The Faith and the Rangers

by James J. Griffin

  Jim and Clay never did get the opportunity to confront the stage driver about his reckless conduct. When the coach’s team stopped just short of crashing into the train, the shotgun guard, infuriated at the driver’s risking the lives of everyone on board, had grabbed the reins from the driver’s hands and sent him flying from the seat with an oath and a well-placed kick to his rump, along with a stern warning never to show his face in town. The guard then completed the run to Snyder.

  Not knowing when or where the renegades might strike next, the Rangers decided on a random pattern of accompanying the track crews, alternating with patrolling the area.

  “What about your partner?” Wheeler asked, as Clay and Jim prepared to depart Snyder.

  “Don’t worry about Dade,” Clay assured him. “He’ll find us when he needs to.”

  “All right. Good luck. And be careful,” Wheeler urged.

  “We will. See you in a few days,” Jim answered.

  6

  Two days after leaving town, they came across the hoof prints of several horses, both shod and unshod.

  “What d’ya think, Clay?” Jim asked.

  Clay dismounted and studied the tracks.

  “I’d say we’ve either got a bunch of renegades, Indian and white, or else some Comanches who’ve been raidin’ and stealin’ horses,” he answered. “Either way it means trouble.”

  “Looks to me like they’re not all that far ahead of us,” Jim observed. “Let’s see if we can catch up to ‘em.”

  Clay climbed back into his saddle. They pushed their horses into a hard gallop.

  Two miles later, they topped a rise to see their quarry surrounding a small ranch. They were keeping up a steady volley of gunshots. Several men lay dead in the yard, while from the house others were returning the raiders’ gunfire.

  “Let’s even up the odds a bit,” Jim said.

  “All right,” Clay agreed.

  They pulled the Winchesters from their scabbards and urged their horses down the hill at a dead run. Halfway down the slope, they pulled in the horses and opened fire, raking the raiders with a hail of lead. Three of them were knocked from their saddles, with Ranger slugs in their backs. Others turned to meet the unexpected threat, only to fall with bullets in their chests.

  Another rider burst from the scrub, adding his own accurate shooting to that of the Rangers. He put a bullet through the belly of a renegade who had drawn a bead on Clay’s stomach, just as he pulled the trigger. His aim spoiled by the slug’s impact, the outlaw’s shot went wide as he slumped over his horse’s neck, then tumbled to the dirt.

  Completely rattled by the unexpected attack from behind, the remaining outlaws whirled their horses and ran. Two of the survivors returned the Rangers’ fire, only to be cut down. The rest disappeared into the thick brush.

  “Leave ‘em go,” Jim ordered. “They could pick us off one by one real easy in those thickets. Let’s check on the folks inside.”

  Their unexpected ally reined up alongside them.

  “Bet you’re surprised to see me,” Dade French grinned.

  “You might say that,” Jim drawled. “Where the devil did you come from?”

  “And where in blue blazes did you get that outfit you’re wearin’?” Clay demanded. “You’re dang lucky one of us didn’t plug you.”

  Their Ranger partner was clad in buckskin leggings and moccasins, his upper torso only half-covered by a open leather vest. A battered U.S. Army campaign hat was perched on his head, while he carried a bow and quiver slung over one shoulder.

  “We’d better explain ourselves to these ranchers first,” Jim ordered. “They’ll still be a mite jumpy.”

  With the shooting stopped and the raiders fled, several men had emerged from the house. They had their guns trained on the threesome.

  “Appreciate the help, but would you hombres mind statin’ your business,” one of them called.

  “We’re Texas Rangers,” Clay answered. “Came across the tracks of those renegades and followed ‘em. Seems like we caught up to ‘em in the nick of time.”

  “I reckon you did,” the rancher replied. “ You fellas saved out bacon, that’s for certain. You’re on the Triangle H. I’m Bob Harte. These are my boys, Beau and Brent. My wife Ellie and daughter Sally are inside.”

  “Sergeant Jim Huggins, Rangers Clay Taggart and Dade French,” Jim responded.

  “Glad you came along. But Mister, you sure don’t look like any Ranger I’ve ever seen,” Harte challenged Dade.

