The Faith and the Rangers

by James J. Griffin

  “I hope you’re assessment is accurate, Sergeant,” Wheeler retorted. “Because if it’s not, I’ll be filing a complaint with Austin.”

  “If it’s not, we’ll most likely be dead,” Jim replied, with a rueful chuckle. “In that case, your complaint to Headquarters would be the least of my worries.”

  “We’d better get ready, Jim,” Clay said.

  “I reckon you’re right,” Jim agreed. “Jasper, by the end of the day you’ll either have your tracks through this canyon, or they’ll be buried under tons of rock.”

  “That’s real encouraging,” Wheeler answered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Clay and Jim headed outside. They retrieved their horses from the care of a trackman, mounted, and began patrolling the right of way. For two hours, nothing happened… until a crackle of rifle fire marked the beginning of the ambush. Three trackman and a gandy dancer fell dead under the first volley of lead.

  “Let ‘em have it!” Clay shouted. He and Jim unshipped their rifles, and rode with reckless abandon straight for the cliff face. At the same time, a score of railroaders rose from where they’d lain hidden behind the rails on the flatcars, and returned the drygulchers’ fire. From Wheeler’s car, the sharp crack of a Winchester carbine indicated the superintendent had joined the fray.

  Under the cover of the railroaders’ fire, which was far more volume than accuracy, the two Rangers drew closer to the cliff base. They dove from their horses into the jumbled rocks at the bottom of the talus. From there, they could still see and fire back at the bushwhackers above, from the relative safety of the jagged boulders.

  “Looks like the trackmen managed to pick off a few of ‘em,” Clay shouted, seeing several bodies sprawled on ledges overhead.

  “Yeah, but that was pure luck,” Jim shouted back. “I’ll take it, though.”

  He levered his rifle and fired at a figure above. His bullet tore through a gunman’s belly. The man screamed in terror as he grabbed his middle and jackknifed over the cliff. He landed five feet from Clay.

  “Jim, I sure don’t want to get squashed by one of those hombres you drop,” Clay chuckled. He ducked when a bullet drove chips from the rocks just in front of him.

  “If you don’t keep your head down you won’t have to worry about that. A slug’ll take care of you,” Jim retorted. He fired again, and another raider died with Ranger lead in his chest.

  “We’d better hope Dade and Pat Doyle get their job done, or neither one of us is liable to get out of this fix,” Clay shot back. He shot, and another raider tumbled over the rim of the canyon, with Clay’s bullet in his stomach.

  For what seemed an eternity, but in reality was less than thirty minutes, the battle raged. With both the Rangers and railroaders, and the outlaws, in good cover, it was difficult for either side to gain an advantage. After the first casualties, men were more cautious about coming from behind their shelter and exposing themselves to sudden lead death. While Clay, Jim, and the railroad men kept the raiders busy, Dade and Pat Doyle had their own hands full. They had come in behind the drygulchers, catching them by surprise. Several of their targets were dead or wounded, with the rest dug in atop the cliff.

  “Whatever we do, Pat, we can’t let anyone else get back to that plunger box!” Dade ordered. The outlaw band led by Dale Montague had rigged the cliff with dynamite. They had then lain in wait until the train entered the canyon, intending to explode the ledge and send tons of rocks cascading onto the tracks and men below. Only Dade’s and Doyle’s timely appearance had kept their plan from succeeding. Their first shots had knocked two men away from the plunger.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Doyle called back. He aimed at a man drawing a bead on one of the fighters below and fired. His bullet struck the outlaw in the neck, breaking it and killing him instantly.

  “Got him!” Doyle shouted triumphantly. He shot again, this time putting a slug into the back of a crouching renegade. The man arched in agony, half-rose, then toppled onto his side.

  “Nice shootin’ for a railroad man, Pat!” Dade praised. “Lemme see if I can do as good.”

