Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  Few would have believed a horse and rider could pass through the trees, much less traverse the rocky incline. He chuckled to himself that a fellow could make some money just betting that it could be done. But the joke fell hollow as the realization that his tired horse had been forced to travel the incline twice consumed his mind. What bothered him more were fresh tracks at the base of the ridge. A rider had stopped at the ridge before backtracking. He remembered thinking so. It had to be Silver Mallow searching for him. A shiver strolled along his back.

  “Yes, Thunder,” he muttered. “I know that means someone is stepping on my grave. But not today, Uncle. Not today.”

  As Carlow approached the site of yesterday’s ambush, he saw his second canteen resting in the middle of a split-apart bush a few feet from the trail. Only someone searching would have seen it easily. He dismounted slowly, reminding himself of the need to keep his head still so he wouldn’t get dizzy again. Chance was fascinated by the fallen canteen and came close to inspect it before Carlow reached the bush.

  “Still thirsty, boy? Here.” Carlow removed his hat and poured in liquid from the retrieved canteen.

  But Chance was interested only in a few licks. The young Ranger offered the remaining hatful to Shadow, who wouldn’t drink at all. That was a good sign. At least the great horse was not hurting for water, Carlow decided. Drawing his hand-carbine, he remounted and rode around the hillside where Mallow had been. How innocent the land appeared now, softened by the rain. No one would view it as a place of potential death.

  The outlaw’s new tracks, created since the storm passed, were easy to read in the wet ground. Mallow was riding southeast and staying off the main trail. He rode without attempting to cover his tracks, or so it appeared. Carlow wondered if Mallow had decided it wasn’t worth the effort, or if the outlaw thought Carlow was too badly hurt to follow. If Kileen were there, he would have reminded the young Ranger the only smart way to figure was that Mallow was leading him into another ambush.

  Kayitah would have agreed and told him to watch for signs that Mallow’s horse, too, was weary. It would mean the outlaw would have to stop and hole up, waiting for Carlow—or find a place to switch mounts. Carlow nodded his head in agreement with both imagined observations and rode with the hand-carbine resting across his saddle.

  Mallow’s cross-country trail provided ample opportunities for the outlaw to lie in wait for him. Gray rock formations jammed outward from the still green, grassy land like giant knives cutting into a carpet. Where the land was punched upward into a series of hills, the rock structures continued, looking like giant umbrellas. Big chunks of loose rock and silt covered his path, lined by rows of bedraggled bushes. At once both ugly and beautiful. In the distance was a river of cattle surrounded by swaying grass. Mallow’s horse left a continuous string of hoofprints and whitish marks on the rocks. Definitely the story of a man pushing hard and not taking the time to cover his direction. Or was this exactly what Mallow wanted it to look like? Carlow’s fierce pursuit had nearly cost him his life; he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  With his gun cocked, Carlow studied each swale and crevice, every boulder and hillside, before moving forward. His head throbbed somewhat, but he was definitely feeling stronger and no longer dizzy. His shoulder cut was only a mere annoyance when he rolled it. Actually his stomach bothered him more than his wounds. Breakfast gurgled its discontent. Frustrated by the need to ride carefully, he found it difficult to stay focused on the countless places where Mallow might choose to hide.

  Staying so alert was difficult with his head and stomach competing for attention. He eased the hammer of his cocked sawed-off rifle back down. It was safer in this rocky passage. A sudden jolt could bring an unwanted firing with possibly sad results. He shivered at the thought of accidentally shooting his horse and patted the animal’s neck in a silent apology for the unintended danger. To himself, Carlow acknowledged his slow progress was also a way to give Shadow much-needed rest; he must forget about closing the distance between them for the moment. Either that or risk hurting his horse permanently. Shadow was game as ever but already stumbling over nothing and breathing hard.

  At the last rock formation, he reholstered the weapon and dismounted to let his horse rest. Carlow shook his head, delivering pain to his wound. Chance came to his side and rubbed against his leg. The young Ranger filled his hat with water from his second canteen and gave it to the wolf-dog. This time Chance lapped it eagerly. When the wolf-dog was finished, Carlow refilled the hat for Shadow. Unlike earlier, the horse gulped the liquid and Carlow gave him more.

