Once a Ranger

by Dusty Richards

  She nodded her head. “Be careful. I’ll be fine.”

  He went to the tent and dressed. He strapped on his gun belt and holstered his six-gun and, with his hat on, he went outside to put a saddle on the big horse that rancher Ervin Ralston had brought up for him to ride.

  “Your wife’ll be fine,” Ralston said to him. “My teenage boys will take her home. That place is north and it will take a few hours for us to get up there.”

  “You know them?” Guthrey asked, trying to think who the victims were. He didn’t recall meeting them.

  “I’ve been there before,” the man said.

  “What did they do?”

  “George worked for people, did odd jobs. They were pretty poor, and folks around there fed them for him doing some work when they were out of money. That’s being too poor to move on, but they never hurt anyone. It could be Apaches done it.”

  “Before we get everyone in a lynching mood, let’s not share any ideas like that. I’m not holding up for them, but so far as we know, they’ve only stolen horses going back and forth to Mexico. There were some killings a few years ago south of this county, and the Apaches were blamed. But I don’t want an uncalled-for war started.”

  “I savvy and you’re right. We’re all too vulnerable to attacks by them if we stir them up.”

  “We need the killers, and I want to see the murder area as undisturbed as I can. Maybe they left some sign for us, Erv.”

  The big rancher agreed.

  “Who is the lady came to tell me?”

  “Claudia Haynes. Her husband is Ralph Haynes. They’re good folks, have a spread up there close by to the Carlsons.”

  “I will stop by their place and explain what we find when we get through.”

  Erv agreed.

  They pushed on hard northward in the night under a thousand stars. Their saddle leather complained and horseshoes struck rocks exposed on the road surface as they kept their course. Desert owls hooted in the night, bats swooped in the sky, and coyotes lent their voices to the sounds of the night.

  The trip proved long and dawn was pinking the New Mexico horizon far in the east. They entered a deep chasm and the dry wash was the only way up the deep, shadowy gorge. Erv led the way in on his good horse, and up on a small shelf, a dark hovel sat backed to a huge sandstone bluff wall behind it.

  “I want this area as untouched as can be so we can search it in the daylight. Criminals drop things. Once, we found an old letter from his girlfriend that a killer dropped at the scene. He denied doing the murder. But we had the letter with his name on it that could not have gotten up there except it fell out of his pocket.”

  Erv looked serious enough peering inside the house in the dim light. He nodded. “I never thought about that but I do see what you mean.”

  “Since we have no suspects so far, any evidence we can find will help us arrest the guilty ones.”

  “I guess being a lawman all your life makes that job easier.”

  Guthrey shook his head. “You need to be lucky too.”

  Erv agreed and they both squatted down on their heels at the open doorway.

  “Is there any other way in or out of this canyon?” Guthrey looked around at the still-dark surrounding bluffs.

  “You could, if you were part goat, go out over that back range. Some men and kids have done it just to say they had.”

  “It gets to be daylight, you search that dry wash we rode in on. See if we and the nice lady who came to get us did not wipe out their tracks and try to learn which way they went when they came out of the canyon, if you can.”

  “Oh yes. That might be hard.”

  “Look close where they went out at the opening.”

  Erv said, “I can do that. Are the bodies inside?”

  “Let’s go peek.” Guthrey had a knot behind his tongue to swallow. He’d seen lots of dead folks. None were ever pretty to look at. With just enough light to see by, they peered in from the doorway. A naked body, perhaps that of a teenager, was on the bed.

  “That was their daughter, Casey. My God, she never harmed anyone. She’s tied there, ain’t she?”

  “Looks that way. Don’t step in the dirt inside the door. Move to the left so we can see if there are any footprints.”

  “There’s George’s body.” Erv pointed to the corpse of a man in old overalls lying on his back on the floor beside the back door, increasingly visible as more of the morning light gained access.

