Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  But yes, he finally admitted to himself, he was afraid of riding into another ambush. Only a fool didn’t believe he could be killed. And only a fool was fearless. Carlow liked the exhilaration that came with fighting. Always had. But that was different from riding carelessly into another potentially deadly surprise. Kileen would be the first to agree, pointing to the grass or a bird or a rock or something that wasn’t aligned properly—in his assessment—and insisting that a prudent man would wait for the warning to go away. More than once, his uncle had retreated upon hearing a wolf howl four times in succession. That was an old Comanche superstition, but it was good enough for Kileen. It was a warning that a warrior’s medicine was not strong and he should turn back.

  Such warnings weren’t a part of Kayitah’s life. Although he had his own beliefs about spirits and their role in this world. More importantly, though, he believed only in the story that every man made on the land, no matter how hard he tried to cover it. If a man could read that story, he would live. If he didn’t, or misread it, he would die—and the spirits wouldn’t help. Or couldn’t.

  Carlow decided it was Kileen’s way of taking the time to plan instead of charging ahead. In a way, the same thing his Apache friend had tried to teach him. Some of his uncle’s superstitions were onetime things that Kileen never brought up again. Carlow was certain these were created just for the moment. Carlow always would challenge him about such fresh observations. Like the time his uncle suddenly declared they couldn’t ride any farther that day because he had just seen a bird flying from the west with a stick in its mouth. Carlow knew the man was just tired of riding. Not that it made any difference. The young Ranger had been too.

  And once when they saw a gray cow lying against a tree, Kileen said it was a sure sign outlaws were close. The little people had asked the animal to do that to warn them. The Rangers didn’t find any outlaws, but Kileen said the cow was working on old information, and the outlaws had ridden on. Or the outlaws themselves had recognized the little people’s warning and left. There were no signs of that either.

  And likely Kileen would say the invitation from Mrs. Von Pearce was from the gods themselves, a warning that he needed to ease up on Mallow and let the outlaw make the mistake, not the Ranger. Carlow wasn’t certain if his uncle’s spiritual inclinations were more pagan than Catholic, but they definitely were Irish. All presented with a fascination with death and the devil. Sometimes it wasn’t hard to understand why most of America didn’t like the Irish. Wealthy families much preferred colored servants over their Irish brethren. It was a status thing. The Irish ways were definitely strange, more so when they were connected with whiskey.

  Kayitah had admonished him about treating such superstitions casually and reminded his young white friend that the spirits upon the land could do just about anything they wanted. Once, he had showed Carlow a strange-looking hole hidden off a trail, which the Apache said was an entrance to the other world, the spirit world. He told Carlow he had seen the spirits come and go from there.

  The young Ranger shook off the thoughts and called to Chance to come and stand near the two horses. The wolf-dog rose slowly and trotted toward him. Off to the right, Carlow saw a chicken dart around the barn and disappear inside. He shook his head.

  “Chance, you stay right here. Leave those chickens alone. You hear me?” Carlow ordered. His voice was stern.

  Looking up as if he had been falsely accused, Chance rubbed his head against Carlow’s leg, and he patted the beast. “Yeah, you’re a good fella. Just don’t do anything . . . natural.” He smiled. “Stay.”

  He went toward the house, ready to ride on; he told himself he would, food or not. His stomach growled, and he knew he would wait. Removing his hat, he stood at the door.

  “Ma’am, I’ve saddled the buckskin. I do thank you—and I’ll be back. For my black.”

  From somewhere in the house, Bea’s commanding voice responded. “Please to come in and make yourself in comfort. Food vill be ready in der minutes.”

  Delicious smells of frying sausages greeted him as he stepped inside. Neither Bea nor her granddaughter was in sight, but he could hear joyful sounds from the kitchen just beyond the furniture-crowded living room.

  Chapter Seven

  A rush of warmth, a puzzling sensation of returning home, unexpectedly filled Ranger Carlow as he stepped inside. His mother was beside him with her arm around her small son, explaining their new home would be this tiny room above the saloon. A piano’s tinkly sound from downstairs reached him, and he looked up at his mother with a question on his face.

  He blinked away the recollection, knowing—without wanting to—what his mother had been forced to become. His uncle was gone; Carlow couldn’t recall where. There was no money; that much he could remember. Hatred clanged inside his head, and he dragged that awful year back into its dark hole by studying the Von Pearces’ main room.

