"Just about to suggest the same thing, Ranger. Call 'em back.'"
Chick Bowdrie got to his feet. The family were moving away, but within easy hailing distance.
"Hey! Come back here! We'll help you!"
Startled, they drew up and turned to stare. "Come over here! I'm a Texas Ranger.
You'd never make it the way you're headin'!"
They rounded their horses and walked them closer. The man's face was haggard, the bandage on his head was bloody. The youngsters, hollow-eyed and frightened, stared at them. The woman, not yet thirty, had a flicker of hope in her eyes.
"What we can offer ain't much better," Bowdrie said, "but two more rifles can help.
If he tried to hold 'em off, they'd just cut around him an' have you all with no trouble."
"They'd get you before you could say Sam Houston. You get down an' come into the rocks." Tensleep paused, grinning at Bowdrie. "But not where that in-curvin' rock is." He rolled his quid of chewing tobacco in his wide jaws. "The Ranger tells me that ain't safe."
The dust cloud was nearer now, and the Apaches, aware their quarry had elected to stop, were fanning out. Tensleep spat. "This here's goin' to surprise 'em some. They reckon they're only comin' up on a hurt man ag' a woman with kids."
It was cooler in the shae of the big rocks, and a glance at the tinaja showed a couple of barrels of water, at least. There was shelter for their horses and it was a good place to make a stand. Trust Tensleep to choose the right spot to fight a battle.
The desert before them was suddenly empty. The dust cloud had settled. The buzzard overhead had been joined by a hopeful relative. The buzzards were neutral. No matter who won down there, they would win. They had but to wait. The lizard had vanished.
Bowdrie had dragged his saddle and bridle back into the rocks. He worked himself into a hollow in the sand, found a place for his elbows, and waited.
Nothing.
That was expected. It was when you never saw Apaches that you could worry. They were confident but did not wish to risk a death to get the four they pursued.
The woman was washing the man's arm now, replacing the bandage. Tensleep rolled his quid in his jaws and spat upon an itinerant scorpion.
The scorpion backed off, unhappy at the unexpected deluge of trouble.
"How many would you say?"
Mooney thought it over. "Maybe ten. No less'n that. Could be twice as many." "Tough." "Yeah."
Mooney shoved his canteen at Bowdrie. "What are you? A camel? Don't you ever drink?"
"Forgot how." Bowdrie took a mouthful and let it soak the dry tissues, then swallowed.
Both men understood their chances of getting out alive were so slim they weren't worth counting on. The children stared at them, wide-eyed. The girl might have been ten, the boy two or three years younger. Their clothes were ragged but clean as could be expected after a hard ride. Bowdrie dug into his saddlebag and handed each child a piece of jerky. He grinned at them and winked. The girl smiled warily but the boy was fascinated by Bowdrie's guns. "Can I hold one?" he asked.
"I need 'em, son. Guns are dangerous things. You use 'em when need be, but nobody plays with a gun unless he's a fool." He indicated the area out in front of them. "This is one time they're needed."
Nothing moved out there; there was only sun, sand, and sky, low brush, occasional cactus, and the buzzards who seemed to simply hang in the sky, scarcely moving their wings. A shoulder showed, and Bowdrie held his fire.
Mooney glanced at him. "You're no tenderfoot."
"I grew up with 'em," Bowdrie commented. "Them an' Comanches."
That exposed shoulder had been an invitation, a test to see where they were, and how many. Yet they believed they knew.
They had been chasing a man, a woman, and children.
A half-dozen Indians came off the ground at once. It was as if they were born suddenly from the sand. Where they appeared there had been nothing an instant before.
The thunder of suddenly firing rifles smashed echoes against the rocks and the whine of ricocheting bullets sent shuddering sounds through the clear desert air. An instant, a smell of gunpowder, and they were gone.
Heat waves danced in the still air.
An Apache lay on his face not ten feet away. Another was sprawled near a clump of greasewood. As Bowdrie looked, that Indian rolled over and vanished before Bowdrie could bring his rifle to bear. There was blood on the sand where he had fallen. "How'd you make out?"
"One down an' a possible," Bowdrie replied.
