” he asked. “Gol-lee, I’m liable to get a toothache now.”

  “What’s the big idea, jumping me?” Hinshaw demanded.

  “Now don’t get your pin feathers all mussed up,” Grady suggested. “We’ve got a buckboard downstairs, and we’re going to see the major.” He glanced at Anderson. “I owe McCabe three dollars. He said we wouldn’t get him without a scuffle.”

  “I get the toothache, and he gets three dollars,” Anderson said sourly. “That’s the whole of McCabe’s life.” He picked up Hinshaw’s hat, clapped it on his head, and laced his coat over his arm.

  They went downstairs and through the lobby. Hinshaw got in the buckboard, and Grady drove out of town. As they neared the residential section, Grady pulled his team to the side of the road. Anderson hopped down to hold them while an automobile approached, carbide lamps shedding a flushed glow ahead, clanking, puffing, smelling of oil. Hinshaw saw that Fred Early was driving, and Ella Sanders sat on the high seat, one hand keeping a firm grip on her hat.

  He hunkered down so as not to be seen, then the car passed on. Anderson got back into the rig; he was in a sour frame o
f mind. “God-damn’ contraptions anyway! The only one in town, and Early has to own it. On Judgment Day he’ll be selling ringside seats.”

  “He just knows how to make a dollar,” Grady said. “We all have our little talents.”

  Ranger Headquarters was a half mile from town, a cluster of buildings with barracks and a stout stockade on the west side. As they pulled into the yard, Hinshaw knew that Vargas was in the stockade, for at least ten rangers formed a patrolling guard around it, constantly moving in a preset pattern.

  Grady took him by the arm and steered him across the porch. Once inside he unlocked the handcuffs and said: “Now behave yourself. He only wants to thank you.”

  “He could have wrote me. I don’t get much mail.”

  “You wait here,” Grady said, and left him with Anderson to see that he did. He knocked, stepped into the major’s office, then came right out. “Go on in.”

  Carl Manners got up and came around the desk, his hand outstretched. “Mister Hinshaw, the Texas Rangers owe you a debt of gratitude. Please sit down. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you, asking you to come here at this late hour, but tomorrow I’m going into the field for a few days, and I wanted to take the first opportunity I had of thanking you. Cigar?”

  “No,” Hinshaw said. “How’s the old man?”

  “Difficult to keep in bed,” Manners said. “What are your plans?”

  “Get a job. The old home place is fifty miles north of here. I’d like to buy it back someday.”

  “I’d like to offer you work, if you’d accept it,” Manners said. “We’re always looking for good men. I won’t insult you by asking if you can ride . . . your boots show that. Can you handle a firearm?”

  “Major, I could draw and put five shots into the palm of your hand from twenty feet in that many seconds.” He grinned. “For a while I had a girl who was a rodeo trick shot. She taught me that and a few other things. But this isn’t for me. I couldn’t get used to calling you, ‘sir,’ and getting up when I was told, or doing what I was told. Besides, the pay’s poor.”

  “You’ve come highly recommended to me,” Manners said. “Colonel Gary was impressed with your devotion to responsibility. Will you think it over?”