  Carlow’s mind drifted toward Silver Mallow. The outlaw’s enjoyment of silver jewelry had led to his nickname. Paul Sedrick Mallow was the only son of a Methodist circuit preacher and was himself once a town sheriff in Ohio. When he wasn’t in disguise, Mallow liked to wear a ring on each finger and a silver chain necklace with a solid silver cross. A look of opulence and greed.

  In a strange bit of coincidence, Carlow also wore a silver chain with a Celtic cross under his shirt. It was the only physical thing remaining of his mother. On her deathbed, she told him his father had worn it. A bold and courageous Irish warrior, she had told him often, making a father’s loss in the boy’s life even greater, if that was possible. His father had died during the ocean-crossing to America. Time Carlow was born an American; his mother was very proud of that. She was a woman filled with the same romantic notions of other worlds and had named her only son “Time” because she thought the English word meant “eternal.”

  The physical similarities between Carlow and Mallow didn’t stop with a chain necklace. Many thought Carlow and Mallow looked much alike, except the outlaw was at least ten years older and usually clean-shaven. Both were tanned, dark-haired, blue-eyed, and considered handsome by most women. They were nearly the same size and build, although Carlow was more heavily muscled. Carlow didn’t see the resemblance and was annoyed whenever the comparison was mentioned. His uncle never brought it up, knowing his nephew’s sensitivity about the subject.

  In a more realistic mood, Carlow decided any likeness now would be further distorted by Mallow’s swollen and bruised face, a terrible blackened eye, and two missing teeth, all courtesy of Kileen’s whipping prior to his escape. But the idea of any physical similarity between Mallow and himself was difficult for Carlow to accept, regardless of the beating.

  Especially since Paul Mallow—“Silver” as Texans knew him—was considered a half-mad killer. Satan incarnate, some said. A few excused his behavior, attributing it to either syphilis or a childhood head injury. Many thought his other fascination, music, was related to this imbalance. Others said it was a gift from God. Supposedly he could play several instruments and enjoyed listening to everything from symphonic orchestration to sweet-fiddle waltzes to cowboy songs and popular music.

  Carlow, Kileen, and the rest of the Special Ranger Force that had been formed to bring order to this part of Texas thought the former Ohio sheriff discovered he liked stealing and killing. Simple as that. In the end, what difference did it make? Silver Mallow was a cunning and evil menace. And Carlow’s job was to bring him to justice. He and Kileen, with the help of some courageous Bennett townsmen, had already destroyed Mallow’s gang.

  Now there was only Silver Mallow himself, and he was running. It wasn’t lost on the Ranger that Mallow was treacherous even to his own, leaving jailed friends behind to hang while he got away. He knew Mallow had realized a full jail break would have caused too much alarm in the town and would have jeopardized his own escape. So when the time came, Mallow turned his back on the very men who had pledged their allegiance to him.

  Chance growled, and Carlow whipped his long coat back with his right hand as it headed toward his holstered hand-carbine.

  Chapter Five

  The young Ranger quickly realized the wolf-dog’s anger was focused on a jackrabbit bounding across the hillside. Too far away for Chance to care to pursue.

  “Next time, b
oy, next time.”

  Carlow remounted and rode on. The ground was uneven but not as cluttered with crumbled rock, shifting silt, and hardened brush. Horse, man, and wolf-dog finally cleared the hard, chewy terrain, and the flat prairie welcomed them with easier riding. His occasional glances at the sky kept confirming the threat of rain wasn’t over, as clouds continued to gather their storm council. His long coat hadn’t dried out yet from yesterday. Neither had his clothes, for that matter.

  An hour later, he came upon a small, tidy ranch house, surrounded by a fence, half firmly in place and half defeated, lying on the ground. Mallow’s trail led there as well. A stone cooling house for meat and milk, a silent bunkhouse, a sturdy-looking barn, and an unpainted shed were positioned around the house like old friends at a Sunday social. Near three tall cottonwoods was a wagon missing a wheel. Standing guard over the yard was a tall windmill, creaking to do its job for a stone well that looked older than the land.