  “I’ll explain as soon as we take care of things here,” Dade answered.

  “Once the wounded are inside and treated, we’ll help you bury the dead,” Jim added.

  Clay dismounted. He walked up to one of the dead raiders and rolled the body onto its back.

  “Looks like we’ve got another mixed bunch. This jasper’s white,” he noted.

  “I figured as much,” Jim replied. “Let’s get to work.”

  “All right. Lemme introduce you to the rest of my men,” Harte replied. “You can put your broncs into that second corral.”

  Mike, Dusty, and Spook were unsaddled and turned into the enclosure.

  The introductions were completed, the wounded taken into the house and cared for. The dead cowboys from the Triangle H were buried in carefully dug graves, the dead outlaws dumped into a common pit, but prayers spoken over all. Once that was done, the Rangers and the crew from the Triangle H washed up. Dade changed back into his normal trail garb. Everyone headed inside for supper.

  Mrs. Harte and her daughter had set a table overflowing with beefsteaks, potatoes, vegetables, bread, butter, and plenty of hot coffee. They refused to allow any discussion until everyone had eaten their fill.

  After the meal, they settled in the parlor with cups of coffee, most of the men smoking.

  “All right, Dade. You’ve stalled long enough. Explain those Indian duds,” Jim demanded.

  “Sure,” Dade agreed. “I was sleepin’ a couple nights back when a big Comanche warrior jumped me. He nearly got my scalp, but I managed to stick my knife between his ribs. I was gettin’ ready to roll his body into a ravine when I decided I should dress in his clothes, since they make me look even more like a half-breed. Figured I might have a better chance of stumblin’ across some of the hombres we’re after ridin’ around like a part Indian, part white man. I stripped out of my clothes, stuck ‘em in my saddlebags, and put on that Indian’s outfit.”

  “How’d you find us?” Clay asked.

  “Pure dumb luck,” Dade explained. “I happened upon the tracks of those renegades’ horses, same ones you were following. It was just fortunate timing we all turned up in the same place at the same time.”

  “We’d better explain things to the Hartes,” Clay said.

  “We are a mite puzzled,” Bob admitted.

  “We’ve been assigned to track down the hombres attacking the railroad’s crews building the line to Snyder,” Clay explained. “Also, to take care of any other renegades we chance to find.”

  “I decided to have Dade work incognito, since he can pass as a half-breed or Mexican real easy,” Jim took up the narrative. “He’s done that many times. We split up, and Dade’s been poking around on his own. As he said, it was coincidence we all arrived here at just about the same time.”

  “A very fortunate coincidence,” Sally Harte added. She was gazing unabashedly at the darkly handsome French.

  “You really look much better in your regular clothes, sir,” she said.

  “Why, thank you, ma’am, but my name’s Dade, not sir.”

  Sally blushed.

  “Bob, would any of you have an idea who might be tryin’ to stop the railroad, or why?” Jim asked the rancher.

  “Not a clue,” Harte admitted.

  “Everyone’s real pleased at the idea of the line goin’ through
,” Brent added.

  “My brother’s right,” Beau concurred. “It’ll make shippin’ our cattle a lot easier, only havin’ to drive ‘em to a railhead in Snyder, plus getting supplies should be faster and easier.”

  “We’ll also be able to travel without having to depend on the stage line,” Ellie added.

  “Everyone around here feels that way?” Clay asked.

  “Everyone we know,” Bob confirmed.

  “Well, someone’s sure tryin’ to shut down the railroad,” Dade answered. “All we have to do is figure out who.”

  “You can’t do much about that tonight,” Bob replied, “So why don’t you Rangers bunk here until mornin’?”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Jim agreed. “We’ll just spread our blankets out in the bunkhouse, if that’s agreeable.”

  “It sure is,” Bob said. “You’ll get a good night’s sleep, and a good breakfast before you ride out.”

  Clay yawned and stretched.

  “Speakin’ of sleep, I’m ready for some.”

  “I reckon we all are. Let’s call it a night,” Jim answered.