  Dade fired three times, and three men went down. A fourth outlaw turned to face the disguised Ranger. Dade jacked the lever of his rifle, which jammed. The outlaw shot, his bullet clipping Dade’s right leg. Dade went down to one knee, threw his useless rifle aside, pulled the bow off his shoulder and an arrow from the quiver he still carried. He notched the arrow to the bow, aimed, and shot. The arrow drove deep into the outlaw’s belly. He screamed, jackknifed, and staggered blindly over the canyon’s rim.

  “You win, Dade,” Doyle conceded.

  Slowly the tide turned, the outnumbered Rangers and railroaders more than making up for their lack of manpower with superior shooting. Suddenly, one of the men atop the rim dashed for the plunger box. Dade sent several rounds at the zigzagging figure. One of them clipped the top of the man’s shoulder. He stumbled from the impact, fell and rolled, then came back to his feet. Before Dade could shoot again, the man was at the plunger’s controls.

  “That’s Dale Montague!” Doyle hissed.

  Dade rose to his knees from behind his cover.

  “Montague! This is the Texas Rangers. Don’t touch that handle. I’ve got my rifle aimed plumb at your belly!”

  “You pull that trigger, Ranger, and I’ll blow all your friends to Kingdom Come!” Montague screamed.

  “I’m tellin’ you, don’t do it!” Dade repeated his warning.

  Montague ignored Dade, and grabbed the plunger’s handle. When he did, Dade shot him through the belly. Montague doubled up and slumped over the box, pushing down the handle to complete the circuit. Dade and Doyle ducked behind their rock shelter as a goodly chunk of earth and ledge went up in a tremendous explosion, shards of rock raining everywhere.

  The thunderous explosion was followed by a silence almost as deafening. Dade and Doyle rose from their cover, shaking rock dust from their clothing. Where Montague had stood there was now a giant crater. Besides the stage line owner, several of his men had been blasted to oblivion. Others lay dead or wounded, while a few stunned survivors were struggling to their feet.

  “Well, you warned Montague not to touch that plunger, Dade,” Doyle said, dryly.

  “He should’ve listened,” Dade replied. “Let’s round up these hombres, then check on Jim and Clay.”

  Once they had rounded up and secured the few surviving outlaws, Dade and Doyle scrambled down the cliff to the canyon floor. They found Jim, Clay, and the rest of the railroad crew awaiting them. Two more of the railroaders had been killed, and several others wounded.

  Clay sported a bandage across his forehead, where he’d been grazed by an outlaw’s slug.

  “You boys all right?” Jim called, when he spotted Dade and Doyle.

  “Yeah, Sarge. We’re fine. I’ve got a nick in my leg, but that’s nothin’,” Dade responded. “How about you?”

  “Clay stuck his head in front of a bullet,” Jim answered. “Luckily the slug hit him in his thick skull, so there was no damage.”

  “Thanks a lot, Jim,” Clay muttered.

  “I still don’t understand what happened,” Jasper Wheeler puzzled, looking at the smoke and dust still curling from the cliff top.

  “It’s pretty simple, really,” Clay explained. “Dade did a little night work. He moved the dynamite when no one was lookin’. Lucky for us Montague and his men didn’t expect anyone would find their little surprise. They were so confident they weren’t being watched they didn’t bother to guard the explosives after they planted them. Instead, they backed off and waited until the tracks got close. Pretty stupid on their parts, and pretty fortunate for us.”

  “I’d say more than ‘pretty’ fortunate,” Wheeler answered. “But why didn’t you let me know?”

  “We had to make sure of absolute secrecy,” Jim replied. “Even though we kn
ew you could be trusted,

  you never know who might overhear something. Then someone gets drunk in a saloon in town, lets something slip, and the next thing you know our plan gets shot to pieces… not to mention our hides.”

  “You mean to tell me no one bothered Dade?”

  “That’s one reason I kept wearin’ this outfit,” Dade answered. He was still clad in the same moccasins, leggings, open vest, and tattered cavalry hat. “I figured no one’s gonna bother a crazy half-breed who’s wanderin’ around. I even visited with a couple of Montague’s men, and talked ‘em out of a bottle of whiskey. They never suspected a thing.”