  The small, tidy area held a lifetime of furniture, memories, freshly cleaned parlor lamps, and knickknacks. He smiled at the protective sheets lovingly covering the cushioned settee and two matching balloon-backed chairs. To keep them free of dust, he assumed. Ornate carvings edged the pieces of scrollwork of interlocking flowers and leaves. A hand-carved liquor cabinet stood proudly in the farthest corner. He was certain all of the furniture had come from Europe. Over the back of the closest chair and its protective sheet was an intricate quilt featuring a flower basket pattern. He walked over to examine it more closely. His fingers ran along the seams separating the different presentations of color and fabric. How many hours could that have taken?

  The ticking of a clock caught his attention and he turned toward the sound. A wooden-framed timepiece was nestled on the second row of a three-shelved mahogany wall display. Surrounding the clock face were hand-carved insets of birds on tree branches. The shelves themselves held an array of yesterdays for this family. Most with their significance known only to them. A tiny glass shoe of dull purple and orange. A fat pinecone that held the secret of its significance. A pair of large-roweled Mexican spurs. A framed photograph of a young man in a Union uniform, his eyes stern with purpose and pride. Beside it was another picture in a gold-edged frame. A family greeted him from brownish eternity. He thought the small girl must be Hattie but wasn’t certain.

  Carlow was drawn to a small music box on the bottom shelf, boasting a ballerina with raised arms on its shiny walnut top. He wiped his hand on his coat and carefully raised the lid, and a German waltz invited him to dance. A metallic two-step gallop of notes in three-quarter time. Instead of daydreams of dancing with the widow Ellie Beckham from Bennett, Silver Mallow’s face laughed at him from a dark corner of his thoughts. The outlaw leader’s infatuation with music—any kind of music—would have compelled him to take the piece had he seen it. Carlow shut it quickly and looked toward the kitchen. Neither Bea nor Hattie had noticed, or were they too polite to say anything?

  “Silver Mallow, where are you heading? Presidio? Mexico?” Carlow asked aloud, his fingers still touching the music box. “It doesn’t matter where you go. Or if my badge makes any difference. I will find you, Silver. You killed Shannon.” His fingers rose as if self-controlled and touched the small stones in his vest pocket. “On our blood stones, I promise.”

  A home was an idea he had almost forgotten. More than once he had fantasized about having a place like this, leaving behind his unwanted reputation as a man of the gun and going somewhere that didn’t care who he was, only who he wanted to be. Could his uncle ever do that? Carlow wasn’t certain. Kileen savored his time with his Mexican outlaw lady friend, Angel Balta, now and then, but that wasn’t the same as becoming one and building something together. The young Ranger wondered if he would ever have anything like a real home, with a wife and family. Ellie Beckham whispered to him from a sweet place in his mind.

  Carlow’s gaze caught a hand-painted dressing screen, placed to separate the main room from the dining area. He blushed when he thought of what such screens were
usually used for. He passed it uneasily and found, instead, a framed tintype resting on a rolltop desk alongside a parlor lamp. From another time and place, the young man and woman watched the room in youthful sternness, ever posed in typical wedding fashion, with him sitting and her standing behind him. He guessed it was Bea and her husband, although her face was much hidden by fewer years, fewer pounds, and no wrinkles. Still, he could see the same energy in her eyes.

  A large fireplace, blackened from many days of good service, crackled with the laughter of a small fire. It felt good. He stood, holding his hat with both hands and looking at the fire’s flickering ribbons of red, yellow, orange, and blue. On the mantel were three ornate candlesticks, each with a freshly lit candle.

  He couldn’t remember feeling so alone. Sadness sought to bring him back again to a yesterday he didn’t want to remember. Then came another, more sinister sensation. Fear.

  For the first time since he could remember, the touch of raw fear darted through his thoughts. The dark thought blossomed of how close this fine woman and her granddaughter had come to death. Silver Mallow. That was followed by how close he had come. Black images of the Mallow gang ambush that took his best friend’s life, as well as the life of another young Ranger, and nearly his own, crept along the edges of his consciousness, seeking prominence in his thinking.

