Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  Carlow patted Chance and tried to think. Cigar smoke rolled across his tense face. Were these other people going to stand by and watch him get killed? What was he going to do without a gun? Could he get behind the bar before they fired? Should he rush into them with his knife—or his fists—and take his chances? Which one should he attack first? The slump-shouldered man was nervous, as if he wanted to prove something to the others. The halfbreed wouldn’t do anything unless he was certain of victory; Carlow had seen his type before. The big rancher appeared confident and eager.

  Would this doctor actually condone such an action—and watch it happen? Carlow swallowed his fear and patted Chance again. They had to try to make it look like self-defense somehow; maybe he shouldn’t do anything. Yet. His mind whirled with conflicting thoughts. Maybe now that they knew he was a lawman, they would back off.

  “I don’t believe you’re a Ranger, Mister. I believe you stole that hoss from an old lady. Lifted that piece o’ tin from someone, too. As sure as I was a colonel in the Army of the Confederacy, we’re gonna take it back to her—after I pound you into the ground.” Anklon’s announcement was followed by a savage smile and immediate advancement toward Carlow.

  From somewhere in the saloon came a hurried warning. “Look out, boy! Run!”

  From the fat gambler’s table came his syrupy Southern command to “Keep a’playin’, yo-all.”

  Carlow knew what was next and spat the cigar from his mouth but left his hands at his sides. It didn’t surprise the big man that Carlow hadn’t moved. His brute size had that effect on some men, causing them to freeze in terror. Three steps. Four steps. His upper body and arms were heavy with muscle. He was a powerfully built man and enjoyed its effect on others. But Carlow knew he would also be slow and overconfident. He had fought men like this before. Many times. He had walked away the victor all but once—and that was the first time.

  Anklon paused a little more than two feet from Carlow, looked down at him, snorted, and cocked his massive right fist.

  Carlow’s well-placed boot was a terrible explosion into Anklon’s groin. The big man’s agony came from deep within his soul as the force rammed its way up into his stomach. Anklon’s half-begun blow staggered in midair, and his fist hurried to the sickening pain, followed by his other hand. An instant behind came the smash of Carlow’s left uppercut, snapping the big man’s head backward as if it were on a hinge. Carlow’s trail coat fluttered angrily with the powerful move. His right fist hooked hard to Anklon’s cheek, loosing blood and a tooth. Anklon’s groan rattled through the saloon and brought expressions of concern and wonder.

  Anklon staggered backward, still holding his groin and the pain that wouldn’t end. Carlow grabbed the big rancher’s shirt and landed a left jab to his stomach. He released the shirt, stabbed Anklon again deep in his gut with his right, and followed that with a flurry of blows. The completion of the furious combination was an overhand right to Anklon’s jaw. More blood flew across the big man’s face and tattooed Carlow’s cheeks.

  Behind them came a syrupy threat. “Del Gato, tell your friend he’s gonna get yo-all both killed. The Range-uh’s a friend o’ mine.”

  Strong but slow, Anklon had always depended on his sheer size to reduce enemies to frightful targets. He’d never fought someone who knew how to fight. He’d never fought someone who wasn’t afraid of him. He’d never fought someone like Time Carlow, who grew up fighting for Irish honor and anything else that he could think of.

  Blind with pain, Anklon drove a right fist at Carlow’s head, glancing against his cheek and ear. Staggering him for an instant, the impact made the young Ranger realize he must end this fight now, or the bigger man eventually would beat him with his superior strength. If Anklon ever knocked him down, Carlow would be finished. And dead. A broken neck or back would quickly follow. That fear was behind a blurry assault of swift, savage strikes, leaving the bigger man standing on memory alone. Then came Carlow’s second uppercut. Anklon flew across the floor and thudded onto his back. Unknowing.

  “Not in here.” The tall waitress’s throaty command came like a wind in the tense saloon.

  She stood behind the bar, holding a shotgun. Click-click. Two heavy hammers being cocked seemed louder than her threat. The big-nosed bartender looked at her with fear controlling his face. At the poker table, Flanker looked over, surprise in his eyes that his earlier threat had apparently been ignored.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The slump-shouldered gunman’s hand stopped its advance toward his holstered revolver, then looked at Lacy to evaluate the reality of her threat, then at the wolf-dog. With his back rolled into an attack position, Chance’s white teeth snarled readiness. Lacy pressed the shotgun against her pale shoulder, with her right hand controlling both the balance and the triggers, freeing her left.