  Guthrey nodded. He was more shaken by the sight of the naked teenage girl’s corpse tied by the wrists and ankles to the bed. The only reason for that was to rape or torture her. He’d never seen such a sight, but had been at trials where men were tried for doing such crimes and the judge excused all the women in the courtroom when the prosecution got set to produce a drawing of what that looked like.

  “I see a perfect boot print right there.”

  “Find some newspaper. We need a tracing of that boot. It’s a large one.”

  “The old man don’t own any boots like that either.”

  They found George’s wife facedown on the ground outside. Her head was bloody black from being beaten to death.

  Finding no other good footprints inside the doorway, Guthrey went back in the room and looked at the dead girl. From the look of her bluish face he felt certain they had smothered her to death, perhaps with an old pillow. He searched around the bed. Carefully he shook out each blanket that had been tossed on the floor. He watched a wadded up goatskin roping glove fall out of the last blanket he had shaken and he carefully picked it up. The room had the real bad odor of an unemptied nightjar or unwashed bodies—he didn’t dare swallow much of the foul air.

  Why was this glove in these blankets that were tossed aside? He pocketed it in his vest to examine later. The murderers must have raped her. But why? Lots of ladies of the night in town to use—the murderers must be some crazy, wicked animals. Normal folks would have no stomach for all this horrible violence.

  Candles were melted to hard puddles of hard wax. He had no idea what time of day all this had happened. But it was a recent crime, happened maybe on Friday or even Saturday.

  Guthrey found some butts of roll-your-own cigarettes outside the house. Also the large boot print they’d seen inside the house was there again near the woman’s corpse. Some other ranchers came in about then and tethered their horses a ways from the house. Guthrey went to join them. He told them what they’d found.

  “Have you found anything to use in court?” Hal Jones asked him, shaken by his description of the corpses.

  Guthrey shook his head. “Nothing to point a finger. I would say more than one person did this. One was a large man; we have his boot print, not many features except being huge. But to run down three people and murder them like this took some help.”

  Then recalling the glove, he removed it from his pocket and opened it up. “I found this in the blankets that were tossed off the bed.” It was an expensive handmade goatskin glove used by many for roping and thin enough a man could fire a six-gun wearing it. On the cuff there was a very accurate drawing of a star made by an indelible pencil.

  “Anyone seen one of these?” he asked, handing the evidence around to the four grim-faced men standing outside, who were obviously shocked by the violence that had occurred there.

  “This is an expensive glove,” one rancher said, handing it on.

  “Anyone seen this star before?” another asked.

  Heads shook in the circle. Erv told Guthrey that he had sent one of the men to go get some more horses to transport the corpses to Soda Springs.

  “Guthrey, how will we ever catch these killers?” Joe Butler asked.

  “Good question. But someone will slip up. Someone will have passed by the killers on the road. They may be transients, just going through the country, or people that they knew. I’ll get the word ou
t and offer a reward for information. This horrendous crime was not thought up and managed by normal people. They were crazy, wolflike animals. Let’s not get people too upset; it could lead to innocent people being the subject of a lynch mob. I worry about that. We need a clear-cut trial for the ones who did this, despite the human emotions that will arise. Am I clear?”

  The sober-faced men in the group were, all of them, community leaders—they all nodded. In another hour the bodies were wrapped and bound in blankets and the horses arrived. Two of the men agreed to deliver them to the undertaker in Soda Springs. Guthrey told them he needed to hold a justice of the peace hearing on these deaths—something that hadn’t been done when Cally’s father was shot in the canyon. Guthrey had found that killer; he hoped he could get these killers as well.

  A quiet, somber party started out to leave the canyon with three corpses. Guthrey studied the towering walls. Erv told him he thought the killers had ridden out and headed north, but the tracks were ordinary enough it was hard to tell which ones belonged to who.

  Guthrey and Erv stopped by to thank Mrs. Haynes. Red-eyed, she came out to greet them.

