Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  A hard-faced woman with wrinkle maps around her eyes, yet warmth and laughter were just a smile away, he thought. Carlow’s chuckle was the only answer needed. She returned it instantly with her own. Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

  “Yeah, I look a mess, I know. Ate my own cookin’ this morning, too—an’ it’s been workin’ on me ever since.” He grinned again. “But I better keep after him. I’m getting close. Sure is tempting, though.”

  “Looks like yah haff been too close already so,” she said, cocking her head to the side, still smiling, and pointed at the side of Carlow’s head, where redness had taken charge of the bullet crease.

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s true.” His hand touched the wound, and he flinched. “I’ll get him, though.”

  To stay and eat was something his mind thought was a grand idea. Spending time there seemed right. Maybe he should rest for the afternoon and night. Let the coming rain pass, instead of getting soaked again. After all, he had been able to pick up Mallow’s trail after yesterday’s rain. And the man was obviously headed for Presidio. His stomach readily agreed. Were hunger and weariness the reason, or was fear there, too? The only reason Mallow hadn’t killed him yesterday was luck. Pure luck.

  A thirteenth bullet. The thought hit him like another gunshot. Could that explain why Mallow’s first shot barely missed? Kileen always preached avoiding the use of a thirteenth bullet because it would not fly true.

  Carlow’s mind rejected the superstition. Pure and simple, he had turned his head without realizing the significance of the movement at the time. His uncle would authoritatively advise the young Ranger that it was faeries who pushed him out of harm’s way. Was that possible? Of course not.

  He realized the German woman was watching as he reflected on his decision to stay. “Sorry, ma’am. I’m moving a bit slow today.”

  “Ich do haff nein doubt of such. Mein Gott, yah be lucky to be alive, Ich think. Be looking like he almost to get yah.” Her expression was that of geniune worry. “Der little people must think high of yourself, ja.”

  Wishing she hadn’t made reference to “little people,” he touched the wound again. Gentler this time. He still winced.

  She shook her head. “Vile yah be saddling mein buckskin, Ich vill fix yah food to take. Yah can eat on der ride. Nein?”

  “That’s mighty nice of you, ma’am, but you sure don’t need to go to any trouble for me.” His stomach wanted him to be more forceful in accepting her offer.

  “Ja, yah must be eating to stay strong, Herr Ranger.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t turn down good food. My stomach would disown me for sure. But I’d best keep moving.”

  “Do nein to giving vater to your black of yet. Let himself to be standing in der corral und rest. Vater now vill knot him fierce. Ooch, schlecht. Ah, bad.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You ist Irish, nein?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Proud of it.” Carlow’s face stiffened. He knew what was coming next. In many homes, coloreds were more welcome than Irish. “If you wish, I will ride on.”

  “Nein. Nein. Mein Gott, nein! Mein Herman, he tell me der Irish are gut. Work hard. We haff der Irish to vork for us, ja. They be contrary some, but they be gut.” Her smile was one of earnestness and concern. “There ist even Italians farming a half day of riding away. It ist changing around hier.” She laid her shotgun against the porch railing and held her hands together as if to pray. “Yah haff nein Irish tongue.” It was a question, presented as a statement.

  “No, ma’am. My mother, bless her soul, made sure I didn’t,” Carlow said. “Never think about it much.”

  He eased himself from the saddle, aware that she continued to study him. He told Chance to stay where he was and be quiet. Surely the woman had noticed the wolf-dog before now, he thought.

  “Now if my uncle was here, you’d have no doubt about him being a son of Erin. That’s for sure.”

  “Entschuldigung, there ist something in vonderment about a young man vit all that gun—and a volf too.” She cocked her head to the side as if part of an implied question.

  Carlow stopped. “He will wait here, ma’am. Chance isn’t all wolf . . .”

  “Ist more volf than ist not, Ich to be thinking. Like his master. If he nein to scare der hosses or der chickens, Ich do nein care vhere he puts hisself.” As an afterthought, the woman announced loudly, “Charlie’s around back, fixing der tack he be. Charlie Two-Wolves.”

  Charlie Two-Wolves? What kind of a cowhand was an Indian?

