The Faith and the Rangers

by James J. Griffin

  Husband and wife settled down to their meal, eating mostly in silence.

  “Clay, isn’t there anything else you can tell me about your assignment?” Lucy asked, while they were lingering over last cups of coffee.

  “Not a thing. All I know is I’m heading for the Panhandle. The railroad’s having trouble up there. That’s all Captain Morris told me. I’ll have him get word to you if he’s willing.”

  “That’s all I can ask.” Lucy sighed. “You should be leaving.”

  “Let me help you with the dishes,” Clay offered.

  “I’ll take care of them. You shouldn’t keep the captain waiting,” Lucy answered. “And I have to get busy myself, or I’ll be late for school. I can’t keep the children waiting, or heaven knows what mischief they’ll get into.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” Clay agreed. “Time I got movin’.”

  Lucy packed the leftover breakfast while Clay retrieved his saddlebags, then headed for the corral. He quickly saddled and bridled Mike.

  Lucy soon joined them. She stroked Mike’s nose, speaking softly to the big gelding.

  “Michael, you make sure and bring Clay back safely to me,” she told the pinto. “I’ve planted a big crop of carrots just for you.”

  Mike nickered, and nuzzled Lucy’s cheek.

  “You’re gonna spoil him,” Clay complained.

  “Oh, like you don’t, with all those peppermints,” Lucy shot back.

  “Guess I can’t deny that,” Clay conceded.

  Clay took Lucy into his arms, holding her tightly. Their lips met, and they remained locked in their embrace for several minutes. Finally, Clay pulled away and swung into the saddle.

  “Be careful, Clay,” Lucy asked.

  “I promise you that,” Clay assured her. He leaned from the saddle to give Lucy one more kiss, then heeled Mike into a trot.

  “I know you’ve got that old shirt in your saddlebags, Clay Taggart,” Lucy called after him.

  Clay turned in his saddle, to smile and wave in reply.

  “Michael she calls you,” Clay muttered, patting his overo’s neck. “And you fall for that, horse. Never would’ve guessed a pretty face would turn your head.”

  Mike snorted explosively.

  “I reckon you’re right,” Clay chortled. “I fell for that pretty face too.”

  While he rode along, the Ranger reflected on the changes to his life in the two months since he’d met the pretty schoolmarm down in Uvalde. As she’d told him would happen, they had indeed gotten married. Lucy had come to Austin with him and found another teaching position. And now Clay, who had always been content with a bunk in the Ranger Headquarters barracks, had scraped together enough money for a down payment on that small house and barn in Manchaca, a tiny hamlet on the outskirts of Austin. Lucy’s feminine touch was evident throughout the house, with lace curtains at the windows, gingham covers on the bed, and flowers growing at the front door. Even Clay’s guns and Stetson had been relegated to a corner of the kitchen.

  Clay gave a rueful chuckle.

  “Sun’s already up an hour, Mike. We’d best pick up the pace.”

  He heeled Mike into a long-reaching gallop.

  2

  “Looks like we’re gonna have ridin’ pards this trip, Mike,” Clay observed as he reined up in front of Ranger Headquarters, dismounted, and looped Mike’s reins over the hitchrail. He recognized the two mounts already nosing the rail, Dade French’s steeldust, Spook, and Dusty, Jim Huggins’ long-legged chestnut.

  Clay entered the building and strode down the hallway to Captain Joseph Morris’s office. Huggins and French were already seated. The captain looked up from behind his desk when Clay walked in.

  “See boys, told you when a man gets married you just can’t count on him,” Morris joked.

  “I reckon that means me too, Cap’n,” Jim Huggins laughed. The veteran sergeant was married, with a daughter and son.

  “Don’t forget, you’ve also got a wife, Cap’n,” Clay retorted.

  “Please don’t remind me,” Morris sighed. “Dade here’s the only one of us with sense enough not to get hitched.”

  “Boy howdy, that’s for certain,” Dade agreed. He took a puff on his quirly. “No female’s gonna tie me down.”

  “I wouldn’t bet a hat on it,” Clay chuckled.