  “Don’t make me mess up the place with your head, honey.” Lacy’s smile was curled to the side.

  With her left hand, she reached under the bar and grabbed Carlow’s gunbelt. Swinging her arm back until it touched the counter behind the bar, she tossed the gunbelt toward him. Her attention never left the two gunmen, frozen in indecision.

  Dr. Holden stood next to the wall of the saloon with his arms folded. A strange concern ate at his face. He hadn’t expected any of this. No one had ever beaten Red Anklon before. Or even winded him. Who was this Ranger? Why was he here? Why was he riding a Cradle 6 horse?

  Carlow’s weapons sailed across the five-foot space, with the wrapped gunbelt holding them together. Carlow grabbed the tossed armament eagerly with both hands, now bloody and scraped. He yanked the sawed-off Winchester from its holster and cocked it in one continuous motion, letting the gunbelt and the holstered Colt fall at his feet.

  Chance barked approval.

  The slump-shouldered man’s mouth was opened wide. His head turned slightly toward the waitress, disbelief in his eyes, then back at the young Ranger. This couldn’t be happening. Dr. Holden said the man riding the Cradle 6 horse was likely someone the widow had just hired, and they would hang him under the pretense of stealing the animal.

  Even Del Gato was caught off guard by the swiftness of his becoming armed. The halfbreed’s face cracked for an instant into an ugly snarl, then disappeared behind a placid mask featuring that same unreadable smile. He was more surprised to see the young Ranger standing, after fighting Red Anklon. That’s why Flanker’s earlier threat hadn’t bothered him. It was professional courtesy. But he wasn’t about to be Carlow’s second victim of the day. Or Flanker’s first.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I sure do appreciate your help. Reckon these boys would find daylight a mite more appealing,” Carlow snapped. “Why don’t you just mosey on out of here. Do it now. Leave your iron with the nice lady. You, too, Doc. I don’t care much for your kind of medicine.”

  No one moved. Lacy’s eyes sparkled with the stimulation of being in control. Her bosom rose and fell with the excitement within her. The bartender was as white as his apron. For one hard moment, Carlow thought the slump-shouldered man was going to draw anyway, but that thought passed from his spectacled eyes.

  Del Gato held his sinister smile but didn’t advance farther. A thrill of killing was behind the grin; that was easy to read. But the halfbreed was no braggard with a gun. Tomorrow would bring a sure thing. Or the next day.

  Another shiver ran along Carlow’s back and shoulder and into his head, reaching the wounds and immediately becoming pain. Energy was ebbing from his body as the intensity of the fight fled from him. The balance of the gun in his hand pushed back some of the ache. But his arms felt like they were tree limbs and he wouldn’t be able to hold them away from his side. Air wouldn’t return fast enough to his lungs and his hands were beginning to tell him that they, too, were bruised and cut.

  “Hold on now, Ranger. You, too, miss.” Dr. Holden cleared the shadows and held up his hands as if he were stopping a horse. His face was once again that of the kind physician. “Bless me if there hasn’t been
a great mistake here. These citizens came to me with the story that you were riding one of Widow Von Pearce’s horses. We were naturally worried. She’s had some trouble lately with rustlers. It is God’s will that we help others.”

  The words rolled out of Dr. Holden’s mouth with a smoothness that reminded Carlow of Tennessee sipping whiskey. He didn’t know how anyone could talk and smile at the same time the way this man could. He half expected the blond-haired physician to break into a prayer or lead the saloon in a hymn. Dr. Holden’s presence was riveting. And scary. Like some kind of white messiah. But Carlow knew he was looking at evil, and it wanted him dead.

  At the bar, only the drunken beggar remained. He chuckled at Dr. Holden’s remark, studied the amber liquid in the glass next to him, and then took it. A swift jerk to his mouth, and the whiskey disappeared with a gurgle. His tongue washed his buck teeth. The room was so quiet that the man’s whining stomach could be heard by nearly everyone. He looked down, as if trying to determine from where the sound came. His curiosity satisfied, he resumed his new task of drinking the shots of whiskey hastily left behind when the fighting started. He grabbed each in succession with his good right hand and downed them in single, separate swallows. The purchasers had already found refuge under tables and behind chairs; three had managed to slip out the back door.