"Two down here, an' a possible. What's the matter? Can't you Rangers shoot no better than that?"
"You light a shuck," Bowdrie replied complacently. "I can outshoot you any day and twice on Sunday."
"'Huh," Mooney grunted, then glanced at the scorpion, who was getting ready to move again. He spat, deluging it anew. Then suddenly he fired.
"Scratch another redskin," he said.
Bowdrie lay still, watching the desert. They were doing some thinking out there now.
The two rifles had surprised them, and an Apache does not like to be surprised. Their attack had seemed so easy. The Apache is an efficient, able fighting man who rarely makes a useless move, and even more rarely miscalculates. This easy attack had now cost them three or four men and some wounds.
The sky was a white-hot bowl above them, the desert a reflector, yet the sun had already start, ed its slide toward the far-off mountains.
An Apache moved suddenly, darting to the right. Bowdrie had his rifle on the spot where he had seen him drop from sight. He was a young warrior, and reckless. As he arose and moved, Bowdrie squeezed off his shot and the warrior stumbled.
Instantly, several more leaped up. Behind him a third rifle bellowed. So the father was back in action now. Bowdrie's second shot was a clean miss as the Indian dropped from sight.
"Got one!" The father spoke proudly. He crept closer and Bowdrie wished he wouldn't.
"Name is Westmore. Tried ranchin' down southwest of here. Mighty pretty country.
They done burned us out whilst we was from home, so we run for it."
The shadows began to grow, the glare grew less. Bowdrie drank from the canteen. "I'd have had you tied to your saddle by now," he said.
Mooney chuckled. "Why, you track-smellin' soft-headed coyote! If these folks hadn't come along, you'd have been buzzard bait by now."
The woman looked surprised and curious. Westmore glanced from one to the other.
"Wished I could have got you without your guns," Bowdrie commented. "You're too good a man to shoot. I'd have been satisfied to take you in with my bare hands."
"You?" Mooney stared at him angrily. "Why, you long-horned maverick! I'd---!"
The Apaches tried it again, but this time it was cold turkey. Both men had spotted slight movements in the brush and were ready when they came up. Bowdrie got his before the Indian had his hands off the ground. Mooney fired at a rock behind where his Indian lay, dusting him with fragments.
"They'll wait until dark now," Mooney said. "I figure we've accounted for maybe half of them. We been shot with luck, you know that, don't you?"
"I know," Bowdrie agreed. "They just ran into more'n they were expecting but they'll have figured it out by now. No wounded man and a woman could be makin' the stand we are."
"Look!" Westmore pointed. Three Apaches were riding off into the distance. "They've quit."
Westmore started to rise but Bowdrie jerked him down. "It's an old trick," he explained.
"Two or three ride off and the rest wait in ambush. When you start movin' around, they kill you."
The sun slid down behind the mountains in the distance and the desert grew cool.
It was ever so. There was nothing to hold the heat, and night cooled things off very quickly. Stars came out and a coyote yipped, a coyote with a brown skin and a headband.
Bowdrie dug into his saddlebag and brought out a piece of jerky for each. It was dry and tough but it lasted a long time and was nouri
shing. They chewed in silence.
A faint gray lingered, disappeared and gave birth to stars. Chick tossed his saddle blanket to the youngsters. Westmore peered from behind the rocks.
"You reckon those that left will come back with more?" "Could be. In fact, it's more than likely."
"My name's Westmore," the man repeated, looking from one to the other.
"I'm Tensleep Mooney. This here's a Texas Ranger named Bowdrie. He's been on my trail for weeks."
"he woman was puzzled. "He wants to arrest you? Why?" 'his gent here," Bowdrie said, "is too handy with a gun. The governor wants more taxpayers and this gent has been thinnin' down the population somethin' awful."
"But you'll let him go now, won't you?"
Mooney chuckled. "This here Sou-wegian ain't got me yet, an' it'll be a cold day in Kansas before he does."
"Soon as we're rid of these Apaches," Chick said, "I'll hogtie you and take you back.
I'll give you about two drinks between here an' Austin." He turned his head toward Westmore and his wife. "You know what this squatty good-for-nothin' did?