  He shook his head to drive them back, and that triggered renewed pain in his forehead wound. His shoulder reminded him that it, too, had been hurt, and he rolled his arm to remove the annoying sting of the bullet’s burn.

  “I swear to you, Shannon, I will get Silver Mallow.”

  A single window was partially opened to invite autumn breezes to clean the house of stale air. He looked outside and saw Charlie Two-Wolves standing beside his black horse. His first instinct was to go and ask what he was doing, but he waited and saw the Indian cowhand run his hands over Shadow’s legs as Carlow had done earlier. A short nod seemed to indicate he thought the animal was not harmed, only worn.

  A low growl, not quite muffled by the window, meant Chance didn’t like the Indian’s being around Shadow.

  Carlow hurried to the door and yelled from the porch, “Chance, no. It’s all right, boy, he’s a friend.”

  Charlie Two-Wolves immediately looked up. A brief smile flitted across his dark face, and he gave a quick wave.

  “Nu tuhuya-ha tsaa-yu?” Carlow hoped he had asked, “Is my horse good?” in Comanche. He couldn’t think of any other words to use to ask if Shadow was hurt or not. Two-Wolves’s eyes lit up in appreciation. Carlow had guessed right; he was Comanche. Why wasn’t he on the reservation? Weren’t only a few wild bands not there yet?

  Two-Wolves’s response was a simple affirmative nod.

  “Aho.” Carlow thanked him but couldn’t come up with the right Comanche words to say the rest, so he spoke in English. “I pushed him awful hard, Charlie Two-Wolves. Too hard.”

  The slight smile widened as the Comanche turned toward the horse, his black hair flailing against his back and his necktie flopping against his chest. The smile was gone when he looked back to Carlow. “Strong hoss. Puhetu. Fast. Legs mucho sore. Sua soyuraperu. Let rest. Two, maybe three day. All gut. Ich watch.” His words were a flowing mixture of Comanche, English and German. An occasional Spanish phrase slipped in as well.

  Carlow walked down the porch toward the Indian wrangler, his long coat flapping around his knees. “Aho. I appreciate that.”

  “Mark from der bullet. It ist so?”

  “Yes. We had a close call.” Carlow patted the side of his head gingerly.

  “You are star warrior of Tehannas.”

  “I am a Ranger, yes.”

  “Ich watch bullet wound on black horse. It will be mucho fine.”

  Carlow pulled the badge from his vest pocket and let the sunlight pounce on the shiny metal. As he pulled it free, Kileen’s gift acorn popped out and bounced on the ground. He leaned down, picked it up, and returned the nut to his vest pocket.

  Two-Wolves nodded. “Kuhtaaty puha. Grande. Ja.”

  Carlow knew the words for strong medicine, mixed with the Spanish and German embellishments, and accepted the phrase as a compliment, although he wasn’t certain if the Comanche wrangler was referring to his badge or the acorn. Could an Irish superstition be known by an Indian?

  Repocketing the badge, he held out his hand, and Two-Wolves accepted it in a hard grip that showed more his discomfort with the white man’s custom than any attempt to demonstrate strength. The young Ranger tried to avoid looking at the heavy scarring on the left side of the Comanche’s face. However, his eyes kept returning to the slick, layered mass, in spite of his determination not to let them. Carlow told him about following Silver Mallow and what the outlaw leader had done. He complimented the Indian wrangler on making Mallow keep riding on.

  Two-Wolves asked about Mallow’s bruised face and stiff movements, indicating he assumed they were from a recent fight. The young Ranger told him about Kileen’s giving him a beating, and the Widow Beckham’s saving their lives by shooting and wounding him.

  A thin smile crossed the Comanche’s face when Carlow described Ellie’s quick reaction, and he observed, “Such woman mucho welcome in warrior’s lodge.”

  Embarrassed, Carlow nodded agreement and changed the subject by asking about the horse he was borrowing.

  Together they walked over to the buckskin, and Two-Wolves lifted each hoof to check for cleanliness. Carlow had done that earlier but said nothing. It was a typical reaction for a man who knew and respected horses. The Comanche grunted approval of each hoof as he let it down.

  “Where you learn about talking to der hoss?” Two-Wolves asked unexpectedly, explaining he had watched Carlow in the corral.

  Carlow smiled. “My uncle, mostly. Him and an Apache friend.”

  “You smart. You be lead mare.”