  “Vatch der braun mare. She be der boss of der corral—und she vill vant to make surely yah be gut to der others. Sadie vas mein Herman’s favorite,” Bea said, placing a hand to her forehead to help study the corral. “Sadie be old now, like me, but var strong, I be thinking.”

  Carlow knew it was normal for the oldest healthy mare to rule the herd. The pecking order in any herd of horses was determined by the horses themselves, with the youngest usually at the bottom.

  “Der grulla, he ist to be liking to fight but never he bother der buckskin. Nein,” she continued without looking away from the corral. “But der grulla vill carry der right man into var. That ist vhat mein Herman always to say. Ja. So vill der buckskin. He better fer yah, Ich think.”

  “Horses are always afraid,” Carlow said. “That’s what keeps them alive. Some run, some fight. But if they see you as their leader, they’ll trust you.”

  Bea dropped her arm, looked at him, and smiled warmly. “Yah to be sounding like mein Herman.”

  “Thank you. Wish I had known him.” Carlow nodded. “He must’ve been a very good man.”

  “Ja, he vas gut man.” She glanced away.

  His mental questions about her late husband were shoved aside as slight movement in the doorway’s darkness caught his attention. His hand slipped under his long coat to his holstered sawed-off rifle.

  Chapter Six

  A small girl in a faded green dress and bare feet squeezed through the door and caught sight of Carlow and his wolf-dog. Her wide eyes matched those of Bea Pearce. The older woman put out her hand to stop the child but it was too late. She came toward Carlow, long blond braids bouncing across her back.

  “Hi, I’m Hattie. I’m eight. Is that a wolf?” She stopped a few feet away.

  Carlow knelt beside Shadow and quietly told Chance to sit. “No, but he’s part that. His name is Chance.”

  “Can I pet him?”

  Carlow glanced up at Bea Von Pearce. A long frown crossed her forehead. The young Ranger wasn’t sure if the displeasure was because the girl was interested in an apparently wild animal or because she was standing directly in the line of fire of Bea’s shotgun if she had to pick it up again quickly.

  “It’s all right, ma’am.” Carlow told the girl to hold out her hand for Chance to smell before she tried to touch him, so he could check her out.

  “I know,” Hattie said. “We used to have a dog, but Luke was killed. By some bad men. A year back, it was. We buried him . . . over there.” She pointed in the direction of a young oak tree twenty yards from the house. “Gramma thought the shade would be nice.”

  “I’m sorry. Hattie, right?”

  “Well, actually it’s Henrietta Anne. But my gramma calls me Hattie. I live with her.”

  Carlow patted her arm. “I’ll bet you have fun together.”

  Hattie’s large brown eyes studied him as she continued to pet Chance. The beast responded with a soft lick on her arm. “It was funner when Grampy was with us. He told me lots of fun stories. Do you know any stories?” She cocked her head to the side, and it reminded Carlow of the girl’s grandmother. Not waiting for his answer, she asked another question. “Are you here to help us with all those bad men stealing our cows?”

  “That to be enough, Hattie. Yah to be helfen me fix der supper. Herr Ranger needs to be saddling der buckskin.”

  “Are you taking Buck away?”

  Before he could answer, a short, stocky Indian carrying a Winchester rounded
the corner of the house. His dark eyes searched Carlow and showed no inclination toward friendliness. Something else was there, too. Fear? Sadness? Carlow couldn’t read the emotion. The man was probably Comanche, Carlow guessed. He wasn’t thick-featured as a Kiowa would be. Nor did he have the facial appearance of any Apache he knew. Certainly not like Kayitah or his family.

  This must be the Charlie Two-Wolves that Bea had mentioned earlier. His age was impossible to guess; the Indian could have been twenty or forty or anywhere in between. A wide-brimmed hat kept a shadow across most of his face. Shiny black hair streamed to his shoulders. He wore a checkered shirt, breeches, worn mule-eared boots with aged and rusty Mexican spurs, and a large knife carried in a plain sheath on his belt. His stained necktie looked out of place on a cowhand, much less an Indian, giving him an oddly formal presence.