  “Well, now it is high time you got shut of those filthy duds,” Jim ordered.

  “Soon as we take care of the details,” Dade grinned.

  “We’re certainly grateful for the Rangers’ help. You’ve saved us a lot of time, trouble, and money. not to mention lives,” Wheeler said. “What are your plans once you’re finished here?”

  “We’ll stick with you another week or so, just to make sure there’s no further trouble,” Jim answered. “Then we’ll head for home.”

  “Fine. Well, I guess once the dead are buried and the injured cared for, we won’t do any further work today,” Wheeler decided. “Whenever you’re ready, you men are welcome to bunk in my car. There’s plenty of room.”

  “We’ll take you up on that, just as soon as we wrap things up,” Jim accepted.

  The wounded were tended to, the prisoners locked in a cattle car, with two railroaders assigned to guard them. While the railroad men rounded up the outlaws’ horses and buried the dead, the exhausted Rangers slept. They would sleep the clock around.

  Partners

  1

  “Looks like those hombres headed right into the canyon, T. That shoe with the piece chipped out of it shows plain enough,” Texas Ranger Jack Blanchard told his buckskin paint gelding. Blanchard had dismounted and was examining the hoof prints left by the horses of the men he’d been following the past three weeks.

  Blanchard glanced at the lowering sun as he swung back into the saddle.

  “We’d better get movin’, or else those renegades are liable to slip away under the cover of dark,” he muttered. Blanchard pushed the paint into a trot.

  The canyon into which Blanchard had tracked the men held a clear stream running down its center, a stream which emptied into the Red River, not far to the north. The Ranger knew he had to find his quarry before they

  reached the Red and swam their horses to safety in the Indian Territories, out of reach of Texas law.

  Blanchard’s deep blue eyes scanned the canyon from side to side, his gaze missing nothing as he attempted to spot the six men he was after, before they were able to put an ambush bullet in his back.

  When a flock of crows, squawking in protest, suddenly rose from a thicket halfway up the canyon wall Blanchard instantly rolled from his saddle. He grabbed his Winchester as he dove from his horse and slid on his belly into a patch of scrub and mesquite. Rifle slugs tore through the brush over his head.

  Blanchard rose to one knee, aimed, and fired just below a puff of powdersmoke. He heard a scream of pain and saw a man half-rise from his hiding place, then tumble to the canyon floor.

  Blanchard aimed and fired again, then was slammed back against the rock wall behind him by a bullet plowing high into his chest. While the Ranger hung there, paralyzed with pain, a second slug tore into his belly. Blanchard clawed at his bullet-torn gut and began to jackknife. Yet another bullet took him in the chest, knocking him into the rocks a second time. Blanchard slid halfway to the dirt, then toppled onto his side.

  2

  Jack Blanchard’s eyes slowly opened, his vision blurry as he stared up at a rough, unfamiliar surface. As he became more aware of his surroundings, he sniffed at the familiar scent of wood smoke, which was mixed with several other odors he could not identify. He sensed, rather than felt, a heavy pressure across his chest and belly, accompanied by a dull ache, far different from the sharp, incapacitating pain he had endured when those bullets tore into him. When his vision cleared somewhat, he realized he was gazing at the cracked rock roof of a cavern.

  Blanchard moaned and stirred slightly. Instantly a man’s face appeared above the gravely wounded Ranger, the sharp-featured visage of a young Comanche warrior.

  “You are awake,” the Comanche noted in presentable English. “That is good.”

  “Who… who are you?” Blanchard stammered. “Where am I?”

  “I am Blue Hawk,” the brave replied, “You are in a cave, not far from the place I discovered you, badly wounded.”

  The Comanche pulled back the blanket covering Blanchard to reveal the Ranger’s upper torso. An evil- looking mixture of herbs and roots covered Blanchard’s chest, and another was plastered over his belly.

  “I must change these poultices,” Blue Hawk explained. “This will hurt.”

  Blanchard grimaced and yelped when Blue Hawk removed the dressings from his body, the dried poultices pulling away bits of flesh and dried blood.

