A Ranger Named Rowdy

by James J. Griffin

  Still, despite the railroad’s convenience and speed, Tim would much rather be traveling by horseback. There was a lot to be said for being out in the wide open spaces, just a man and his horse, perhaps a companion or two for company. The air would be fresh and pure, so invigorating it made a man glad to be alive. Out there, you could almost breathe in the freedom and taste it, and sense all the wonders of God’s creation. The train, on the other hand, was cramped, noisy, and dirty. The tracks scarred the land wherever they were laid; locomotives fouled the air with smoke and soot and spewed cinders everywhere. More than one destructive fire had been started by sparks from a train, brush fires that would sweep across the land, destroying everything in their path, or fires that could burn down an entire settlement. No, progress came with a heavy price.

  However, Tim mused, as he looked out the window at the darkened, frosty landscape, with the temperatures hovering around freezing or below, right now it was much more comfortable being curled up in a passenger coach, kept cozy by a stove glowing dull red from the fire inside. It sure beat being huddled in the saddle all day, your feet and hands numbed from the cold, the wind biting at your cheeks. Then at night you’d have to try to build a fire, if there was enough dead wood, buffalo or cow chips available, to ward off some of the cold. Even if the fire lasted all night, you still ended up shivering under your blankets, getting very little sleep. And likely as not when you woke up a coating of frost would be covering your blankets.

  “No,” Tim whispered. “I reckon I’m glad for this here contraption.” Lulled by the steady, rhythmic clacking of the wheels on the rails and the rocking of the coach, he drifted off to sleep.

  4

  The train pulled into Sierra Blanca shortly after two o’clock the next afternoon. It had been delayed three hours by a landslide which had blocked the tracks outside Pecos. The crew, assisted by many of the passengers, including Tim and Tate, had to shovel aside tons of sand which had slid onto the rails, then the engineer and conductor had to inspect the tracks before the train could proceed.

  “Sierra Blanca!” the conductor called. “Forty minute stop here. Telegraph office is right inside the depot, along with a café and washrooms. Those continuing on need to be back aboard in thirty-five minutes.”

  When the train stopped, Matthias T. Braddock bulled his way out of the car, nearly knocking over several other passengers, including a young girl, in his haste. Tim and Tate waited for most of the other passengers to detrain, then stood up, took their rifles and saddlebags from the overhead rack, and started down the aisle.

  “Ranger,” the drummer who had backed Tim said to him. “Too bad you didn’t shoot that stuffed-shirt son of a, um … gun. Right in his big fat gut.”

  “Didn’t want to chance puttin’ a bullet hole into that big bag of gas,” Tim answered. “Might have exploded and killed all of us.”

  “I reckon you’re right at that,” the drummer said, laughing. “Reckon we’re lucky he’s travelin’ on to El Paso, not stayin’ here in Sierra Blanca. Well, since we’re both gettin’ off here, perhaps we’ll run into each other in town. If we do, I’ll buy you and your partner a drink. Hugh Staley’s my name, sellin’ dry goods is my game.”

  “Tim Bannon, and my pard’s Tate Slocum. We’ll take you up on that offer if we get the chance.”

  “Fine, fine.”

  Behind the drummer, Tim and Tate descended from the coach. Waiting for them on the platform was a man wearing a sheriff’s star on his chest. He hurried up to the Rangers.

  “Ranger Bannon?” he asked.

  “I’m Tim Bannon,” Tim answered. “This is my pardner, Tate Slocum.”

  “Sheriff Boyd Little. I’m pleased to meet you both. Captain Strong wired me to expect you. Of course, I had no way of knowing which of you was which.”

  Little was about forty-five, with dark hair fading to gray at the temples showing under his Stetson. A drooping mustache covered his upper lip. His skin was weathered by years of exposure to the harsh southwest Texas sun and wind. His eyes were hazel, he stood slightly less than six feet tall, and would weigh about one ninety, Tim guessed. A good-sized gut pushed out the gunbelt he wore, but there was nothing soft about the man. He shook each Ranger’s hand in turn.

  “I’m the good-lookin’ one,” Tate said.