  Carlow could imagine his Apache friend wearing such clothing if he were in the same situation. Except for Two-Wolves’s stained white man’s necktie at his buttoned collar. Like other Apaches, Kayitah would have shunned any showy attire and would not have worn paint or other decorations. He simply let his skills in tracking and warfare speak for him. Having a friend like Kayitah made Carlow appreciate the Indians’ ways as his uncle did not. But it made him no less wary. Likely Two-Wolves was wild and dangerous, in spite of his dirty ranch clothes.

  Why did this woman keep such a man around? Carlow wondered. Or did she not have a choice? Maybe he was holding both the old woman and the little girl captive. No, that didn’t make any sense, not with her having a shotgun and a pistol. Carlow’s gaze connected with the Comanche wrangler’s eyes for a long moment. Two-Wolves’s intensity was equal to Carlow’s own.

  Finally Two-Wolves looked away at the buckskin, but not before sunlight crossed his left cheek and Carlow saw heavy scarring. As if from a fire. The disfigurment covered most of the side of his face. The young Ranger tried not to stare, letting his attention follow toward the horse.

  Bea Von Pearce spoke first, aware of the visual clash. “Charlie, this to be Herr Ranger Time Carlow. He ist after der man from this morn. Mein Gott, der reiter that ve traded with hosses, the one yah nein be trusting. Herr Ranger ist going to take der buckskin. He to be leaving der handsome black . . . to rest. Ve care for it. Ich go inside now and fix supper to take vit him.”

  Charlie Two-Wolves nodded. His eyes briefly showed a relief that Carlow didn’t understand. Nothing else in the Indian’s manner gave away feelings. A stray glance at Chance quickly returned to Carlow along with the hint of a question in the man’s face. Without saying anything, he walked toward the back of the ranch where he had come from.

  Carlow told Chance to stay where he was and hoped the wolf-dog wouldn’t seek any of the chickens he had seen earlier. That was a lot to expect, but the young Ranger found himself telling two scurrying hens that Chance would not go after them anyway. He took a few steps, leading his horse, stopped, and looked back. Chance had eased into a full resting position.

  “Good boy. You stay there, got it?” He continued walking toward the corral. He stopped Shadow outside the fence and flipped the reins around a middle pole.

  The black horse stood quietly, barely noticing the other horses stomping and snorting inside the enclosure. After unsaddling and unbridling him, Carlow made a rope halter from his lariat and retied the animal to the same pole. Shadow’s glistening back was wiped dry with his saddle blanket and handfuls of straw taken from a pile next to the corral. The big horse was breathing deeply. The young Ranger chastised himself for pushing the animal so hard. He agreed with Bea Von Pearce’s observation about not letting the horse have any water yet.

  He stood for a moment, apologizing to Shadow while he ran his hands along each leg to check for unseen problems. Shadow shivered when Carlow returned to the sore spots on the tendons in his forelegs. Carlow touched them again, lightly this time. Shadow’s reaction was slight but definite. Carlow sighed. He was lucky. A few days’ rest should do it. The dense tissue was tender but not damaged. He was certain of that.

  Finally satisfied there were no major injuries, he pulled the knife from his legging sheath as he took the right rear hoof in his left hand. He popped out a small stone from where it had lodged against the shoe. Further probing assured him the iron itself was firmly in place and needed no rehammering. The other three hooves were clean and the shoes, tight. He patted the black horse again, apologizing once more for working him too hard, and promised the powerful mount that he would now get to rest.

  Grabbing a coiled lariat hanging over the gate pole, Carlow snaked out a large loop as he walked toward the milling horses in the corral and stopped with the rope at his side. Predictably, the brown mare took a position in front of the other milling horses. Whinnying, snorting, and stamping hooves filled the air. The fiery grulla reared and made frightening noises. The young Ranger didn’t move. Gradually, the lead mare took a step toward him, ears alert, head up.

  He made no attempt to move. “Good day, my lady. I came to borrow your buckskin friend. Would that be all right with you?”

  His soft voice reassured her. The mare’s head lowered and she stepped next to him, eager for his attention. He rubbed her nose and ears and patted her back. “You’ve seen some doin’, lady. In your day, you were something, I’ll bet.”

  After the exchange, the lead mare turned away to rejoin the rest. The animals seemed to relax—all but the fiery grulla, who continued to stamp and paw at the ground. With a smile, Carlow watched the horse. “Yeah, big fella, I know you’re tough. But I’ll bet you can go, too. Next time, maybe. I’m going with Bea’s suggestion, all right?”