  Carlow drew his hand-carbine and held it across his saddle. A party of chickens wobbled across the bare earth, sharing the day’s gossip with afternoon shadows, then hurrying somewhere important. As he passed the barn, an unseen milking cow bellowed, hoping the hens would come to visit. In the corral, twenty feet from the well, he saw a dozen horses milling and thought he might be able to buy one and let Shadow tag along behind for a while. It was the least he could do.

  From the freshness of the tracks, Carlow thought Mallow had been there early that morning. It was impossible to tell if he remained or had ridden on. Certainly the place was quiet, but that was normal this time of year. Most hands would be out with their herds. He must assume Mallow was here. Hiding. Somewhere. Carlow’s right fist tightened around the cut-down Winchester, and his fingers slid inside the trigger guard and circular lever. He thumbed back the hammer of the already cocked weapon

  First, his eyes caught movement on the side of the house, and he realized almost instantly that it was just wet clothes trembling on a washday line. Through the front door burst a gray-haired lady holding a double-barreled shotgun. Her once-white apron carried something heavy in the right-hand pocket. A pistol, most likely. She paused on the unpainted porch like some alerted military sentry. Her stance was defiant, reinforced with a strong jaw and straight back. Hazelgreen eyes flickered with intensity. He reined up fifteen feet away.

  Was Mallow inside, directing her? She didn’t seem like a woman being forced to act or easily intimidated. Was anyone else on the place? Carlow wasn’t certain but didn’t think so. Even her husband would likely be with their herd.

  Except for an apron, she was dressed for ranch work in a well-worn, faded blue shirt, leather cuffs, and a buckskin riding skirt fringed at the bottom. Her graying hair was pulled back under a wide-brimmed hat that obviously had seen much wear. Robust and thick-bodied, she was a woman for whom the perils of the land were respected but not feared. Of German descent, he guessed. A woman strong enough to handle some men in a fair fight. The shotgun in her hands looked comfortable there and no bluff.

  “I’m Ranger Time Carlow,” he announced loudly. “A dangerous outlaw, Silver Mallow, passed through—”

  “Ja. A reiter stopped like yah ist now. Just before der sun to be rising, it vere,” she interrupted, with German words and phrases slipping in and out of her speech with ease. “Sweet-talking, he vas. Ja. And handsome as a neu tag. At least, it seems so under der swelling. Der face vas full of beating, Ich think.”

  Carlow nodded his head in agreement as his eyes sought to determine if Mallow was inside the house, watching. But morning glare from the two small windows was not going to allow any discovery.

  The German woman was eager to explain further. “He reiten in singing der song . . . ooch, vat is it? Ja, Der Roses of Yellow. That ist der song.” Her gaze took in the gray hills behind Carlow. “A Southron gentleman. Not be seeing viele . . . Ooch, I forget mein words sometimes. Not seeing many of his kind around hier.”

  “He rode on?” Carlow turned his head slightly to try to avoid the reflection from the glass but still couldn’t see any movement within the windows’ darkness.

  The possibility of Mallow watching—and aiming at him—from there made him want to shoot the windows. Surely he wouldn’t let this woman keep her weapons—or were they unloaded and designed to make him relax?

  “After we to be trading hosses. That ist sein, ah, his bay, in der corral, it ist.” She motioned toward the corral.

  Carlow recognized the horse standing quietly at the far edge of the enclosure. A fine animal owned by a Bennett merchant, it had been stabled in the town livery. He took satisfaction in noting the white-sweat-dried animal was definitely trail-worn and couldn’t have gone much farther. Out of the corner of his eye, he studied the windows and doorway for any signs of movement behind her; none were there. If Mallow were around, why wouldn’t he shoot?

  “Be a veek or so before der bay ist to work. Leastwise, that’s vat Charlie, he be thinkin’. Ja, but ist gut hossflesh.” She cradled the shotgun in her folded arms. “Do yah be a bruder? Ich see much of him . . . in your face.”

  Carlow’s mouth twitched at the remark and his eyes flashed.

  She realized the significance of what she had said, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Verzeihung. Nein offense. Mein Gott, Ich beg your pardon, Herr Ranger. Did yah be giving him der beating? He vere hurting in der shoulder, ja, he vere. Moving stifflike. Bad in der ribs, maybe so.”