  No one had moved from the poker table, where a faint “Let’s get out of here” was followed by the soft, Southern “Wait, yo-all. I want to see this. Deal another hand. I’ll cut. Well, all right. Just wait then. I want to watch this. Don’t play with your money like that.”

  Tension clung to the skin of every man in the saloon. Around the nervous room came reactions to the fight. “Did you ever see anything like that?” “Red’s never bin beat afore, has he?” “Is he daid?” “Look at all that blood. Did ya hear his jaw crack? That’s what it were, you can bet on it.” “Who is that feller?” “Them Rangers is flat-ass mean, I tell ya. You don’t wanna mess with one o’ them.”

  “He’s alone,” the slump-shouldered man said, his voice louder than it needed to be. “We’ve got to take him afore he rides back to that ol’ bitch.”

  “Shut up, you fool,” Dr. Holden snapped.

  “But you . . .”

  “I said . . . shut up,” Dr. Holden commanded, glaring at the chastised man.

  Carlow studied his adversaries and said, “Doesn’t seem to me that such a fine lady as Mrs. Von Pearce would be wanting help from the likes of you.” He waved the hand-carbine to take in the three gunmen. “What’s it going to be? If it’s a shooting you’re after, I can oblige. Two of you won’t leave here, though. The third will crawl.”

  “Oh my, son, let’s not be hasty. I am a doctor of medicine. Not a gunman, for heaven’s sakes.” Dr. Holden cocked his head to the side.

  “Bullets don’t care much what you call yourself.”

  Chance growled low and bared his teeth again. Without looking down, the young Ranger told him to be quiet, and the wolf-dog obeyed.

  Ignoring Carlow, Dr. Holden turned slowly to the others and said, “We’ve made a mistake, gentlemen. It’s time to leave. Will someone help us carry the colonel here to my office? I believe he needs some medical attention.”

  The distraction was intended to make the young Ranger relax. As the doctor motioned grandly toward the unconscious Anklon on the floor, the slump-shouldered gunman reached for the Smith & Wesson .44 stuck in his belt.

  Carlow’s first shot drilled him low in the left shoulder, spinning the gunman sideways. Holding the sawed-off rifle with both hands, he levered a new cartridge into place and fired again. The empty shell flipped into the air. A second shot followed so quickly the two cracks sounded like one long explosion. It punched the gunman’s chest and slammed him against the beggar at the bar. The collision splattered the onehanded beggar’s drink across the bar, and he stared at the spreading whiskey, uncomprehending. A sad expression crowded his face.

  The bespectacled gunman’s pistol exploded harmlessly into the floor before slipping from his hand. Grabbing the beggar’s leg, he tried to stand but couldn’t. His groan was throaty and wild as he collapsed face-first to the ground. He curled himself into a ball and tried to hold his scarlet shoulder and chest. After three shallow gasps, the man lay unmoving, his eyes staring, unseeing, up at the sad-faced drunk.

  As soon as Carlow fired, he levered the gun, spitting the second smoking shell into the air and aiming the weapon at Del Gato. The halfbreed hadn’t moved, but Chance had already slipped from Carlow’s side and stood in front of Del Gato, ready to pounce. Carlow was certain someone had warned the gunman not to draw. His mind told him the same voice had advised both gunmen only to watch when the fight started with Anklon. It had to have come from the Southern gambler playing cards. No one else in the room had that kind of guts.

  Carlow glanced at him and nodded his appreciation, and the fat man grinned, touching the brim of his hat in response. Gunsmoke climbed across the gray air toward the ceiling, taking along the faint echo of the gunfire with its slow ascent. Trailing the white string came wisps of admiration and fright from onlookers.

  “Better leave, honey.” Lacy’s voice was steady. “Do it now. But you come back, you hear? Lacy’s gonna take real good care of you. Beer and cigar are on us, right, Ben? It was self-defense. Wasn’t it, Dr. Holden?” From the poker table came the cold supporting words from the fat gambler, “Yo-all can assume I will testify to that . . . should the matter require further examination . . . by the authorities.”

  “Thanks, Jimmy.” Lacy beamed, still holding the shotgun.

  “Yes, thank you, sir,” Carlow responded.