  “Something like that, I guess.”

  Finished with his inspection, Two-Wolves saw the Sharps carbine carried in the saddle sheath. When he rubbed his left hand along the stock, Carlow saw that it, too, was scarred.

  “Mucho big gun. Shoot der mucho long way. Shoot today, kill tomorrow. Kill numu kuhtsu?”

  “Yes, it could kill buffalo. I don’t use it for that. Never have,” Carlow said. “All Rangers carry them. Well, most do. Given to us—like our badges.”

  Two-Wolves nodded what passed for approval. “Buckskin hoss mucho runner. Long hora, no stop. Me like. Ja.”

  “If you like him, I’m sure I will, too.”

  “Buckskin hoss ist like wild . . . ah, mustang. Wants go left. Remember this.” Two-Wolves curled his left hand outward as if it were turning in that direction.

  Carlow nodded. He knew wild horses naturally turned left. Such horses had to be trained to turn right. It was good to know about the buckskin. He wasn’t certain how much English the Comanche wrangler could comprehend. Spanish phrases popped into his conversation, along with strings of Comanche and smatterings of German he assumed had been gleaned from being with the Von Pearces. Carlow tried to keep his descriptions simple as he told the Comanche ranch hand about Silver Mallow. The young Ranger knew some Comanche and used it where appropriate or where he knew the right words. Or thought he did.

  Twice Two-Wolves grinned, and Carlow guessed he had used the wrong word. The Indian was a few inches shorter than Carlow but, like the young Ranger, definitely well-muscled in his chest and arms. Carlow knew he should be wary of the man but couldn’t help liking him. Their eyes connected first as warrior to warrior, gradually as friend to friend.

  In a verbal stew of broken multilanguage phrasing, Two-Wolves told Carlow about Mrs. Von Pearce and her ranch. Carlow had difficulty following the narration but tried not to interrupt, for fear the Comanche would simply stop talking.

  Two-Wolves’s concern was a man he called “Sachem Rem-eeng-ton Hold-den.” According to him, this Holden was pabo taiboo’s puha tenahpy, a white doctor, who wanted control of the region and was taking over ran
ches and farms with money or force. Mostly the latter. The Von Pearce land was his target now. Bea’s husband had been murdered a year ago while out with their cattle. Two-Wolves was certain Dr. Holden’s men had killed him. Only five hands remained, plus the Comanche wrangler. Her lands were being gradually stripped of cattle by Holden’s men; especially now that most of her cowhands had been run off.

  Carlow was puzzled by Two-Wolves’s description of Remington Holden. “Charlie, I don’t understand about this Holden. Are you saying he’s a doctor but that he’s crooked? Ah, tutsu . . . a bad man?”

  Rubbing his hand along the back of his neck, Two-Wolves struggled to find the right English words. “Aiee, sachem. Doc-tor. Tutsu. Bad. Doc-tor Remeeng-ton Hold-den . . . he . . . doc-tor.” He paused and frowned, wanting to express himself correctly. “He do medicina . . . mag-ic. Touch where hurt, hurt goes away. Or he bring hurt . . . in glass bottle. Or he cut off hand and say it must be. Aiee, he live Presidio. He rich.” He smiled at his use of the word. “Own mucho white man’s buildings. Own mucho cows. Say he own mucho Mother Earth—as white man do. His hombres all around. Like wind.” Two-Wolves waved his arms to show that Holden’s men were all over the land.

  Carlow nodded but wasn’t certain how he should respond. It sounded like the Indian wrangler had misunderstood the activities of a town doctor.

  “No one sees real face of Doc-tor Rem-eeng-ton Hold-den. Watsi habiitu tawohho. His hombres. Muerto. Kill. Steal. No one knows. Ich know.” Two-Wolves laid his open hand against this chest. “His wife ist like him. Aiee, devil woman. From the moon, she bring spirits. Ja. She like kill. Muerto. She call to spirits. They come.” He looked away as if the woman he described might be hiding nearby.

  Surely the Comanche horseman was mistaken, Carlow thought. If this Holden was truly a doctor of some kind, he wouldn’t be directing a land grab. There must be another explanation. Maybe Two-Wolves had seen or heard something that he had interpreted incorrectly. The doctor’s wife sounded like some kind of a witch—or worse.