"What happened when you pursued those men, Mr. Braddock?" Dunaway asked.
"They must have realized I was on their trail, because they bushwhacked me. They shot my horse out from under me, and I barely made it into the brush without getting ventilated. They came after me to try to kill me. I reckon they must've seen my badge and realized I was a Texas Ranger. They knew killing me was the only way they'd get me off their trail."
The other lawyer objected again on grounds of supposition. The judge sustained it, but Braddock thought he did so reluctantly.
With Dunaway prompting him, Braddock told the rest of the story, including the javelina. As he testified, he was aware of the badge resting in the breast pocket of his shirt. He seemed to feel it burning through his clothes, although that was impossible, of course. It was just silver. Nothing but inanimate metal. It didn't really glow with the hatred he felt, although sometimes in unguarded moments he imagined that it did.
When Braddock was finished, the jury foreman said, "Mr. Braddock, when all this occurred, you were a member of the Texas Rangers, is that correct?"
"Yes, sir. A sworn member of Company D of the Frontier Battalion."
"And you believed you were acting in a proper and lawful manner?"
"Yes, sir. Because I was."
The judge said, "We're not dealing with that issue here, Mr. Braddock."
"Sorry, Your Honor," Braddock muttered.
The jury foreman said, "You're aware that no one really knows what happened out there in the brush except you and these other two men? That it's your word against theirs?"
"The word of a Ranger against two murdering owlhoots, yes, sir, I know that."
That led to more outraged yelling by the lawyer for Coleman and Hawley. Braddock was sick of the whole business. He just wanted to get out of here. He wasn't sure where he would go or what he would do, but he was tired of everything being topsy-turvy.
Eventually the judge dismissed him. The evidence had been presented. There were no closing statements by the lawyers. The grand jury just headed off to figure out whether to indict Braddock on the charges and bind him over for a real trial.
Everybody else waited in the hall outside the courtroom.
Captain Hughes was there. He shook Braddock's hand and said, "How did it go in there?"
"I just told the truth, Captain."
Hughes nodded. "I don't doubt it. Anybody who knew your father would know you're an honest man, G.W."
Braddock's lips thinned. Captain Hughes had treated him decently. Had gone beyond that, really. It wouldn't serve any point to tell him what a dyed-in-the-wool bastard the senior Braddock had really been.
It seemed like the hearing had been over for only a few minutes when the bailiff called them back in. Clearly, it hadn't taken the jury members very long to figure out what they wanted to do.
The announcement was short and to the point, without any real drama to it. The foreman informed the judge that the jury was declining to present a true bill of indictment against George Washington Braddock, Jr. The judge nodded, said, "All charges against the defendant are dismissed," and whacked his gavel on the bench in front of him. "You're free to go, Mr. Braddock."
Dunaway grinned and shook Braddock's hand. Braddock didn't pay any attention to whatever the lawyer was saying. He looked past Dunaway at Coleman and Hawley, both of whom were stony-faced. Braddock saw the hate burning in their eyes, though, as they returned his stare.
He reckoned they saw the same thing in his gaze.
It would always be there.
* * *
A few days after the grand jury hearing, Captain Hughes came into the livery stable a couple of blocks from the Alamo while Braddock was getting his horse ready to ride. The scar on Braddock's back where Tull Coleman had cut him twinged a little as Braddock lifted the saddle onto the back of the dun he had purchased, but he ignored the discomfort.
"I heard you were leaving town, G.W.," Hughes said.
"Nothing to keep me here, is there? Now that I'm not a Ranger anymore, I mean."
"Do you have any work lined up?"
Braddock pulled the cinch tight and shook his head. "Not a bit."
"Where are you going?"
"Figured I'd drift west. See what turns up."
"That's not much of a plan," Hughes said with a worried frown.
"I never really had a plan except to carry a badge and enforce the law. Seems like that's over and done with now."