  “Your wounds are healing well,” the Comanche stated with satisfaction.

  “Dunno… dunno how. I’ve been gut-shot,” Blanchard objected. “You’re wastin’ your time, Indian. A man can’t survive takin’ a bullet in his belly, I’ve always been told. And I’ve never met one who has.”

  “That is true, in most cases,” Blue Hawk agreed. “However, a belly wound can be survived, especially if treated with Comanche medicines. White men aren’t as wise as they think when it comes to doctoring.”

  “But…”

  “Stay quiet. You need more rest,” Blue Hawk urged. He removed a fresh batch of the herbs and roots from a pot simmering on the fire. He pressed the steaming concoction into the bullet holes in Blanchard’s chest and belly.

  That done, Blue Hawk filled a pottery mug with a foul-smelling brew.

  “Now you’ll drink this,” he ordered.

  “That smells awful,” Blanchard protested, when the Comanche held the mug to his lips.

  “It tastes even worse,” Blue Hawk assured him. “But it will help you sleep some more, and also help you regain your strength.”

  “All right,” Blanchard conceded. He took a long swallow of the brew. Almost immediately his eyelids grew heavy and his head fell back.

  “That’s right, Ranger,” Blue Hawk whispered. “Sleep is what you need.”

  ^^^^^^^^^^^^^

  When Blanchard next awakened, the pain was almost completely gone. While he still felt tired, he also felt much stronger. The poultices had been removed from his chest and belly, his wounds now merely covered by some light bandages.

  Blue Hawk immediately sensed the Ranger had awakened.

  “How do you feel?” he asked, as he placed a hand on Blanchard’s forehead. “Your fever is gone.”

  “I feel much better,” Blanchard admitted. “I am kinda hungry, though.”

  “I told you those medicines would help you recover, Ranger,” Blue Hawk answered. “I’ll have some stew dished out for you in a minute.”

  “How’d you know I’m a Texas Ranger?” Blanchard demanded.

  “I found your badge in your shirt pocket, when I removed the shirt to treat your wounds,” Blue Hawk explained. “But while you know my name, I do not know yours,” he added.

  Still covered by a blanket from the waist down, Blanchard shifted to a half-seated position, leaning his back against the cavern wall, his legs stretched out in front of him.

  “It’s Jack. Jack Blanchard.”

  “Well, eat this, Jack Blanchard,” the Comanche ordered. He handed the Ranger a tin plate full of steaming venison stew, along with a mugful of an herbal brew.

  While Blanchard eagerly devoured his first meal since being shot, he gazed curiously at the Indian.

  “How long have I been here?” he
asked.

  “Sixteen days.”

  “And you stuck with me all that time?”

  “I did,” Blue Hawk confirmed.

  “That just doesn’t figure,” Blanchard protested. He swallowed another mouthful of stew, then continued.

  “Why didn’t you just let me die, or finish what those renegades started and kill me? You could’ve finished me off with no trouble.”

  Blanchard was well aware of the animosity which existed between the Texas Rangers and most Indian tribes. He himself had killed his share of Comanches and Kiowas during his Ranger career, and had seen many of his Ranger comrades succumb to Indian arrows or bullets.

  “There is only one reason,” Blue Hawk explained. “I left the Territory reservation to find the white men who attacked my village and killed my wife, son, and two daughters. I followed their trail into Texas.”

  “What’s that got to do with not killin’ me?” Blanchard persisted when Blue Hawk paused.

  “I was getting close to those men. I could feel it,” the Comanche continued, “Then just before the sun set sixteen days ago, I heard gunfire in this very canyon. Before I reached the spot from where it came, the firing had faded away, and there were no men left in the canyon, except two. One was already dead. The other, who was badly wounded, carried a Ranger star in his shirt pocket. The dead man I knew was one of the men who attacked my village. Since it was clear you had killed him before

  you were shot, I realized the Great Spirit wanted me to care for you, until you recovered or were taken by Him. And that if you survived, you and I were fated to hunt down those men together.”