The Faith and the Rangers

by James J. Griffin

“Should be easy enough. There’s three teller’s cages and the vault. The vault was wide open. Appears to be kept that way during business hours. Four of us can get in there, clean the place out, then get out real quick.”

  “That sounds fine, Dan,” Thornton said. “What about the law?”

  I had to grin. Leave it to Ed to ask about the law. He’d killed several lawmen in his short outlaw career, and was always looking for the opportunity to gun down yet another.

  “Nothin’ to worry about there. In fact, it’ll be even easier than usual,” I explained. “The sheriff’s out of town, escortin’ a couple of prisoners to San Saba. The only law in town’s a young snot-nosed deputy. He’ll be no problem at all. If he does butt in, you’ll take care of him, Ed.”

  “That’s fine and dandy,” Thornton smirked. The expression on his face told me that deputy was already good as dead.

  “I didn’t finish,” I continued. “There’s also a Texas Ranger.”

  “A Ranger?” Brigham exclaimed. “Hold on a minute, Dan. I don’t mind tacklin’ a job that’s a mite tough, but tanglin’ with a Texas Ranger’s a whole other story. We don’t need that grief.”

  “I can handle any Ranger,” Thornton declared, with an oath. “I’ve been waitin’ for the chance to drill one of those hombres right through his lousy guts.”

  “Just relax,” I cautioned. “This particular gent who claims to be a Texas Ranger is an old coot who’s at least eighty years old. And I doubt he was ever a Ranger. No one in town believes he was. It doesn’t matter. He’s a harmless old drunk who spends his days talkin’ folks into buyin’ him beers. We’ve got nothing to worry about from him.”

  “Dan had you goin’ for a minute there, didn’t he, Vance?” Thibodeaux chuckled.

  “Holloway, one of these days…”

  “You’re gonna rip my guts out. I know, Vance,” I laughed. That threat had been a joke between us for years.

  “Anything else we need to know?” Carpenter asked.

  “That’s about it. We’ll start ridin’ out of here in a bit. Ed, you and Beau will leave first. When you get to town, head for the saloon and have a couple of beers. Vance,

  you’ll leave thirty minutes after them. You can also stop at the saloon for a beer.”

  “But I don’t know Ed or Beau,” he concluded.

  “That’s right. Take a table by the front window, where you can watch the street. Jerry and I will reach town a half-hour later. When you spot us, leave the saloon and drift across the street. Ed, you and Beau do the same, five minutes later. Jerry and I’ll go into the bank first. You two follow right behind us. Vance, your job is to hold the horses and warn us if it looks like trouble’s brewin’.”

  Brigham nodded.

  “And plug anyone who gets in the way. Right, Dan?”

  I nodded.

  “Any other questions?”

  “What about the deputy?” Thornton asked.

  “Don’t worry, Ed. I’ll save him for you,” Brigham promised.

  “That’s settled,” I said. “Anything else?”

  There were no replies.

  “Seems not,” Carpenter grunted.

  “All right. We’ll rest for another couple of hours, then we’ll head out and meet up in Junction. That’ll put us in town just before the bank’s closing time. We’ll hit it

  ten minutes before they lock the doors. Check your guns and ammunition.”

  While the others went over their weapons, I dug a piece of mirror, bar of soap, and a razor from my saddlebags. I propped the mirror on a rock, lathered my face, and commenced scraping the whiskers from my neck and jaw. I didn’t really expect my newly-shaven countenance to fool many folks, but it might keep a few from recognizing Dan Holloway and Dan Brown as one and the same.

  Once I’d finished shaving, I settled back against a boulder, stretched out my legs, and tilted my Stetson over my eyes. I’d get some more shut-eye before we rode for Junction.

  3

  The streets of Junction were virtually deserted when Carpenter and I came into town. Most of the populace was indoors, taking shelter from the oppressive mid- afternoon heat. We sat casually in our saddles, letting our horses set their own pace. I noted with satisfaction that Ed’s, Vance’s, and Beau’s mounts were tied in front of the bank, idly switching their tails at pestering flies.