  “That’s only because you ain’t been Rangerin’ long enough to get your nose busted up or collect a few bullet or knife scars,” Tim retorted. “Sheriff, we’ll retrieve our horses and gear, then if you’ll show us to a good livery stable we can get them settled. After than we can discuss the situation here in Hudspeth County.”

  “Fine, fine,” Little said. “I’ve got a lot to catch you up on. There have been quite a few developments since I wrote Captain Strong to request the Rangers’ assistance. I’ve been waiting anxiously for your arrival.”

  “We’ll do our best to give you a hand, Sheriff,” Tim promised.

  “Boyd.”

  “Boyd it is, as long as you call me Tim.”

  “And me Tate.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  The three men headed for the cattle car, where a ramp was just being set in place. The door was slid open. Rowdy and Buddy stuck their heads out and whinnied to their riders. They had handled the long journey well. Tim and Tate had checked on them at each stop the train along the way, making sure they were watered and still had hay to nibble at.

  “Easy, boys. Just a minute and we’ll have you outta there,” Tim said. He and Tate climbed the ramp into the car, placed halters around their horses’ heads, attached a lead rope to those then tossed their gear, bridles hanging from the saddlehorns, onto the horses’ backs and cinched them loosely in place. Rowdy and Buddy were covered with soot and cinders spewed from the locomotive’s stack, so neither Tim nor Tate would chance irritating the horses’ backs by riding until their shaggy winter coats were thoroughly brushed out.

  “Nice lookin’ cayuses,” Boyd said approvingly. He patted Buddy’s neck, then started to do the same to Rowdy. When he did, Rowdy pinned his ears and lunged at the sheriff. Boyd jumped back just in time to avoid having his coat sleeve ripped off by Rowdy’s wicked teeth.

  “Whoa, hoss!” Boyd exclaimed. “Wasn’t aimin’ to harm you, fella.”

  “I’m sorry, Boyd,” Tim apologized. “I wasn’t fast enough to warn you Rowdy’s pretty much a one-man horse. He was handled kinda rough before I got him. We’ve been through an awful lot together.”

  As if in answer, Rowdy nuzzled Tim’s cheek. He then nosed Tim’s pocket, looking for a peppermint.

  “Of course I’ve got your candy,” Tim said. “Got one for Buddy, too.” He gave each a peppermint.

  “I’ll steer clear of him,” Boyd said. “If you boys are ready, we’ll head for the livery. My horse is out front of the station. I’ll pick him up, then lead you to Monahan’s. He’ll take good care of your broncs. I know, because I board Goldie there.”

  Leading their horses and following the sheriff, Tim and Tate rounded the station. A big-boned palomino gelding tied to the rail whickered a loud greeting to Boyd.

  “Howdy to you too, pal,” Boyd called. He walked up to the golden-hided horse and stroked its neck. “This here’s Goldie. Got him from a retired Ranger named Jim Hatfield. For years he rode a big golden sorrel stallion called Goldy. When Hatfield retired from the Rangers he started a horse breedin’ business, using Goldy for his stud. Goldie here’s one of Goldy’s sons. I named him after his father, just with an ‘ie’ instead of a ‘y’. He’s some animal.”

  “He sure is,” Tim said, admiring the palomino’s clean lines and well-defined muscles. “Real fine animal.”

  Boyd untied Goldie, lifted the reins, and swung into the saddle.

  “Monahan’s stable is only six blocks from here,” he said. “Down a side alley right behind the county courthouse, and my office. Won’t take us long to get there.”

  A few minutes later, Rowdy and Buddy were led into an immaculately clean stable.

>   “Jerry, you here?” Boyd called.

  “Right with you, Sheriff.” A moment later a young man in his late teens, lantern jawed and huskily built, with broad shoulders and heavily-muscled arms revealed by his rolled-up shirt sleeves, came through the rear door. He was pushing an empty wheelbarrow.

  “Sorry, Sheriff. I was just muckin’ out the last stalls.”

  “That’s all right, Jerry. These here men are Tim Bannon and Tate Slocum, Texas Rangers. They’re gonna be in town for a spell, so they’ll need stalls for their horses. You’ll need to stay away from Bannon’s paint, though. He’s a real ornery cuss. Been mishandled, Tim says. Rangers, Jerry Monahan. He owns this stable.”