  “I am sorry you had to discover them. It was a horrific scene. Did they have any enemies you know about?”

  “No.” She wearily shook her head. “They were such gentle people. Always kind.”

  “Mrs. Haynes, was the scene fresh when you found them?”

  “Oh, it must have happened on Friday. They’d been dead awhile when I found ’em.”

  “I think so too. Thanks. We will do all we can to find the killers. I’ll put out a reward for information. You have any ideas?”

  “Was it Apaches?” she whispered.

  “No. It was someone else.”

  “Thank God.”

  “I’ve sent the bodies to Soda Springs. We’ll hold an inquest. Can you come testify?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know this has been hard on you. I appreciate your concern. Thanks.”

  “Tell your lovely wife, Cally, thanks. She was so kind to me.”

  “Cally is a good woman, well beyond her years in her ability to help people.”

  “Yes she is. I hope you find these vile people.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “God bless you, sheriff.”

  He replaced his hat and nodded to her. Then he remounted and headed home. He was going by to check on his wife. His belly growling at his backbone, he short loped the borrowed horse to their place. Erv had said one of his boys would ride over and get the pony. The sheriff had enough to do.

  Skirt in hand, Cally rushed out to hug him as he hitched the horse. “You have any food?”

  “No, I waited for you to feed me.” He kissed her and then she shook her head.

  “You must be starved to death.”

  He slapped his muscle-corded belly and laughed. “I’m starved to see and hold you.”

  “Come in, I’ll fix you food.” She swung on his arm. Her enthusiasm for him always boosted his deep feeling for her even more.

  The smell of cooking soon began to fill his nose as Cally worked over the wood range and he filled her in on the murders while sitting at the table.

  She soon brought him a stack of hot pancakes, butter, and her syrup. He thanked her and started to fill his plate.

  “I can make some more,” she offered.

  “No. I’ll take a shower and sleep a few hours.”

  “Nice to have you home.” She reached over and squeezed his hand.

  “Nice to be here.” He shook his head to try to clear the whole scene away. “Where’s Noble?”

  “Looking for a horse rustler. A man named Darrel Thayer came by looking for you. Noble and Dan went to see what they could figure out about who took Thayer’s horses.”

  “Where does this man live?”

  “South and east of Stewart’s Crossing.”

  “Did you think I needed to back them?”

  “Not until you take a bath and sleep a few hours. They can handle the matter, I am certain.”

  He chewed on his lower lip. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am. I’m your wife.” Then she laughed and he reached out, hugged her narrow waist, and shook his head. “Bath comes next.”

  “I’ll go along so you don’t fall asleep taking it.” She tousled his hair.

  “Thanks.” With resolve he got up and went with her.

  The bath went fine. Cold but at least he felt clean. Then he dropped into bed and slept, but not without some bad dreams about the murder scene. He woke in a cold sweat, sat up in bed in the darkness of night. Both dread and the dead were on his mind.

  Cally woke up too. “Are you all right?” Her voice was a soft whisper that brought a smile to his face, realizing how close his bride’s warm body was to his.

  He settled down and took her in his arms. “I’m fine. Now I have you.”

  “Good,” she said and snuggled into him. It was still honeymoon time for both of them in the coolness of the desert night.

  FIVE

  THE SUNRISE OUTLINED the distant Chiricahua Mountains, which were stretched out like a huge body sleeping on its side. The flavor of smoked bacon and breakfast on his tongue, Guthrey rode for town on a solid roan gelding that Monday morning. His horse’s running walk was fast and carried him down the dry road that needed rain to settle the dust, but moisture in this climate was always scarce.

  He stopped in Steward’s Crossing to see his deputy Ike Sweeney, and he found the man on his porch drinking coffee. He didn’t know a thing about any stolen horse deal. The rancher never stopped by to tell him anything. Sweeney knew Thayer, but neither the rancher nor Noble nor Dan had stopped by before going to investigate the crime.