  7

  The next couple of weeks were uneventful, at least as far as the Rangers were concerned. With no incidents, the railroad’s tracks pushed steadily northwestward. Dade continued his solitary undercover surveillance, occasionally bringing in a renegade he’d found and arrested. Clay and Jim also made several arrests during their patrols.

  Clay and Jim were eating supper with most of the track crew when Jasper Wheeler entered the mess tent. The construction superintendent filled a plate with buffalo steak, potatoes, and beans. He added a cup of coffee, placed that on a tray along with his meal, and sat alongside the Rangers.

  “I appreciate the fine job you Rangers have been doin’,” he remarked. “Things sure have quieted down.”

  “You haven’t finished the line yet,” Clay pointed out.

  “That’s true, but we are nearing the finish,” Wheeler answered. “By the way, where’s your partner? I haven’t seen him around.”

  “Dade? Don’t worry about him. He’s out there somewhere, keepin’ his eyes peeled,” Jim replied. “He’ll show up when we need him.”

  “Good. With your help holding off any more attacks, we’ve been layin’ track real fast. We’re even a bit ahead of schedule,” Wheeler said. “I just hope the weather holds out, because in a few days we’ve got a big chore ahead of us.”

  “What do you mean?” Clay asked.

  “We’ll be pushin’ through a long canyon. We’ve already completed a lot of leveling of the terrain in there, and we’re finally done. We’ll start placin’ the tracks inside that canyon shortly.”

  “A canyon? How wide? How high are the sides?” Jim asked.

  “It’s not very wide at all,” Wheeler answered. “There’s enough room for two sets of tracks, although right now we’ll only be laying one. There’s anywhere from ten to fifty feet to spare on either side. I’d say the walls range from eighty to two hundred feet above the railbed.”

  “Which makes it a perfect spot for an ambush,” Huggins observed.

  “Or to blow up the walls and block the rails entirely,” Clay added.

  “Dang! I never thought of that!” Wheeler exclaimed. “You’re both absolutely right.”

  “I figure we’d best ride out first thing tomorrow, and check that canyon out,” Clay said.

  “We’ll have to contact Dade, too,” Jim added. “Jasper, how far ahead is this place?”

  “About seven miles.”

  “Good. We’ll head there at first light.”

  “What should we do?” Wheeler asked.

  “Just keep on workin’,” Clay told him, “And keep a sharp watch.”

  “You can count on that,” Wheeler assured him.

  ^^^^^^^^^^^^^

  By the time the sun was just clearing the eastern horizon the next morning, Clay and Jim were already in the saddle. They took their time, letting the horses set their own pace while their riders studied the surrounding landscape. A bit more than two hours later, they entered the rocky defile. Even though they weren’t expecting any trouble, at least not yet, their skin crawled and the napes of their necks prickled, the hair standing on end when they rode into the canyon’s shadowed mouth. The beetling cliffs seemed to close in on them. Even their normally unflappable horses were uneasy, prancing and snorting their displeasure. When their riders reined them in, Mike and Dusty kept up their fidgeting.

  “This sure is the perfect spot for an ambush, Jim,” Clay noted. “A few men up on those cliffs could pick off just about the entire crew.”

  “Worse. A few sticks of well-placed dynamite could bring the entire shebang crashing down,” Jim answered.

  “Let’s find a way to the top and take a look around up there,” Clay suggested.

  “That’s a good idea,” Jim agreed. They put their horses into a walk, while they searched for a trail which would lead them out of the canyon.

  Three-quarters of a mile later, they found the spot they were seeking.

  “What d’ya think, Jim?”

  “It looks like it could be a trail, but not much of one. Let’s give it a try.”

  Jim urged a reluctant Dusty onto the narrow path. Clay and Mike followed closely behind.

  The trail hugged the base of the cliff for some distance, then began a steep climb. In some spots the horses had to struggle to keep their footing on loose shale. In several places, the trail doubled back on itself, switchbacking along the rock face. By the time the Rangers were halfway up the cliff, the trail was barely wide enough for their horses to plant all four feet.

  “You reckon we made a mistake?” Clay asked, while they gave their horses a short breather.

  “Dunno, but I know one thing for certain, there’s no turnin’ back,” Jim replied. “Only way to go is up.”