  “Is that so?” Jerry said, looking directly into Rowdy’s eyes. “There’s no call for a man to abuse a horse. Ain’t that right, big feller?” Rowdy nickered. “Won’t ever happen around here. What’s your horse’s name, Ranger?”

  “Rowdy.”

  “Rowdy. We’re gonna get along just fine, ain’t we, boy? Ranger, you mind?”

  Something in the hostler’s soothing manner gained Tim’s confidence.

  “Go right ahead.”

  Jerry walked up to Rowdy, crooning softly, and placed a hand on his neck. Rowdy stiffened and pinned his ears. Jerry slowly stroked his neck, speaking softly all the while. Rowdy’s ears came up, his muscles relaxed, and he nuzzled Jerry’s cheek.

  “There. We’re gonna get along all right, ain’t we, Rowdy? Ranger, he’ll be just fine now.”

  “You’ve got a way with horses; that’s for dang certain,” Tim said.

  “Never would’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it,” Tate added, shaking his head.

  “The two end stalls on the right are open. Take them in there,” Jerry ordered. “I’ll get them some oats and hay. Water too, of course. Tack room for your gear’s opposite those stalls, next to my office.”

  “All right,” Tim said. “Much obliged.”

  Rowdy and Buddy were carefully groomed, their riders making sure every last cinder was brushed out of their thick coats. Boyd also carefully brushed his mount. Finally satisfied the horses were as clean as possible, they left them in Jerry’s capable hands, munching on hay.

  “Reckon you boys want to get a room, clean up a mite and mebbe down some grub before we palaver,” Boyd said.

  “We sure would, but that can wait,” Tim answered. “Long as you’ve got coffee on the stove, let’s head for your office. We can talk things over, then it’ll be time enough for us to get that room and eat.”

  “All right,” Boyd said. They walked up the alley to the courthouse. Boyd led them down a long corridor to the three room county sheriff’s office. The deputy on duty looked up when they entered.

  “Rick, these are Rangers Tim Bannon and Tate Slocum,” Boyd said. “They’re here to help out with the Tuttle-Santos situation. Rangers, my chief deputy, Rick Lewis. Used to be a deputy down in Sanderson, but now he ramrods for me.”

  Like the sheriff, Lewis was in his forties. He stood about six feet, weighed about two hundred pounds, and had wavy, dark brown hair and clear, auburn hued eyes.

  “We could use the help, that’s for certain,” Lewis said, as he nodded to the Rangers. “Hank Pardee was just in here complainin’ some of Santos’ vaqueros were cuttin’ across Diamond T range again. Threatened to shoot ‘em on sight if he caught ‘em doin’ it again.”

  “Pardee is Earl Tuttle’s foreman,” Boyd explained for the Rangers’ benefit. “A tough hombre, tends to be a little hot headed.”

  “A little hot headed is an understatement,” Lewis muttered.

  “I guess you’re right at that,” Boyd agreed. “Rick, the Rangers want to get started right away. Could you pull out the Tuttle-Santos files and bring them to my office?”

  “Right away, Sheriff.”

  “C’mon into my office, men,” Boyd invited. “Pour yourselves a cup of coffee. Light up if you have the makings. Soon as Rick brings those files, we’ll get to work.”

  He led the Rangers into the office on the left, which had “Private” lettered on the door. He took three mugs from a shelf, handed Tim and Tate each one, and filled the one he kept for himself. Tim and Tate also filled their mugs with the bitter black brew. Tim and Tate each took a chair, while Boyd settled behind his desk. He and Tate rolled cigarettes and lit them. By the time they were done, Deputy Lewis came into the office. He held a thick folder, which he handed to the sheriff.

  “I want you to stay too, Rick,” he ordered. “You might remember some detail I miss.”

  “All right, Sheriff.” Lewis also poured himself a cup of coffee and found a seat. Boyd ruffled through the files, selected several pages, and pulled them out. He placed those on his desk and reversed them for the Rangers to read.

  “I know Captain Strong probably went completely over the information I sent him before you left, so I won’t repeat most of it. I’ve picked out a few things I want to emphasize, and a couple of incidents which have happened since I wrote Captain Strong. If there is anything you need me to go over again, or if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to stop me.”