  Brigham had wandered out of the Crossroads and was seated in a tilted-back chair under the saloon’s wooden awning, his feet up on the rail. He nodded almost imperceptibly when we rode by. I pretended not to notice his signal.

  Carpenter and I rode a half-block past the bank, dismounted, and tied our horses. We pulled out the makings, rolled quirlies and lit them, then stood against the wall of a millinery shop to smoke. Vance crossed the street, also rolled a smoke, and stood alongside our horses. Once we had entered the bank he’d untie our mounts and bring them to the front.

  Five minutes later, right on schedule, Thornton and Thibodeaux exited the saloon and sauntered across the

  dusty street. Carpenter and I waited until they reached the board sidewalk, then pulled our bandannas over our faces and stepped into the bank. Thibodeaux and Thornton were right behind us. Once we were inside, we drew our guns and fanned out. There was only a single customer, a woman at one of the teller’s cages. We quickly had her and the two tellers covered.

  “Don’t you scream, honey,” Thornton warned the woman, who nodded her compliance.

  “This is a holdup!” I announced. “No one will get hurt unless one of you tries something stupid. Now everyone get your hands in the air.”

  I stuck my Colt right against the nose of the same snooty teller I’d dealt with the previous day.

  “You,” I ordered. “Tell your friend to empty all the cash drawers. And get your boss out here, now!”

  “Barnaby, better do what they say,” the clerk told the other teller. “I’ll get Mister Hollister.”

  He headed for the bank president’s office, fully aware of the gun Thornton kept trained on his back. He knocked on the door and called for his boss.

  “Mister Hollister. We have an urgent matter which needs your attention.”

  “I’m quite busy,” came a muffled reply from behind the closed door. “Can’t you handle whatever it is, Hal?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the teller answered. “We need you out here.”

  “Very well.”

  “Good. Now back away from that door,” I ordered the teller.

  Slater Hollister emerged from his office. to Beau Thibodeaux’s sixgun being rammed into his substantial belly.

  “What. what is this?” the banker gasped.

  “It’s a holdup,” Thibodeaux grinned. “Start cleaning out your vault, Mister Banker.”

  “I will not! This is an outrage!” Hollister snapped.

  Thibodeaux’s pistol slashed up and down, to connect solidly with the banker’s head. The blow drove Hollister to his knees, the gun barrel opening a gash on his scalp. Thibodeaux hit him again and Hollister rolled onto his back, out cold.

  “He’s not gonna be much help,” Thibodeaux noted. “Reckon I’d better empty that vault myself.”

  He leapt the counter, grabbed two canvas sacks, and proceeded to rifle the vault.

  The two clerks efficiently cleaned out the cash drawers. Once Thibodeaux had finished his work in the vault, we had four bulging sacks filled with cash.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” I told the clerks, adding to the woman, “Ma’am we apologize for causing you any fright. Now, don’t anyone try to follow us or call for help for fifteen minutes. Anybody sticks his head out that door and it’ll get blown off.”

  We started to edge out of the bank.

  Hal, that snooty teller, had more guts than smarts. Despite the guns covering him, he dove behind the counter, snaked a pistol from under it, and
came up shooting. His first shots missed, and Carpenter made sure he didn’t get another chance. Jerry shot him through the stomach. The teller folded, groaning in pain.

  “Let’s get outta here! Those shots are gonna bring half the town down on us!” I shouted.

  We turned and ran out the door.

  Deputy Steve Malvern had heard the shots and was crossing the street at a run. Vance Brigham already had his gun leveled at the deputy and was thumbing back the hammer, but it was Ed Thornton who gunned the young lawman down. The deputy had his gun only half out of leather when Thornton nailed him in the chest. The kid was slammed to his back in the dirt. He never knew what hit him.

  That deputy marshal was the last lawman Ed Thornton ever killed. A shot fired from down the street smashed into the side of his head and buried itself in his brain. He dropped in his tracks.

  “What the.” Brigham started to curse. He never finished, for a bullet tore into his stomach. He dropped the horses’ reins, doubled up, collapsed, and rolled under their hooves, screaming. The panicked animals galloped away.

