by Cotton Smith
HIGH PRAISE FOR COTTON SMITH!
“Cotton Smith is one of the finest of a new breed of writers of the American West.”
—Don Coldsmith, Author of The Long Road Home
“Cotton Smith’s is a significant voice in the development of the American Western.”
—Loren D. Estleman, Author of Black Powder, White Smoke
“Cotton Smith is one of the best new authors out there.”
—Read West
“Cotton Smith turns in a terrific story every time.”
—Roundup
“From his vivid descriptions of a prairie night to his hoof-pounding action scenes, Cotton Smith captures the look and feel of the real West.”
—Mike Blakley, Author of Summer of Pearls
“Hats off to Cotton Smith. . . . His plots are as twisted as a gnarled juniper, his prose as solid as granite, and his characters ring as true as jinglebobs on a cowboy’s spurs.”
—Johnny D. Boggs, Author of Dark Voyage of the Mittie Stephens
“Readers praise his memorable characters, unexpected plot twists and he captures the look and feel of the real West .”
—The Independent
“Critics praise Cotton Smith’s historical accuracy and psychological realism. Yet fans of a genre known for action want to be entertained. Smith is happy to oblige.”
—Kansas Alumni Magazine
“Each . . . [novel] brings an exciting picture of the human spirit making its way through life-changing trail, uncertain morality, driving through physical and emotional barriers, and resurrecting itself from defeat.”
—Double D Western World
NO LAUGHING MATTER
Carlow’s left hand shot toward the bartender’s outstretched arm and held it. Instinctively the man tried to pull away but couldn’t. Carlow’s grip was prison steel. Raising his right leg, Carlow drew the knife from his leggings with his free hand and placed the blade against the wild-eyebrowed bartender’s throat. Carlow’s eyes drove their way into the man’s soul.
As if it had been yanked offstage, the laughter jerked to a tense quiet and the saloon quit breathing. Even the old singing Rebel hesitated and stopped in the middle of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”
Carlow’s intense gaze and the closeness of the sharp knife took away what little courage the bartender had as the young Ranger growled, “I didn’t come this far to listen to some silly fools jabber. The man I’m after killed my best friend. It sounds to me like you boys are trying to hide him. You wouldn’t want me to think that, would you . . . ?”
STANDS A
RANGER
COTTON SMITH
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2006 Cotton Smith
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781477808498
ISBN-10: 1477808493
To those American heroes
who fought and died serving our country
so that I might have freedom.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
This title was previously published by Dorchester Publishing; this version has been reproduced from the Dorchester book archive files.
STANDS A
RANGER
Chapter One
Guessing wrong now would mean death. This was a good place for an ambush. Too good. Just ahead, a narrow pony trail disappeared into a maze of jagged hills, annoyed by petulant autumn weather.
Immediately ahead were thickets of loblolly pine, sage, and pickerel weed holding tight to a reddish knoll. Dark clouds were recruiting others, emboldened by the thunder’s growling orders. Rain wouldn’t be too far away, but he couldn’t stop. Not now.
On the left side of the crowded trail, the land bottomed out into a dry creek that had lost its way years before. On the right, boulders were strewed around the hillside, making it difficult for a horse or a man to pass. His superstitious uncle, a longtime Ranger, would tell him this was a land where faeries, leprechauns, and wind spirits lived. His own instincts warned a dozen men could hide easily in this squeezed gathering of earthen knobs and ravines.
But there was only one man Texas Ranger Time Carlow was worried about. The outlaw Silver Mallow should be more than a day ahead of him.
If he was wrong, the young Ranger wouldn’t see the sun set.
Off to Carlow’s right was a cluster of trees. Overhead a hawk waltzed on a strong wind that was bringing rain fast. The sun had been kidnapped by huge gray clouds before it could settle at the edge of the world. The air was cool and had been warning him of an oncoming storm for two hours now.
He had ignored it too long, knowing rain would wash out the escaped outlaw’s faint trail. His tracking skills were more the result of the guidance given by a Mescalaro Apache years before than of his Ranger uncle’s teaching. Carlow and the Apache, Kayitah, had become friends after the young Ranger whipped three white men who were beating on Kayitah in a nameless town along the western edge of Texas.
Deciding cover was important, from either the certain storm or possible gunfire, he cut his tiring horse hard toward the trees. Scraggly bushes grabbed at the Kiowa leggings encasing Carlow’s lower legs and worn boots as the black horse moved to obey. Branch fingers played with his large-roweled Mexican spurs and rubbed on the bone handle of a Comanche war knife carried in his right legging.
Fresh streaks on his horse’s chest and flanks, layered over dried sweat marks, told the story of pushing hard. Too hard. Carlow couldn’t remember being so tired; he’d been in the saddle for two days and three nights. He had slept only in short, fitful spurts, usually in the saddle. Stops were limited to brief rest, relieving himself, and giving canteen water to his fine black horse, Shadow, and the same for himself and his wolf-dog companion, Chance.