  Tim and Tate nodded their agreement.

  “Earl Tuttle’s spread, the Diamond T, and Diego Santos’ ranch, the D Cross S, lie approximately eight miles northwest of Sierra Vista, about here on this map,” Boyd began. He pointed to two plots of land colored in on the map, one in blue, the other in red. “As you can see, they border each other for a good distance. Tuttle bought his land back in 1867, Santos’ has been in his family for as long as anyone can remember. They’ve both fought hard to build and keep what they have. And they got along fine, in fact were good friends, until this trouble between ‘em started.”

  “When exactly did it start, Boyd?” Tim asked. “And what set it off?”

  “I’m about to tell you,” Boyd said. He took a pencil and circled a shaded area on the map, a short distance north of the line indicating the northern borders of both ranches. “See this gray area here?”

  “Yup,” Tate said.

  “That’s a fairly-good sized cienega, which comes out from the bottom of this mesa here.”

  “Seeps like that are a lotta times really alkaline, and not much good for anythin’,” Tim said. “Vegetation around ‘em usually isn’t all that palatable for horses or cattle, and the water itself is mostly too bitter for critters to drink. Even if a horse or cow is so thirsty they drink the stuff, it’ll make ‘em sick nine times out of ten, sometimes even kill ‘em.”

  “That’s true enough,” Boyd agreed. “Same was true for this one. No one had any use for it, in fact Tuttle was talkin’ about fencin’ it off after a few of his cows wandered into it lookin’ for some grass and got bogged down. But all that changed a year ago this past spring.”

  “What happened then?” Tim asked.

  “A big rainstorm happened, that’s what,” Boyd answered.

  “That was more’n just a rainstorm,” Rick said. “It was a downright frog strangler. Haven’t seen a gullywasher like that ever before, and God willin’ I’ll never see one like that again.”

  “Rick’s right,” Boyd agreed. “It was a regular cloudburst. I don’t need to tell you boys, in dry territory like this it doesn’t take much rain to start a major flood. That’s what happened in this case. Lots of floodin’, quite a few buildings washed away, three people drowned. All these dry washes you see around here were full to overflowin’. There were also some pretty big landslides in the mountains and mesas. One of those was on the mesa above that cienega. A good chunk of the mesas split away and fell. Left a whole jumble of rocks. And that slide must’ve also exposed a good-sized underground spring, because all of a sudden, instead of a trickle of water that formed the seep, which evaporated before it could flow anywhere, there was a regular fountain spoutin’ from the base of the mesa. After a few days it settled down to a steady flow, which hasn’t diminished since.” Boyd traced his finger along a squiggly line on the map. “It formed this creek, which run
s along the boundary between the Diamond T and D Cross S. It keeps goin’ for miles after that. Disappears into the sinks just below the Quitman Mountains.”

  “Cap’n Strong pointed that creek out to us back in Austin,” Tim said. “I told him it appeared both Tuttle and Santos had rights to that water.”

  “That’s true enough, to a point,” Boyd said.

  “What’re you gettin’ at, Sheriff?” Tate asked.

  “This is pretty dry country, as you know,” Boyd answered. “And as you can imagine, a steady, dependable source of sweet water in land this arid can bring out the worst in a lot of men. Makes them greedy. All of a sudden they see their herds growin’ tenfold or more, mebbe even be able to irrigate for crops, perhaps even grow cotton or the like.”

  “That what happened with Tuttle and Santos?” Tim asked.

  “No, not quite. Thing haven’t gotten that bad, at least not yet,” Boyd said. “The problem is more the way the creek runs. Every time we have a good rainfall, which I’ll concede ain’t all that often, it changes its course and makes a new bed for itself. And every time it does that, wherever it changes course it takes water away from Tuttle and gives it to Santos, or vice versa. What was a creek bed full of running water can turn into a cutoff dry wash overnight. In some of the sandier soil, it can actually move enough dirt around to change the landscape itself. Even worse, since the boundary line between the Diamond T and D Cross S was drawn based on the old landmarks and washes, with the creek erasin’ some of those suddenly the line’s in question.”

  “It shouldn’t be,” Tim said. “All that needs to be done is get a competent surveyor out there to resurvey the line. Needn’t be a big problem.”