  I turned to see Caleb Sutton walking toward us, coolly as could be, a Colt Peacemaker in his right hand. I’d never know where he’d gotten that gun, but he held it steadily in his arthritic hand, his aim never wavering. Every time that big .45 bucked in that old man’s hand another of my partners went down.

  Sutton fired, and Beau Thibodeaux spun to the dirt. Sutton’s slug had pierced the Cajun’s side and punctured a lung.

  Sutton lifted his thumb off the hammer again. Dust puffed from Jerry Carpenter’s shirt and crimson spread across his chest. My longtime compadre pitched to his face with a bullet through his heart.

  Sutton had shot four times, each time finding his target. My four companions lay dead or dying.

  I aimed at Sutton, thumbed back the hammer of my Colt, pulled the trigger, and shot at just about the same moment he fired at me. Sutton never flinched, but I staggered back at the shocking impact of a bullet ripping into my belly.

  Sutton kept walking toward me. I tried to lift my Colt to shoot at him again, but the agony of that bullet

  buried deep in my guts had drained all my strength. Before I could get the gun level, Sutton shot me through the belly again. I jackknifed, dropped to my knees, then crumpled face-down.

  With the toe of his boot, Sutton rolled me onto my back, then wrested the Colt from my hand. He glared down at me, but never said a word.

  That old man had only six bullets, but he’d made every one count. Not once had he missed his target. Six shots, six mortal hits.

  Vance Brigham had rolled onto his side, hands clamped to his stomach. He looked at me through pain- glazed eyes.

  “Thought, you said, we’d have no trouble. Dan.”

  He shuddered, gasped, and lay still.

  Now that the shooting was over, a crowd was quickly gathering. Several men grabbed my shoulders and ankles to lift me from the ground. A few moments later they carried me into the doctor’s office.

  “Got a patient for you, Doc Carstairs,” one of them said.

  “Figured as much. I heard the shootin’,” came a gruff answer. “Bring him inside and put him on the table. Any more comin’?”

  “Nope. This hombre and his partners tried to rob the bank. Rest of ‘em are dead,” the voice replied. “So’s Steve Malvern, the deputy, and Hal Conrad from the bank. Slater Hollister’s got a nasty gash and bump on his head, but he insists he’s all right.”

  “Who shot this man?” the doctor questioned.

  “Caleb Sutton. He shot all those renegades. Five of ‘em.”

  “Caleb Sutton. Well I’ll be,” Carstairs exclaimed. “He downed five men, you say?”

  “Yep. Five. Never missed a shot. Who would’ve figured?” the voice answered. “Reckon ol’ Cal was a Texas Ranger like he claimed after all. Well, we’ve gotta get back to the bank, Doc. Need to get those bodies to the undertaker.”

  “You’ll have another one for him shortly,” Carstairs answered. “I can’t help this one.”

  Once the others had left, Carstairs opened my shirt to confirm what he already knew. He wiped the blood from my belly and tsked softly when he saw the bullet holes.

  “There’s not much I can do for you, mister,” he said. “Not with two bullets in your intestines. About all I can offer is some whiskey or laudanum.”

  “No thanks,” I gasped.

  My guts were already on fire. Once that whiskey hit the agony would increase tenfold, and laudanum would do little to ease the pain.

  “Whatever you’d prefer,” Carstairs shrugged. “I’ll give you some time to yourself. You might want to make peace with your Maker.”

  Carstairs left me alone. I lifted my head slightly so I could see the holes in my belly. There wasn’t much blood oozing from them. I knew that meant nothing. Inside, I was bleeding heavily, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth only adding to my torment.

  I had no idea how long I’d been lying there, the pain in my gut steadily worsening and sweat pouring off my brow, when the door opened and another man was carried into the room. He was placed on the table alongside mine.

  It was Caleb Sutton.

  Carstairs bent over the old man and went to work on him.

  “Doc?” I managed to rasp.

  “Yeah, mister?”

  “Is he.?”

  “He’s dying, if that’s what you want to know,” Carstairs snapped.

  “Guess. I didn’t miss him. after all,” I grunted.

  “Yes, you did,” the doctor growled. “He wasn’t shot. Apparently the excitement was too much for his heart. It’s giving out. However, he’s dying knowing he finally received the respect he should have gotten years ago.”