  “That’s Jimmy Ward Flanker, honey,” Lacy blurted. Carlow gulped. The name had been a part of trail stories as long as he could remember. However, the famed gunfighter didn’t look a thing like Carlow had expected. Someone tall, lean, and hard was what he had envisioned.

  “Our concern is not with you, Mr. Flanker.” Dr. Holden didn’t turn to face the known shootist. The doctor’s voice had lost its pious lilt for the moment and sounded more like that of a hardened trail boss.

  “Nor I with yo-all, Doc. But I do prefer a fair game. It’s God’s way, yo-all know. Please answer the lady.”

  Holden mumbled, “Ah, yes, I believe it was . . . self-defense.”

  “The lady—and the Range-uh—thank you, Doc,” Flanker acknowledged, his devilish eyes catching Carlow’s again for an instant. “As far as that big fool on the floor is concerned, Doc—the one without the bullet holes—I’d suggest you check first to see if his balls are in his mouth. Save you a lotta time. Nasty kick, that.” He laughed, and his belly rolled up and down. “Whose deal is it?”

  In spite of the animal-like viciousness of Del Gato facing him, Flanker’s observation made Carlow want to laugh. His tongue pushed against his cheek, and he rubbed his chin with his left hand, holding the sawed-off carbine with his right. The smoking barrel continued to point its ugly nose at Del Gato’s midsection. He called Chance to him, and the wolf-dog reluctantly obeyed, turning back to watch Del Gato as he did.

  From outside, running footsteps closed in on the saloon door. Several shouts supported the movement. “Shots came from that saloon!” “Over here, Marshal!” “My husband’s in there!” “Hurry, Marshal!”

  Marshal Laetner Dillingham burst into the saloon. A Winchester filled his hands. He had the look of a man aroused from a nap and not too happy about the interruption. His wide-brimmed hat appeared as if it had been placed on his head as an afterthought and his huge ears were wobbly flags.

  In the back of Carlow’s mind, a thought wiggled free. Had Dr. Holden told the marshal what was going to happen? With the lawman came a curious crowd pushing against the doorway but not caring to tread past it.

  “Wha-at are yo-all a’doin’ in hyar?” Marshal Dillingham demanded in his thick-syrup voice. He noticed immediately that the young Ranger’s gun was now aimed at him.

  As if on cue, Flanker responded fi
rst, without looking up from the cards in his hand. “Nothing really, Marshal. Nothing at all. The state constable here was forced to defend himself. According to our fair city’s ordinances, he, of course, wasn’t carrying a gun. The fine lady here provided that, shall we say, at the appropriate moment.”

  “Yo-all a’ sayin’ he weren’t a’carryin’?” Marshal Dillingham asked sarcastically. “He were in my off-ice awhile back a’sportin’ two guns, he be.”

  “Why, Marshal, yo-all know it’s against the law to wear a weapon in town. I’m surprised at yo-all,” Flanker said as he continued the card game. “Dealer takes two. ’Course he is a Range-uh—or hadn’t you noticed—and the local ordinance doesn’t apply to his noble status anyway. Surely, yo-all knew that. My goodness, of course, yo-all did.”

  Lacy spoke defiantly. “Red Anklon and his dogs came in here looking for trouble. Looks like they kinda dragged the good doctor along—without him realizing the truth of it. This fine young man would have been murdered.” She pointed toward the underside of the bar. “If I hadn’t thrown him his gun from here. Under the bar.”

  “Lacy, yo-all kin be a’puttin’ that scatter-gun away now, ya hear? Is she a’talkin’ straight, Doc-tuh Holden?” Marshal Dillingham’s eyes darted from the bloody bodies on the floor to the doctor and back again, then to Del Gato with the evil smile, back to Lacy and her shotgun behind the bar. He avoided looking at Carlow and noticed Lacy had made no attempt to lower her gun.

  Folding his arms, Dr. Holden spoke carefully. “A terrible misunderstanding, I’m afraid, Marshal. A sad one. My fine foreman, Colonel Anklon, told me he thought this young man had stolen a horse from Widow Von Pearce. She’s been having some trouble that way, as you know. Things got out of hand. The colonel thought he was protecting the widow. And Mitchell, there, tried to take matters in his own hands. Poor fool, he thought he was doing right. Of course, we didn’t realize this young man was a member of the state police when we first approached him. Our mistake.”