With a note of exasperation in his voice, Hughes said, "I told you, once the legislature passes a new law authorizing the expansion of the Rangers, you might be able to join up again."
"And when will that be, Captain?" Braddock wanted to know.
"Well, there's no telling," Hughes had to admit. "You know it takes a long time for things to go through channels, and like we talked about before, there'll be political enemies trying to stall anything that helps the Rangers."
"So maybe never," Braddock said dryly. "Blind hope doesn't sound like much of a plan, either, Captain."
"Blast it!" Hughes burst out. That was pretty strong language for him and showed that he was genuinely upset. "I know how these things go. I've seen it before. A man rides on one side of the law, and then something bad happens and he drifts over to the other side."
Braddock looked at the older man in surprise. "Captain, are you worried that I might turn owlhoot?"
"Things like that have been known to happen," Hughes said stiffly.
Braddock shook his head and said, "You don't have to worry about that. I was brought up my whole life to respect the law."
Even if I didn't respect all the men who enforced it.
"That's not going to change now. I'll never side with the owlhoots. Being a lawman is all I know."
"Well...maybe you can get a job as a deputy somewhere. Texas has settled down a lot, but there are still some rough places where a man like you could do some real good, G.W."
"I intend to do good," Braddock said. He meant every word of it, too. He pulled his Winchester part of the way out of the saddle boot to make sure it wasn't catching on anything, then slid it back in. He checked the pack of food and supplies tied on behind the saddle and nodded in satisfaction. His saddlebags were packed with things he would need, too, and a pair of full canteens hung from the saddle. As far as he could tell, he was ready to ride. "If there's nothing else, Captain...?"
"No, that's all." Hughes held out his hand. "Except to wish you good luck."
"Won't need it, but I appreciate that."
Braddock gripped the captain's hand and then swung up into the saddle. He lifted a hand in farewell as he rode out of the stable and turned the horse west.
San Antonio was such a big city it took him a while to reach the outskirts. Finally he put it behind him and started through the wooded hills that rose to the west and north. He paused on a rise and looked back but realized he wasn't leaving anything important behind him. He had everything he needed with him.
Including his badge, and when he thought about it he rested his hand briefly on his shirt pocket, smiling as he felt the hard shape under the cloth. The Rangers might not have any use for him anymore...
But that didn't mean he was through with the Rangers.
Chapter 5
Crockett County, Texas, two months later
More than thirty years earlier, the transcontinental railroad had been completed with the driving of the Golden Spike at Promontory Point, Utah, and in the decades since then the steel rails had spread out in a network that covered much of the territory west of the Mississippi.
The railroad hadn't come to Crockett County, though. The nearest rail line was the Southern Pacific, which ran through Comstock, sixty miles south of Ozona, which was not only the county seat but also the only settlement in Crockett County. But the Deaton Stagecoach Line ran from Ozona to Comstock, the line's Concord coaches making several trips back and forth each week. Comstock wasn't far from the Rio Grande and the terrain around it
was mostly flat, but as the stage road ran north toward Ozona it entered more rugged territory marked by limestone ridges covered with scrub brush, cactus, and mesquite trees.
Today a southbound coach had just gone through a gap in one of those ridges. The gray-bearded jehu, Ben Finley, kept the team of six sturdy horses at a steady, ground-eating trot. Finley knew better than to run the horses. At best, George Deaton, the line's owner, would dock a driver's pay if he found out the man had been running the teams. At worst the driver would find himself quickly out of a job. That was understandable since those horses were the life's blood of the company.
Still, there were always special circumstances. This was one of them, Ben Finley realized as he heard gunshots over the pounding of the horses' hooves and looked back to see several riders galloping after the stagecoach. He knew they must have been hidden in the clump of boulders just south of the gap.
Finley shouted at the horses and slashed the long reins across the rumps of the wheelers. The team lunged ahead, jolting the coach and making it rock violently on the broad leather thoroughbraces that supported it. Shouts of alarm came from inside the coach.