  “That’s enough discussion of the marital state,” Morris ordered. “Clay, pour yourself a cup of coffee and pull up a chair.”

  “All right.”

  Clay took a mug from the shelf, lifted the battered coffeepot from the stove in the corner, and poured the mug brimful. He settled into a cane bottom chair.

  Morris opened the manila folder on his desk. He put on a pair of pince-nez spectacles to scan its contents, then leaned back in his chair. He lit his pipe and took a long pull, sending a blue smoke ring toward the ceiling.

  “You boys are headin’ for the lower Panhandle. There’s a heap of trouble brewin’ up there.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Dade asked.

  “Indian trouble, and outlaw trouble. Is there any other kind?” Morris replied.

  “Women trouble,” Dade laughed.

  “You’re not gonna have time to worry about that kind of trouble,” Morris assured him.

  “I’m kinda surprised to hear talk of Indian trouble. The Comanch’ haven’t been a problem for quite some time,” Jim said.

  “Well, from the reports I’ve gotten, they’re raidin’ again,” Morris explained. “However, that’s not your main assignment. The Army’s still supposed to be handling the Comanches. You’ll just try’n round up any you might stumble across.”

  “That leaves the outlaws,” Clay answered.

  “It sure does. You’ll have your hands filled with them,” Morris snapped. He turned and pointed to the wall map behind him.

  “You know folks are startin’ to settle up that way, and counties are bein’ organized. One of those is Scurry County. Its seat is a town called Snyder. However, there’s no law to speak of in that whole region, so the settlers are pretty much at the mercy of any renegades preyin’ on ‘em.”

  “So you want us to round up those renegades and quiet things down,” Jim said.

  “That, and more.”

  Morris traced a line on the map with his finger.

  “There’s a railroad building along this route. Plans are to extend the line into New Mexico, then north to Denver, although I think the backers are bein’ real optimistic believing they’ll ever build all the way to California. I

  figure their road will end up bein’ absorbed by the Texas and Pacific before too long. In the meantime, their trains are bein’ robbed on a regular basis. Their construction crews are also bein’ harassed, by both Comanches and renegade whites. Besides the settlers who’ve lost their lives, several railroaders have been killed. The railroad’s asked for our help. I want you to stop the robberies and those attacks.”

  “Plus any other Indians or desperadoes we might find,” Clay grinned. “Seems simple enough.”

  “These things are never as easy as they appear. You know that, Clay,” Morris chided.

  “I reckon that’s so, Cap’n,” Clay conceded.

  “That’s it? Dade asked.

  “That’s enough, ain’t it?” Morris retorted.

  “I figure it is. Let’s get ridin’,” Jim said. He and the others stood up.

  “Vaya con Dios, men,” Morris said. “Watch your backs.”

  “And our guts,” Dade replied, with a thin smile. “I’m not overly fond of takin’ a bullet, from either front or back.”

  “I mean it. Be careful,” Morris insisted.

  “Count on it,” Clay replied.

  Morris stood at his desk to watch the three men untie their horses, mount, and lope down Congress Avenue. Once they were out of sight, h
e turned back toward his desk. He ran a hand through his graying hair, started for the stove, then changed his mind.

  “I don’t need coffee. I need a drink,” he muttered. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk to pull out a bottle and glass.

  Morris filled the tumbler, downed its contents, and refilled it. His frosty blue-gray eyes took on a troubled expression. He gazed at the tumbler’s amber contents for a moment, then tossed them down.

  “Wish I could be ridin’ with them,” he muttered. “I’ve got a feelin’ they’ll have their hands full. Sure hope they can handle whatever’s thrown their way.”

  3

  The three men riding out of Austin gave no outward sign of being Texas Rangers. Their garb was that of the common drifting cowpoke, faded shirts and jeans, bandannas, leather vests, scuffed boots, and sweat- stained Stetsons. Rangers wore no uniforms, and few wore badges, although Huggins, Taggart, and French carried silver stars on silver circles they’d hand-carved from Mexican ten peso coins in their shirt pockets, out of sight until needed.