  And up they did go, for another hour, before the trail finally emerged onto a level shelf. A short distance later, they stopped on a flat tableland.

  “I don’t mind tellin’ you, I never figured we’d get outta that spot in one piece,” Clay said.

  “Me neither,” Jim agreed. “I thought sure we’d be lyin’ in a million little pieces at the bottom of that slope. Let’s rest a spell before we poke around up here.”

  Jim and Clay rode over to a small clump of redberry junipers. Jim headed Dusty toward one of the trees to tie him, then unsaddle. As he swung off the horse, an arrow whistled past and buried itself in a juniper’s trunk, just above his head. Jim grabbed his Winchester from its scabbard and dove to his belly. Close behind him, Clay did the same, diving behind a cluster of low rocks. Both men scanned the terrain, searching for the Indian who’d shot that arrow.

  Raucous laughter came from behind a fallen cottonwood log.

  “Boy howdy, if I were a real Comanche or Kiowa you two hombres would have my arrows in your guts, and

  I’d be scalpin’ you right about now. You’re gettin’ mighty careless.”

  Dade French appeared from behind the log, bow in hand. He was still clad in the moccasins, leggings, vest, and cavalry hat he’d taken off the Comanche he’d killed.

  “French, you no good…,” Clay began. “Where’d you come from?”

  “Over yonder.” Dade waved toward the horizon. “Been doin’ some scoutin’. How about you two?”

  “Checkin’ out this canyon for ambush sites. The railroad’s gonna be pushin’ through here in a few days,” Jim answered. “We figure whoever’s tryin’ to stop the line will hit it somewhere around this spot.”

  Dade pulled his arrow from the juniper trunk.

  “You’re figurin’ right,” he answered. “I’ve been trailin’ a bunch of men for the last few days. They been following the track-layin’ crews. Day before yesterday, they met up with some others. They’re holed up five or six m
iles east of here. They sure look like they’re up to no good. And you’ll never guess who’s with ‘em.”

  “Who?” Clay asked.

  “The stagecoach driver who nearly ran his rig into the train,” Dade answered. “That’s not all. Dale Montague, the owner of the stage line, is also with them. It looks like Montague’s the one behind all this trouble.”

  “Which makes sense,” Jim replied. “Once the railroad goes through the stage line’ll be out of business. Wheeler told me he offered Montague a manager’s job, but that Montague turned him down flat. I guess he doesn’t realize there’s no way he’ll ever stop progress. Sooner or later a railroad’s bound to be built through here. If not this one, then another.”

  “We’d better stop him,” Dade said.

  “That’s not as easy as it sounds,” Clay replied. “We’ve got no proof against Montague, or anyone else, for that matter.”

  “So what’s our next step?”

  “We’re gonna have to let ‘em pull off their drygulchin’, Dade,” Jim answered, “and be ready for ‘em when they do.”

  “Then we’ve got to make plans, right quick,” Dade said.

  Clay glanced up at the sun.

  “It’s just about noon,” he said. “Why don’t we have some chuck? We can work on what needs doin’ while we chow down.”

  “That sounds good,” Jim answered.

  8

  “I still don’t like the way we’ve gotta handle this, not one bit,” Jasper Wheeler protested. Three mornings later, he, Clay, and Jim were in the superintendent’s private car, which was coupled to the end of a string of flat cars holding rails and ties. The locomotive pulling the work train was edging slowly into the canyon, while the track crew laid rail as quickly as possible.

  “We’re not exactly thrilled with bein’ sittin’ ducks either, Jasper, but we’ve got no choice,” Clay answered.

  “Clay’s right,” Jim concurred. “As we told you, those hombres have been watchin’ us all along. They’re pretty clever to be able to do that without me or Clay spottin’ ‘em. If they’re that smart, they’d know for certain something was up if they didn’t see us with the crews, or if a whole bunch of your men suddenly turned up missin’. We’ve got to lure ‘em into a trap. With Dade and Pat Doyle comin’ up from behind them when they make their move, that should be enough of a surprise to rattle ‘em good. We’ll make out all right.”