Finley had five passengers on this run: two whiskey drummers with orders to fill from Ozona's numerous saloons; a young woman of dubious reputation; a young cowboy who had spent the trip so far ogling the soiled dove; and Rudolph March, a Crockett County rancher on his way to Comstock to catch the train to El Paso where he intended to conduct some business. Finley had toted enough such passengers in his years driving a stagecoach that he felt like he knew all these people, whether he had ever seen them before or not.
"Hold on, folks!" he yelled back at them. "It's liable to get a mite rough!"
That was putting it mildly. The stagecoach road was in pretty good shape because the Deaton family kept it maintained, but ruts were inevitable and a coach traveling this fast was going to feel each and every one of them. Finley bounced on the seat as the vehicle careened along.
He had an old Colt Navy .36 in a crossdraw holster on his left side, and he wished he could pull the gun and turn around to blaze away at the pursuers. That might discourage them. He wished George Deaton paid somebody to ride shotgun on his coaches, too, but that seemed like an unnecessary expense to the boss. Nobody had tried to hold up one of these coaches in years.
But it was happening today, and Finley felt his heart thud in fear as he glanced back and saw the horsebackers gaining on him. They had their hats pulled low and bandannas over their faces, so that seemed to answer any questions about whether or not they were bandits out to hold up the stage.
More shots boomed, closer this time, and Finley twisted around to see the young cowboy hanging out the coach's window and firing back at the outlaws. The cowboy's body jerked suddenly as the gun slipped from his fingers. He slumped forward, his arms hanging down and his head and shoulders still outside the window while the rest of him remained in the coach. Finley could tell by the way youngster's arms swayed limply that he'd been hit and probably was dead.
The jehu bit back a curse and lashed the horses again. The same fate that cowpoke had suffered might be waiting for all of them if they didn't get away.
The road curved around more boulders up ahead, so Finley didn't see the men waiting there for the stagecoach until it was too late. They spurred their horses out into the open, firing as they came, and Finley was driven back against the coach by the slugs pounding into his body. The reins slipped from his fingers as pain flooded through him. Knowing that he was only moments away from death, he clawed at the Colt. He wanted to take at least one of the bastards with him when he crossed the divide.
Instead he passed out and slid down onto the floorboards to die there. The team kept running until one of the men on horseback caught up to the leaders and leaned over from his saddle to grab the harness and haul back on it. The horses slowed and gradually came to a stop.
The other riders had caught up by now. They all surrounded the coach. A shot blasted from inside the vehicle as Rudolph March put up a fight. After carving out a living on the Texas frontier for so many years, it was all the old rancher knew how to do.
He paid for that stubborn resolve with his life as the outlaws opened fire and hammered the coach with their lead. The thin walls didn't stop very many of the slugs. March fell back out of the window as blood spouted from the holes in his chest. The two drummers screamed even louder than the whore as they tried to hug the floor and escape the storm of bullets.
After a few seconds, one of the bandits waved an arm and shouted an order over the gun-thunder. "Hold your fire! Stop shooting, damn it!"
The guns fell silent as their echoes rolled away over the hills. The leader motioned to one of the other men and said, "Open that door, Wiley."
Cautiously, the outlaw approached the stagecoach, leaned over from his saddle, and twisted the handle on the door. As he flung it open, a body that was slumped against it inside toppled out, sliding all the way to the ground. The whiskey drummer landed on his back with his arms outflung, his sightless eyes staring at the sky. The front of his vest and shirt were sodden with blood.
"Don't shoot! Oh, God, please don't shoot!"
The plea came from the other drummer. The leader of the outlaws pointed his gun at the open door and ordered, "Come on out of there."
The surviving drummer crawled out of the coach and clung to the door for support as his rubbery legs threatened to fold up underneath him. He was pale and sweating but didn't appear to be wounded.
"Anybody else in there?" the boss outlaw demanded.
"Only a girl...a...a whore...and she's dead."