"He knows this country better than anybody. Knows ever' water hole. He passes one by, then swings back in the dark, gets him a drink, an' fills his canteen. Then he goes back to where I last saw him, lets me see him again, an' takes off in the dark.
I have to follow him or lose him, so I've spent my days drier than a year-old buffalo chip!"
Talk died and they lay listening. There was no sound. Bowdrie turned to Mooney. "I'm goin' out there. There's at least one Apache out there, prob'ly more. I need a horse.
When I get me a horse we'll light out. 'Paches don't like night fightin' an' we should make a run for it."
He dropped his gunbelts, then thrust one pistol into his waistband along with his bowie knife. He removed his spurs and jacket, then disappeared into the night.
The woman looked at Ilooney. "Will he get back? How can he do this?"
"If anybody can do it," Mooney said, "he can. He's more Injun than many Injuns. Anyway, he's got no choice. He surely ain't goin' out of here afoot." There was a shallow arroyo nearby and Bowdrie found it and went down the sand bank to its bottom, then paused to listen. He started on, paused again, hearing a faint sound he could not place, then went on. He was circling cautiously, feeling his way, when he heard a horse blow. He circled even wider, then dropped to the sand and crept nearer. He found them unexpectedly, six horses picketed in the bottom of the arroyo. Six horses did not necessarily mean six Indians, for some of the riders might already lie among the dead.
Try as he could, he saw no sleeping place, nor did he see any Indians or evidence of a fire, which they probably would not have, anyway.
Just as he was about to move toward the horses, an Indian arose from the ground and went to them. He moved around them, then returned to his bed on the sand a few yards away. When the Indian was quiet, Bowdrie moved to the horses. Selecting the nearest for his own, he drew the picket pins of all the horses, reflecting they must be stolen horses, for it was unlike Apaches to use picket pins, preferring the nearest bush or tree.
He moved to the horse he had chosen and swung to its back. The horse snorted at the unfamiliar smell and instantly there was movement from the Indian.
Slapping his heels to the horse, Bowdrie charged into the night, leading the other horses behind him. He turned at the flash of a gun and fired three quick shots into the flash.
Circling swiftly, he arrived at camp. "Roll out an' mount up!" he said. "We're leavin' out of here!"
He saddled swiftly, and they rode into the night. Three days later they rode into the dusty streets of El Paso. The Westmores turned toward New Mexico and the ranch of a relative. They parted company in the street and Mooney started for his horse.
"Far enough, Mooney! Don't forget, you're my prisoner!" "Your what?"
Mooney threw himself sidewise into an arroyo but Bowdrie did not move. "Won't do you a bit of good. Might as well give up! I've got you!"
"You got nothin!' Mooney yelled. "Just stick your head around that corner and I'll--!"
"Be mighty dry where you're goin', Mooney. And you without a canteen."
"What? Why, you dirty sidewinder! You stole my canteen!" "Borrowed it. You killed 'em all in fair fights, Mooney, so's you might as well stand trial. I'll ride herd on you so's you'll be safe whilst the trial's on.
"I've got the water, Mooney, and I have the grub, and the Baggs outfit has more friends here than you do. If you go askin' around, you'll really get your hide stretched.
Looks to me like your only way is to come along with me."
There was silence and then Bowdrie said, "I will give you more than two drinks betwixt here an' Austin, Mooney. I was only makin' a joke about that."
There was no sound and Bowdrie knew what was happening. "If you're wise," he said loudly, "you'll come in an' surrender. No sense havin' an outlaw's name when you don't deserve it.
"I'll even testify for you. I'll tell 'em you were a miserable coyote not fit to herd sheep but that you're a first-class fightin'
Silence. Bowdrie smiled and walked back to his horse. By now Mooney was headed out of town, headed back to the boondocks where he came from, but he'd come in, Bowdrie was sure of it. Just give him time to think it over.
He had warned him about El Paso, and he was too good a man to be in prison. Maybe a day would come when a Ranger couldn't use his own judgment, but Bowdrie had used his and was sure ninety percent of the others would agree. By now Tensleep was on his way to wherever he wanted to go.