  “No, ma’am, we aren’t related,” Carlow answered, irritation taking over for his concern about the outlaw hiding. “You’re right, though, he was wounded and beaten by . . . another Ranger . . . when he was arrested. For murder and rustling. Did he ask for—”

  “Vanted food,” she interrupted again. “Charlie did not to be liking his looks. Told him Ich had nein food to spare, so he to be riding on. Ja, and Charlie’s Vinchester might be having to do with his going.” She chuckled.

  Charlie must be her husband, Carlow thought. He was probably covering him with a rifle right now. His eyes searched the windows again without discovery. No matter, these people didn’t know how fortunate they had been; Mallow could have murdered them just for the fun of it. The young Ranger’s mind released the worry about the outlaw’s remaining on the ranch. If she was being held against her will, she was the best actress he’d ever seen.

  “Yah sure du ist nein kin?” This time her eyes sparkled at her joke.

  Not realizing she was teasing this time, the continued reference to their similar appearance brought a frown to his tanned forehead, but Carlow ignored the remark. “Ma’am, I’d like to buy a good horse if you’ve a mind to it,” Carlow said, touching the brim of his hat. “Got gold to pay, not script. I’ll ride on if you’d rather. My horse is a good one. He’s just wind broke and—”

  “Vere ist your badge?” Her question was like a blast from the gun she carried.

  He smiled a lopsided grin and the last of his concerns vanished. “In my pocket. Here.” He patted his vest with his left hand. “Don’t wear it when I’m on the trail be—”

  “Because yah do not vant it to be giving yourself away vit shining from der sonne.”

  Carlow’s smile broadened to his whole face. “Yeah, that’s right. Would you like to see it?”

  “Naw. Ich have nein need.” She hesitated. “Ich to be Mrs. Beatrice Von Pearce, owner of der Cradle 6. Mein friends to call me Bea.”

  Owner? Carlow wanted to ask more but thought it would be impolite. Probably just a figure of speech. She and her husband would be the owners; Charlie must be his name, he guessed.

  A wide smile warmed her next request. “Vould to be liking yah to be holstering der big gun. Not be seeing one like it, Ich think. Ist that to be a Vinchester?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Cut down . . .”

  “So yah can to be using it like der pistol.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Like the one in your apron.” He eased the trigger down and holstered the weapon. He figured on carrying it again at the ready w
hen he left.

  She smiled and patted her apron. “Always there, it be. Mein husband . . . Herman . . . bless his soul . . . he said it should always be there. So it ist so.” She patted the heavy shape in her apron pocket. “It ist, how yah say? Doubling der achtung. Der fine men, Herr Smith and Herr Wesserman, Ich believe, made der gun.”

  “Smith and Wesson.” Carlow’s thoughts went to the earlier name she had mentioned. If Herman was her husband, then who was this Charlie she talked about? He wanted to ask but thought that would be impolite.

  “Ja. Ich clean der Herr Smith and Herr . . . Wesson . . . gun every day. It remind me of mein Herman.” She turned her head away for an instant. “He ist . . . passed. It ist hard for me to say in English. Mein heart does not vant it said.”

  “I understand. I’m sorry.” Her husband was dead so the reference to being the owner was no exaggeration. His impression of her late husband was that of a man who was thorough, but he was still curious about this Charlie, whoever he was.

  “Go over to der corral. Put your saddle on mein buckskin. He vill run until yah be to catching der rainbow.” She pointed at the corral with her shotgun, then smiled broadly. “Vit der rain, yah just might do that. Catching der rainbow.” She looked up into the sky. “More rain be coming tonight. Ja, it be.”

  “I think you’re right. Sky looks kinda hard.” His eyes caught her face. “How much for the buckskin?”

  “If yah to be bringing him back, there ist nein cost. If yah vant to own him, twenty gold dollars.”

  “That would be pretty steep—but not as steep as trading for my black.”

  “Ja.” Her smile was wide. “Now yah to come inside. Eat. A hot meal yah be needing. Make yah strong to catch bad man. Best sausages around hier, I make for yah.” She studied him for a moment. “Yah ist need to clean der pants, too, Ich see. Yah ist been playin’ in der mud.”