The boss inclined his head toward the coach and said, "Make sure he's telling the truth."
A couple of the bandits dismounted, grabbed the quaking drummer, and flung him to the ground several yards away from the coach. Then as one of them leaned into the vehicle through the door, a pop sounded. The man jerked back and yelled a curse. He clapped a hand to his left ear. Blood ran between the fingers.
"Bitch's got a derringer! She damn near shot my ear off!"
The gun must have been a single-shot weapon. The wounded outlaw reached into the coach and dragged out the screaming, struggling soiled dove. He dumped her on the ground next to the dead drummer.
"So she's dead, is she?" the leader said to the surviving drummer. "She looks mighty alive to me."
He raised his gun as the drummer frantically tried to scoot backward on his butt. He yelled, "No! No!" but it didn't do any good. The leader's gun roared and the drummer's head snapped back as a red-rimmed hole appeared in his forehead. He collapsed and didn't move again.
The boss outlaw holstered his gun and then pulled down the bandanna mask over the lower half of his face, revealing his lean, beard-stubbled features. He smiled as he said, "We'll take the girl with us. A little extra loot."
The man whose ear had been mangled said, "I oughta get first turn with her. I'm the one she shot."
"I don't know," the boss said with a grin. "You might be too ugly now. Might offend her delicate sensibilities. But I'll think about it." He turned to the others. "Get the box down and bust it open. We'll see what we find. I know March is carrying some money. He was talking in the saloon in Ozona about how he planned to buy some prime bulls from a rancher in Mexico. However much we get, it's a good start."
He dismounted and went over to the young woman. She cowered away from him, but he bent down, grasped her arm, and jerked her to her feet. His fingers dug cruelly into her flesh through her sleeve and made her wince.
"Don't give us any more trouble and you'll come through this a whole lot better," he warned her. "I'm not saying you'll enjoy it, but it'll be a lot less painful."
"I...I'll do whatever you say, mister," she stammered. "Just don't kill me."
"Why, shoot, you'll be fine," he said as he smiled down at her. "I give you my word on that. And everybody knows you can take ol' Tull Coleman at his word."
Chapter 6
Braddock rode into Ozona while the town was in a hot, sleepy, midday haze. Folks had retreated into the mostly adobe buildings in search of relative coolness. Nothing moved on the street except the tails of a few horses tied at hitch rails as they tried to swat away flies. Braddock angled his dun toward one of those rails in front of the Splendid Saloon.
He hoped the place lived up to its name, but he wasn't counting on it.
He was leaner, his features more drawn since the day he rode away from San Antonio nine weeks earlier. In that time he had drifted around considerably, visiting Eagle Pass and Del Rio, then swinging north to San Angelo and Abilene, back around to Brownwood, Kerrville, and Bandera, making a wide circle through southwestern Texas. During that time he had kept his ears open, buying dozens of beers, asking questions, listening to what anybody had to say.
He hoped that effort was about to pay off.
He went into the saloon and thumbed back his hat as he stood at the bar that ran down the right side of the room. There were a dozen men in the place, half of them engaged in a desultory poker game at a big round table. Two of the others sat at a table nursing drinks, while the other four leaned on the bar and argued without much enthusiasm about the results of a recent horse race.
A craggy-faced bartender drifted along the hardwood until he was across from Braddock. "Get you something, mister?" he asked.
"Beer's fine," Braddock said.
The bartender filled a mug and set it in front of Braddock, who slid a silver dollar across the mahogany.
"Beer's only four bits," the bartender said.
"I'm paying for the company," Braddock said.
The bartender grunted. "Trust me, it ain't worth that much. You ridin' the grub line?"
"What makes you think that?"
"You look like you know your way around cows," the man replied with a shrug. "And you're not from around here. I'd remember you if you were."
"I can set a horse, but I've never worked cows in my life," Braddock answered honestly. The only job he'd ever had was as a lawman.
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