Occasionally, he would swallow bites of corn dodgers and jerky, offer some to Chance, and hold handfuls of grain from the sack in his saddlebags for Shadow to down. The horse was too hot to be eating at all and feeding him might knot his intestines in colic, but Carlow felt he had to risk it to give the animal strength to keep on.
Three strides behind him now came Chance, panting heavily. The dark beast’s tongue was long and dancing from his mouth. Anyone seeing them together would have feared a large prairie wolf strangely stalking its prey, not a loyal pet follow
ing its master.
Right now, Carlow’s attention was elsewhere, trying to fight through weariness to be alert. Silver Mallow wasn’t insane, as some said; Mallow was cunning, with a gift for disguise. Only his love of music and jewelry seemed out of place with his evil ways. Any other man would just keep running, especially if he thought he was being followed. Mallow would assume he was. But it would be like him to turn unexpectedly and kill, when he had the chance. Carlow knew the outlaw leader was wounded, and that only made him more dangerous.
As Carlow’s black horse scrambled up a steep embankment of hard clay and tall grasses, the young Ranger’s chiseled face was tense. Smoothly he drew his cut-down Winchester, carried as a handgun, and levered it one-handed with the sawed-off stock against his thigh. He swung the hand-carbine toward movement on his left. His light blue eyes were cold, expecting danger. For the moment, weariness was forgotten as body and mind shifted to his natural inclination to fight. His fingers tightened around the trigger before his mind ordered it.
A lost calf! His trigger finger eased as he realized the small animal was watching him curiously from the middle of an uneven thicket of misshapen bushes. Shaking his head, he muttered sarcastically, “You’re a little jumpy, Ranger. Or do you think Silver’s going to disguise himself as a cow? Or one of those rain clouds?”
Reining his horse, he relaxed and waved the gun at the calf to get it started back toward a herd in the valley below. Instead of running, the small animal cocked its head to the side and bawled loudly.
“Oh, go on, boy. Your mama is going to think we’re hurting you.” Carlow looked around but saw no cow anywhere near.
He waved his arms again without any reaction from the calf. He couldn’t help thinking his uncle, Ranger Aaron “Old Thunder” Kileen, would have announced that it was a sign of death in the family if a cow wandered from the field into one’s garden. Carlow would have pointed out this wasn’t a garden, but that wouldn’t matter to Kileen. In honor of him, the young Ranger cursed out loud, an Irish curse his uncle often spat.
Chance took Carlow’s swearing as a signal to get involved and ran at the calf growling and nipping at its heels. The calf wanted none of this nastiness and took off, running in gangly strides that made Carlow laugh. He yelled at Chance to return. The wolf-dog needed no such restriction, too tired to chase the animal more than a few steps.
Years in the Texas sun had browned Carlow permanently, and more than one person had mistaken him for a Comanche. But he was pure Irish. Black Irish, to be exact. Born of an Irish warrior who died sailing with his pregnant wife to the New World. Kileen was the only father he had ever known, helping raise him and caring for Carlow’s mother until she, too, died when the boy was twelve.
Texas Ranger Kileen would not have been many people’s idea of a model father. His past was clouded with questionable deeds and superstitious ways, having been a bare-knuckle prizefighter and worse to keep his sister and her child in food and shelter in New York and, later, in Texas. That didn’t stop Kileen from serving in the Confederacy with Captain McNelly—and now serving Texas as a Ranger. But he loved Carlow unconditionally and was very proud his nephew had joined him on the state police force.
Long black hair brushed against Carlow’s shoulders, matching his tailored dark mustache and brooding eyebrows. He was a deceptively strong young man with a solid chest, heavily muscled arms, a boyish grin that could charm women of any age and disarm most men, and an ability to use a gun that men like Silver Mallow feared.
“What say we find some cover for a while, Shadow?” Carlow patted the sweating neck of his black horse. “There’s no need to get soaked. Besides, I’m so tired, I’m seeing Silver Mallow everywhere.”
Lightning pushed through the hole between the rapidly darkening clouds. Thunder followed. A few raindrops splattered on the rim of his hat with its wide brim pushed up permanently in front. The proud black was suddenly alert, his ears cocked; Carlow reasoned Shadow was trying to determine the extent of the advancing storm. He may have overreacted to the threat of an ambush here, but already the rain was becoming serious, pounding the earth into a soaked surrender. His voice calmed the big horse. Rolling his neck to relieve his own tension, he leaned back to untie his trail coat from its rolled-up position behind the cantle.
The knots were tight, instead of their normal quick-pull tie. As the rain sought him, he lowered his shoulders and head to get a better angle on loosening the wet rawhide string. A naughty breeze flipped up the kerchief tied loosely around his neck and momentarily blocked his vision. He yanked the cloth sideways so it would lie out of the way on his right shoulder.