  Taggart was tall and lanky, with dark brown hair and eyes. French was slightly shorter than average, with a wiry build and swarthy complexion. With his jet black hair and eyes, he was often mistaken for a Mexican or half-breed Indian. He found that useful for undercover work, playing those roles to perfection. Huggins was the veteran of the trio. He was also tall and lean, his brown hair running to gray at the temples.

  They set a steady pace on their northwestward run. With two hundred and fifty miles to their destination, it would take nearly a week of hard riding before they reached the lower Panhandle.

  One day’s ride out of Roscoe they settled into the best campsite they’d found since leaving Austin, a grassy hollow alongside a small creek. Scattered boulders sheltered the hollow and blocked the steady wind. The tired men cared for their horses, ate a quick supper, then rolled in their blankets.

  “Man, I can hardly wait to reach town so I can sleep in a hotel room and get some good chuck,” Dade commented.

  “Along with a bath and shave,” Clay added.

  “Our horses can use a good grainin’ and rest too,” Huggins noted. “Now let’s get some shut-eye.”

  They were soon sleeping.

  Sometime later, Clay was awakened by a sixth sense warning of danger. The usual stirrings of the night creatures were silent. He quietly slid his Colt from the holster alongside him, then glanced at his partners. Dade and Jim were also awake, staring into the darkness.

  Clay could make out several vague figures slipping through the dark in their direction. Noiselessly they approached, wraithlike. Two were heading for the Rangers’ picketed horses.

  “Comanches!” Clay hissed. He leveled his Colt at one nearing the horses and fired. The Comanche screamed, then collapsed with Clay’s bullet in his side.

  Instantly the other warriors opened fire at the Rangers, some with rifles, the others showering arrows down on the camp. The Rangers returned fire, and three more of their attackers went down.

  Dade grunted when an arrow tore along his ribs. His return shot knocked another Indian off his feet.

  One of the braves climbed a boulder and leapt at Jim, a long-bladed knife in his hand. Jim whirled and fired, his bullet catching the Comanche in the belly while still in mid-air. The Comanche shrieked and crumpled to the dirt, writhing. Jim put a finishing shot into his chest.

  As quickly as they had appeared, the Co manches retreated, fading into the night.

  “You both all right?” Clay called.

  “I’m fine,” Jim answered.

  “Seem to be,” Dade responded. “An arrow scraped my side, but it ain’t much. Reckon they’ll be back?”

  “I doubt it, but we’d better keep a close watch just in case,” Clay stated. “Meantime, let’s check these dead ones.”

  Guns still at the ready, they examined the bodies. Jim whistled in surprise when he rolled the Comanche he’d shot onto his back.

  “This one ain’t a full-blooded Comanch’,” he exclaimed. “Look at his eyes. They’re blue.”

  “Hair’s light for an Indian, too,” Dade added. “Looks like we might have some white men runnin’ with these renegades.”

  “Else he’s a half-breed, or a white who was captured as a boy and’s been livin’ with the Comanches,” Clay noted. “Kinda like Quanah Parker, one of their great chiefs. His father was an Indian, but his mother was a captured white woman.”

  “You’re right,” Jim agreed. “At least we don’t have to worry about these botherin’ anyone else.”

  “What’re we gonna do with ‘em?” Dade questioned.

  Clay looked at the gray of the false dawn streaking the eastern horizon.

  “It’s not that long to sunup,” he observed. “We’ll just leave ‘em here. Their compadres’ll come back for them, since Indians don’t like leavin’ their dead behind.”

  “Makes sense,” Jim agreed. “However, in case those others have revenge on their minds, I suggest we ride out right now, before they come back with reinforcements.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Clay admitted.

  Moments later, their horses were saddled and the Rangers were back on the trail.

  4

  It was early the next evening when they reached Roscoe. For a Wednesday night, the town was surprisingly busy. The road was filled with men and women, the boardwalks packed shoulder to shoulder. Men jostled each other as they forced their way through the crowd.