  Carstairs covered the dying old Ranger with a blanket. That done, he turned to me, took my pulse, and shook his head.

  “You don’t have much longer. Perhaps an hour at the most,” he said. “Anything you want to say? Anyone I should notify?”

  “No one, Doc,” I whispered. “Just leave me be.”

  “Suit yourself,” he replied. “I’ll return shortly.”

  Once the doctor left, I glanced at Sutton. The old man sighed deeply, and a slight smile played across his face. As he breathed his last, a white light seemed to envelope his body. I knew he was at peace.

  A sharp pain, far worse than any previous, ripped through my belly. I doubled up on my side, trying in vain to scream through the blood welling from my mouth. I realized there’d be no white light for me. The only thing I saw as I drew my final breath was an inky curtain of black as it descended, darker and more terrifying than the stormiest night.

  Ambush at Railroad Canyon

  1

  Lucy Squires Taggart glared distastefully at her Texas Ranger husband while he dressed.

  “Clay, please tell me you’re not going to wear that shirt,” she pleaded.

  “Why not? What’s wrong with this shirt?” Clay questioned.

  “It’s all faded and worn. The elbows are ready to wear through, and it’s been patched too many times. And those old bloodstains. They’ll never wash out completely,” Lucy explained.

  “What does it matter?” Clay protested as he buttoned the shirt closed and tied a bandanna around his neck. “I’m gonna be on the trail for weeks. In two days it’ll be all dusty and sweat-stained anyway.”

  “I don’t care. You’re not starting out wearing that shirt,” Lucy retorted. She rose from the bed and walked

  over to the bureau, from which she opened a drawer to remove a clean, neatly folded shirt.

  “Here. Wear this one,” she ordered.

  “But I like the one I have on,” Clay objected. “It’s already broken in and comfortable. Besides, the renegades I’ll be after sure won’t care whether I’m wearin’ fancy duds.”

  Lucy slid her hand
inside the shirt Clay had donned and undid the buttons. She slipped the old shirt from his shoulders, then ran her hand gently over his chest and belly. She lifted her lips to his for a long, lingering kiss.

  “For me. Please?” she whispered.

  “All right. Anythin’ for you, darlin’,” Clay grinned. He took the fresh shirt and shrugged into it.

  “Better?”

  “Much better,” Lucy stated. “I’ll make breakfast while you feed Michael and wash up.”

  “You mean Mike,” Clay corrected.

  “I mean Michael,” Lucy insisted. “And don’t try sneaking that ragged old shirt into your saddlebags.”

  “All right.” Clay gave in.

  Clay buckled his gunbelt around his lean hips. Lucy wrapped a robe over the thin nightgown she wore. The gown’s flimsy material and low cut revealed the fullness

  of her bosom, which even the heavier robe could not fully conceal. Clay’s gaze followed her appreciatively as she walked from the room.

  “I’m still takin’ my favorite shirt,” he muttered, tucking the garment behind his gunbelt. He went out the front door and headed for the small barn. Mike, his black and white overo, whinnied a greeting from his corral.

  “Howdy, pardner. You ready to ride, or are you just hungry?” Clay called to his horse. Mike nickered a response, then when his rider ducked under the fence buried his muzzle in Clay’s belly, causing the Ranger to grunt.

  “Reckon you want a peppermint,” Clay chuckled, when Mike nuzzled his hip pocket. “I’ve got one for you right here.”

  He slipped the gelding a candy, then filled his manger with oats and hay, adding fresh water to his bucket.

  “Reckon you’re all set for now,” Clay told his horse, “Soon’s I put on the feedbag myself we’ll be headin’ out.”

  By the time Clay finished caring for Mike and cleaning up, Lucy had breakfast on the table.

  “You’re gonna make me fat, honey,” Clay warned, looking over the ham, bacon, eggs, hotcakes, and biscuits

  piled high on the table, along with a pot of steaming black coffee.

  “I doubt that,” Lucy answered. “I know how little good food you get on the trail, so I’m filling you up now. Whatever’s left over I’ll wrap so you can take it along.”