At first, Ranger Carlow thought it was thunder as the sound of a rifle reached him. His head jerked sideways, followed by a red line popping across his left temple. His hat went flying. The impact spun him halfway around as if yanked by a rope. A second bullet ripped across his upper right coat sleeve. A third burned Shadow’s right flank. He lost the reins, along with his balance, and fell flailing from the saddle. His hand-carbine tried to fly by itself. One of his two canteens joined the flight.
Terrified, the black galloped away, leaving Carlow dazed and disoriented in a swale beside the rain-darkening trail. The disruption of the horse passing between him and his ambusher hidden in the rock lodge far to his right—and the blurring rain—momentarily kept him from being a helpless target. He frantically searched the rain-soaked ground for his hand-carbine. A short-barreled Colt was also holstered on the left side of his gunbelt, its walnut handle tilted forward for a right-handed draw. But his favorite weapon was the cut-down Winchester.
Rain pelted at his eyes, but the water was keeping a line of blood from reaching them. Strands of long black hair stuck against his chiseled face. A coat sleeve was ripped, and he thought his arm was hit. He fought off the shock of his head being grazed, found the gun, and fired a random shot. Return fire snapped angrily two feet from his shoulder. Wildly, he looked for somewhere to hide.
A downed oak tree twenty yards away was the closest cover. He scrambled toward it, firing once more. His head thudded with each step, as if his brain were being jolted first one way, then another. Around him sickening thumps of bullets striking trees were matched by the sounds of lead ripping through branches. Another shot bounced off the oak tree as he stumbled for cover within its uneven shadows. Thickening rain was saving his life, giving Silver Mallow only a flickering target.
After sprawling behind a fallen tree, Carlow levered his gun into readiness. The Winchester’s barrel and stock had been carefully cut down by a Waco gunsmith, who had also created the unusual belt holster of rawhide bands and thick leather backing tied to his leg. On its shortened walnut stock was carved a Celtic marking, an ancient war symbol for victory, or so his superstitious uncle declared.
An enlarged circular lever increased cocking speed. So the weapon gave him the quick handling of a pistol combined with a rifle’s punch and accuracy. But not quite its full distance. Handling the gun one-handed, like a pistol, came easily to him. Or he could brace it against his hip and lever shots faster than most could fan a pistol.
Right now, though, he would have traded it for the long-barreled 1863 Sharps rifle on his saddle. Converted to centerfire cartridges, it was a standard arm for post–Civil War Rangers. Silver Mallow was positioned far enough away to make it difficult to reach him without such firepower. Was that just luck, or had the outlaw been smart enough to realize the cut-down carbine didn’t have the same range as a rifle?
Carlow realized Mallow’s injured shoulder—from the gunshot when he was captured—should be tender enough to keep him from holding the gun effectively. His blackened eye and battered face and ribs might have played a role, too; they had come from the fists of Carlow’s uncle. Or was it just by chance the young Ranger had moved his head at the right time?
If he were there, Kileen would nod and mutter, “By me sister’s honored grave, ’tis the luck of a mad Welshman.” It wouldn’t matter that Mallow wasn’
t Welsh. Then Kileen surely would have added, “I should’a killed hisself when I be havin’ the chance. Him right in front o’ me fists an’ all. ’Tis only a few ribs I be breakin’.”
Within the protection of the tree, Ranger Carlow gulped for air that wouldn’t come fast enough. The shooting had stopped. Where was his wolf-dog? Had Chance been hit? He surveyed the open land in all directions. Within the wall of rain, he saw the blurred image of his black horse standing off to the side of the trail. Or was it a tree broken in half by fierce weather?
Chapter Two
Squinting again into the torrent of rain, Carlow decided it was definitely Shadow, standing quietly with the loosened end of Carlow’s long trail coat draped over his rear. The young Ranger wasn’t surprised; the great mount was too steady to leave him.
Still, he didn’t see Chance. He frowned and tried to concentrate. At the moment there were no signs of the escaped outlaw. Mallow was either moving to a new location along that yellowish hill to the Ranger’s right or waiting for Carlow to show himself, or closing in. All Carlow could see was rain.
Maybe it was smart to be superstitious like his uncle. Carlow wished the gruff Irish Ranger were with him right now. Kileen would confidently tap his rifle three times on a tree, yell out some strange-sounding Celtic plea, and proudly announce that the land’s faeries, “gods of the land,” would be helping them soon. Then he would warn Carlow to speak carefully about them, always calling the “wee people” as “gentry,” for they were easily offended and might leave on the merest sense of being slighted. Not many people believed in them anymore, he said, and that was why they were so rarely seen. Then he would remind Carlow that they lived in places such as this.
That would bring a laughing comment from Carlow that believing in such creatures was helped if a person drank a lot, which his uncle did. Undismayed, Kileen would describe the little people at length, even if they were under fire, as he was now. How their form would change on a whim, and so would their interest. With his huge head cocked, he would state the only hardworking faery was the leprechaun. The rest spent their time in combat or feasts, making love or beautiful music.