  Carlow ignored him and walked toward the buckskin at the back of the corral. Horses parted like brown water hitting a rock. A quick flip of his wrist settled the hemp restraint over the buckskin’s head, and the animal stood quietly. The horse accepted the saddle without moving but kept his mouth closed and shook his head up and down to avoid the bit.

  “Come on now, Buck, that’s no way to act,” he admonished, and held the animal’s head steady. Carlow’s fingers pinched the horse’s lips against his teeth and the buckskin opened wide to receive the metal bit. “That’s better, my friend. We’ve got to get acquainted. You and me.” He strapped on the head stall and walked the sturdy animal out of the corral. Outside he looped the reins over a corral pole ten feet from where Shadow stood. The buckskin looked every bit as good as Bea Von Pearce had indicated. Thick chest, long legs, and mile-eating frame.

  To his black horse watching him, Carlow said, “No, he can’t hold a candle to you, Shadow. I’ll be back. You rest. I’ll be back.”

  After filling his two canteens from the Von Pearce well, he returned to the black horse. Patting his proud neck, Carlow determined the animal had cooled down enough to drink, so he led Shadow to a large watering trough inside the corral. A large bay horse, standing apart from the others, studied Shadow, deciding whether or not the black horse would be an adversary for his position in the corral order. In the middle of the corral, the grulla’s ears flattened and it turned toward Carlow and Shadow but didn’t come closer. Watching from the far fence rail, the lead brown mare whinnied a welcome.

  Carlow knew what would happen if he let Shadow loose now with the other horses. There would be a time of determining his horse’s rightful place among the group. Leading or following, and if following, behind which horse. There was always a definite pecking order among horses. Like men, Carlow thought. Only horses dealt with it right up front.

  “You could handle all of them, my friend. Together at the same time. But not today,” Carlow muttered to himself.

  After letting him drink, but not too much, the young Ranger led the black horse back outside the corral and retied Shadow to the corral post. His gaze took in the bullet graze on his flank; his fingers followed and assured him that the wound was healing. He would suggest to Mrs. Von Pearce that Shadow be left to himself for a couple of days until his strength fully returned. Off to his left, a
sage hen scurried to a better hiding place and reminded him of the possibility that Mallow had doubled back and was watching the ranch right now.

  As he patted the black’s back, his eyes studied the land around him. Although it was mostly flat prairie, a knowing man could lie prone and be difficult to see. Kayitah had taught him that, disappearing in open land by seemingly becoming a part of it and not moving. Not moving at all. He took a deep breath and let the air slip back between clenched teeth. Nothing was there. Even the sage hen had disappeared. He looked again, forcing himself to concentrate. His head pounded, reminding him how close to death Mallow had just brought him.

  He reviewed the land once more for shadows that shouldn’t be there. Unless Mallow was a ghost, no one was within rifle-shooting distance. In spite of the tension crawling within him, he chuckled. If he’d heard Carlow make such a comment about Mallow’s not being a ghost, Kileen would have jumped and told him not to make fun of such things.

  Of course, there was the possibility that Mallow assumed Carlow was too badly wounded to continue following him and rode on without worrying. He might. Presidio was only two hours away if he kept to the same trail. A man could lose himself there without too much trouble.

  Or possibly the outlaw would select another place along the trail to wait.

  If the young Ranger stayed to eat, Mallow might figure he was right about Carlow’s wounds and let down his guard. Carlow acknowledged that his mind was trying to rationalize staying at the ranch. He must keep going. If it rained again, so what? He’d been wet before.

  A stray question sashayed across his mind: If Hattie was living with Mrs. Von Pearce, did that mean the girl’s parents were dead? Likely, he answered, and licked his parched lips. His head wound stung, and he rubbed the skin near it to ease the pain. Guilt about even thinking of stopping seeped into his thoughts, but his barking stomach made it retreat into the marshes of his mind. He didn’t even try to tell himself that he could make up lost ground on a fresh horse. Silver Mallow already had a similarly fresh horse. And he was hours ahead. But the young Ranger knew he must keep after him. He must.