  Guthrey made up his mind then to go assist them, or try to.

  Sweeney, a big man with a white mustache, offered to join him, but Guthrey told him no, he’d handle it and try to establish some better rules about how to report crimes. He set out for Thayer’s and reached another man’s place by midmorning. A woman in her thirties came to the door with a broom.

  “Morning, sheriff,” she said and under her breath told her children to stay inside. She looked well along to having another one, but she smiled. “I’m Gert Cassidy. My husband, Bob, went to St. David today. He’ll be sad he didn’t meet you.”

  “Tell him I said hi. Have my men been by here?” He’d removed his hat for her, and he took the opportunity to wipe his forehead on his sleeve.

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure they’re all right. They were going up in the Dragoons to Thayer’s place to see if they could find any trace of the rustlers.”

  “I understand. I guess I’ll have to track them, then.”

  “Mark Peters has a place on the west side of the mountains. Go by there; he may know more than I do.”

  “Thanks, ma’am.” His Stetson back on his head, Guthrey sent the roan horse northeastward in a lope. He knew about the Peters Ranch and the location she meant.

  An hour later, he found Peters in his small shop repairing a buckboard wheel.

  The man looked up at his approach and Guthrey swung down.

  “Morning, sheriff. What brings you up here?”

  “Did two deputies and Darrel Thayer come by here looking for some stolen horses?”

  “They came by here yesterday. Must of been noontime, like now. Olive has some lunch ready. Stop and eat with us.”

  “I need to—”

  “Everyone needs to eat. She’s a good hand at cooking, if I may say so myself.”

  “Can’t refuse that.”

  “Come on and wash up.”

  They washed their hands on the back porch, dried them on a sack towel, and hung it up. When Peters’s wife turned around, Guthrey blinked. He knew her from somewhere else—some place.

  “Olive, this is Sheriff Gu
threy.”

  Hat off, he nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Yes.”

  Her name wasn’t Olive before—where had he met her back then? His mind like a file searched for the time and place of that first introduction. She was close to thirty by his estimate. Nice-looking face, a medium body size, well distributed, her dark brown hair shoulder length with a slight curl. Dressed more than plain but respectable. He wondered where their paths had crossed.

  “Olive and I’ve been married two years. I lost my first wife five years ago. She lost her mate two years before. We met in Tucson at a church function and I’ve been so blessed to have her as my wife.”

  “Oh, Mark, I’m sure the sheriff has a good wife too.”

  Guthrey nodded. “Do you know my wife, Cally?”

  “No, but I hope to.”

  “She’s active with the group that has the potluck suppers and dances at the schoolhouse up there north of Steward’s Crossing. You two need to come some Saturday night and join us.”

  “We’ll try to do that,” Mark said and smiled at his wife. She agreed and put the bowls of food on the table, asking Guthrey if he drank coffee.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The noon meal was fried ham, sweet potatoes and fresh green beans from Olive’s garden, and soda biscuits. Her coffee was rich tasting and Guthrey enjoyed the dinner with them. He still did not know where he had first met Olive. Obviously the Peterses were not Mormons. Those folks never drank coffee because of their religion.

  Guthrey rode on in the direction that Noble, Dan, and Thayer had taken into the Dragoon Mountains. The mountains rose off the desert floor with a reddish rock surface. Soon juniper clad the slopes, and in places on top, ponderosa pines supplemented them. This was once Apache country, and somewhere on the west end of the Dragoon range the legendary Cochise signed a peace treaty with the one-armed General Howard that disgusted General Crook, the Apache chaser. Of course, later the entire treaty was thrown out and the Chiricahua people were moved to the San Carlos Apache Reservation with tribes they hated, and that eventually caused the Apache war to continue. Cally was his expert on history and she had told him to watch out. Reports of renegades hiding in these mountains were told at various functions like the potluck supper and dance.