Bowdrie walked his horse back down the street from the edge of town. This wasn't a bad horse, not as good as his roan waiting for him back in Laredo, but better than the bay lying dead in Sonora. The spare Indian horses he had given to Westmore. After all, they were going to start over with all too little.
Bowdrie tied his horse to the hitch-rail and went inside to the bar and ordered a cold beer. Taking it, he walked to a table and sat down.
Well, maybe he was wrong. Maybe McNelly wouldn't agree with his turning Mooney loose, but--
"All right, dammit!" Tnsleep dropped into the chair opposite. "Take me in, if it makes you feel better. I just ain't up to another chase like that one." He looked at Bowdrie. "Can I keep my guns until I get there?"
"Why not?" Bowdrie looked around. "Bartender, bring the man a beer."
They sat without speaking, then Tensleep said, "You notice ,something? Those youngsters back there? Never a whimper out of em, an' they must have been scared."
"Sure they were scared. I was scared." Bowdrie glanced at Mooney, a reflective glint in his eye. "You know, Mooney, what you need is a wife. You need a home. Take some of that wildness out of you. Now, I--"
"You go to the devil," Mooney replied cheerfully.
NOTE:
*
HISTORICAL FORT GRIFFIN
This fort was established to restrain Comanche raids on settlers moving into the area, and a town catering to buffalo hunters sprang up around it. It was the nearest market south of Dodge City, and a supply point. Later, when the buffalo hunting had become a thing of the past, it became a stopping place on the Western Trail.
A wild, rough town with more than its quota of saloons, gambling houses, and other laces of entertainment, it was a notorious hangout for some of the roughest and wildest of western characters as well as a stopping place for a good many sober, serious pioneers moving into the western country to build homes.
Pat Garrett, Billy the Kid, Bat Masterson, John W. Poe, Dave Rudabaugh, Jesse Evans, Jim East, Cape Willingham, and dozens of others paused in passing, some of them several times. It was here, according to the stories, that Wyatt Earp first met Doc Holliday.
*
THE ROAD TO CASA PIEDRAS
Chick Bowdrie hooked his thumbs in his belt and watched the dancers. Old Bob McClellan and his two strapping sons were sawing away on their fiddles, lubricated by Pa Gardner's own make of corn whiskey.
Pa, flushed w
ith whiskey and exertion, was calling the dances from a precarious platform of planks laid over three benches. Any platform would have been precarious, for Pa had been imbibing freely from his own keg o corn. Being the owner of the whiskey as well as the tin cup haging from the spigot, he was the only one aside from the musicians who could take a drink without paying.
Emmy Chambers, blond and beautiful, whirled by Chick and smiled at him. A strand of her cornsilk hair had fallen over her eyes but she looked excited and happy. Chick couldn't see it himself, but womenfolks seemed to think a lot of dancing. Personally, he thought, it was better out on the sagebrush country with a good horse under him.
He never had been given to duding up, but lately some of the Rangers had been getting themselves some pretty slick outfits, so he followed the trend and had gotten himself up for this dance. He was wearing a black broadcloth shirt of the shield variety with a row of pearl buttons down each side, and for the first time in months he had his collar buttoned and was wearing a white string tie. It made his neck itch and he felt like he was tied with a rope halter.
His gunbelts were of black leather inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver, likewise the holsters. His trousers were black, and he wore new hand-worked boots with California-style spurs with two-inch rowels, all shined up and pretty.
Emmy Chambers was the prettiest blond in the room, and Mary Boling the prettiest brunette. Mary was a dark-eyed girl with a hint of Spanish blood. This town was not his usual stamping grounds so he knew none of these people beyond a few names. He was about to leave when Emmy Chambers ran up to him.
"Chick, it isn't fair! Why aren't you out there dancing? Now, come on!"
"Now, ma'am," he protested, flushing, "I'm not a dancing man. I--" His words were cut off by the sharp report of a pistol shot, then another. An instant later they heard the pounding hooves of a racing horse.
Bowdrie caught up his hat and as he swung toward the door his eyes caught Mary Boling's.
There was a strange brightness in them, almost a sort of triumph. Did that big cowhand affect her that way?
Bowdrie's Law (Ss) (1983) Page 8