  One drunken railroader stumbled into Mike. Clay’s normally placid pinto pinned back his ears and bit the man’s shoulder, ripping away a chunk of flesh.

  “Hey, you! Your horse.” The railroader started to challenge Mike’s rider, but wilted under Clay’s steady gaze. Muttering under his breath, he turned, and melted back into the crowd.

  “This town’s sure a rip-roarin’ place,” Dade observed. “Wonder why?”

  “Dunno, but we’ll find out. There’s the marshal’s office.”

  Jim pointed to a makeshift office and jail, a block away.

  They rode up to the building, dismounted, and looped their horses’ reins over the rail. They stepped inside to find a young, harried-looking deputy.

  “Don’t tell me you three have a complaint,” he muttered when they stepped through the door.

  “Nope. We’re Texas Rangers,” Jim replied. “Sergeant Jim Huggins, Rangers Clay Taggart and Dade French.”

  “Rangers! I’m sure glad to see you,” the deputy exclaimed. “I’m Pete Townsend. I’ve got my hands full, as you probably guessed, from that mob outside.”

  “Seems a mite rowdy out there all right,” Clay noted. “What’s the big ruckus about?”

  “The railroad’s finally got the trackbed finished from here to Snyder, so they’ve given all their workers the day off tomorrow to celebrate, and a bonus besides. Then they start layin’ rails the day after.”

  “Looks like they’ve started celebratin’ a bit early,” Dade chuckled.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Townsend replied. “That’s why I’m glad for your help. You sure got here at the right time.”

  “Well, I hate to disappoint you, deputy,” Jim answered, “but we’re only stoppin’ here for the night, then headin’ toward Snyder in the morning. We’ll do what we can while we’re in town, but we’re after the

  renegades doin’ the killin’ and stealin’ in these parts, not drunken railroaders.”

  “That’s not the news I wanted to hear,” Townsend complained. “Mebbe you can at least help me keep a lid on this town tonight.”

  “We’ll be glad to,” Jim answered. “Soon as we get our broncs settled in and some grub in our bellies.”

  “All right,” Townsend agreed. “Livery stable’s two blocks down on the left. Tell ol’ Zeke there I said the town’ll pay for puttin’ up your horses. Far as chu
ck, head for the Kansas Café. It’s across from the livery. Best steaks within a hundred miles. The hotel’s right across the street. I’ll make sure they hold a room. You gonna want some drinks?”

  “We could be talked into a few,” Dade grinned.

  “Then once you’re done with supper, head for the Gilded Lily, another block past the stable. I’ll meet you there in say, two hours.”

  “That’ll be enough time for us to finish,” Clay answered. “See you then, deputy.”

  ^^^^^^^^^^^^^

  The Rangers had finished their suppers and were in the Gilded Lily Saloon, nursing beers, when Townsend entered the barroom, accompanied by another man. They headed straight for the Rangers’ table.

  “Rangers, got a gentleman here who’s been waitin’ for you to show up,” Townsend announced. “Jasper Wheeler, chief construction superintendent of the Roscoe, Snyder, and Pacific railroad. He just got back on the supply train. Mr. Wheeler, Rangers Huggins, Taggart, and French.”

  “That’s Jim, Clay, and Dade,” Huggins replied. “We’re glad to meet you. Please, sit down and join us.”

  “The same. And make it Jasper,” the railroader responded. “Pete knows that. I don’t know why he’s being so formal.”

  He took the chair alongside Taggart.

  “First time introduction,” the deputy shrugged. “Jasper’s got a proposition which might solve both our problems.”

  “What do you mean?” Clay asked.

  “I’ll get to that in a minute,” Wheeler answered before the deputy could respond. “First, I need a drink. How about refills for you Rangers? And Pete?”

  “I could stand a beer,” Townsend nodded.

  “Another one’d go down good,” Jim agreed.

  “One more for me, too,” Clay added.

  “Another shot of rye here,” Dade concluded.

  “Fine.” Wheeler signaled to the bartender, and placed the order. Once their drinks had been brought, he lit a

  cigar, leaned back in his chair, and explained Townsend’s statement.