Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  “Who-ah dun shot first?” Marshal Dillingham asked tersely.

  “Oh, there’s no question this young man acted in self-defense.” Flanker smiled as he spoke, looking directly at Carlow. “Of course, Presidio is not used to having such a shootist about. Mitchell was obviously no match for his professional skills.”

  “Thought yo-all was a’lookin’ fer that Sil-vuh Mallow fella.” The lawman tried to look fierce, but the expression was almost comical, with his ears wiggling with each word.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The young Ranger’s hands were at his side, but the hand-carbine remained in his right fist. The throbbing in his forehead was reignited by this new challenge. When Carlow looked at Marshal Dillingham, the Ranger’s face was hard. “I am. So far I haven’t found him. Maybe Dr. Holden here can help me. It appears he knows just about everything that’s going on around here. Mallow’s hurt. He might need some tending—by such a notable physican.”

  “Looks like yo-all could be a’usin’ some tendin’ to yourself, Range-uh boy,” Marshal Dillingham said with an appreciative grin. “Somebody’s dun been messin’ with yo’all’s head, appears to me. Meant to ask yah be-fuh. That be Sil-vuh’s work?”

  Carlow responded only with his eyes, and Dillingham’s smile was quickly swallowed.

  A long inhalation and release preceded Dr. Holden’s response. Rage glimmered in his eyes but wasn’t allowed to find any other relief. “I don’t care for your tone, sir. This is a small community that takes care of its own. You came riding in on one of our neighbor’s horses. A well-armed stranger. I don’t believe you were wearing a badge at that time, were you? You have badly injured one man and killed another. Haven’t you inflicted enough pain on our town?”

  Carlow’s smile didn’t match his words; his gaze bored into Dr. Holden’s face. “That’s an imaginative description of a lynching and attempted murder, Doc. Is that how you diagnose your patients’ ills?”

  At the bar, the buck-toothed beggar grabbed his hollow left sleeve with his right hand and muttered something no one heard. He studied the young Ranger with a strange gleam in his eyes, then shifted his gaze to Dr. Holden. The blond-haired doctor coughed and looked away from Carlow’s glare, unaware of the beggar’s concentration.

  Continuing to stare in the direction of the big-nosed bartender, Dr. Holden skipped over Carlow’s response. “I know of no such man you describe. Silver Mallow, is it? No stranger has come to my offices today. If he had, I would have informed our good marshal here. Law and order is the way of Presidio, sir.”

  Carlow chuckled. Chance’s ears perked up, and the wolf-dog growled and started for the doorway. Carlow told him to stay. Chance held his place but continued to grumble.

  “That’s enough, Chance. I know what this was. No, we won’t forget who tried to kill us—or why.” He spoke to the animal in a conversational tone, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Marshal Dillingham asked if the young Ranger intended to ride on since he hadn’t found Silver Mallow. It was clear he was hopeful that was Carlow’s plan.

  Carlow’s reply was a knife into the taut room. “How would you know, Dillingham? You don’t seem to be able to tell the good guys from the bad. I’ll leave when I’m ready.”

  In the far corner of the saloon, a man laughed. The drunken beggar glanced that way and burst into a forced guffaw; his extended front teeth gave him the appearance of a mule braying.

  From the shadows of the saloon, a thin voice whispered, “I think that Ranger is a damn Mick.”

  “Damn, why would they let one o’ them have a badge?” came an equally dismembered response.

  “Who’s gonna take it away from him? One o’ you?” growled the tobacco-chewing drover standing next to them. He looked for a spittoon and finally swallowed the bitter juice, shaking his head as he did.

  The drover’s question brought another guffaw from the one-handed beggar, even louder this time, followed by a loud burp. He grinned and tried to do it again, but it came out a forced grunt. Flanker joined in the laughter, which brought an immediate nervous mirth from the rest of the room. Marshal Dillingham’s neck blossomed crimson, his ears becoming red trumpets.

  Allowing the saloon’s resurging confidence to snuggle around him, the young Ranger reached down and retrieved the gunbelt at his feet. He slung it over his shoulder, letting the butt of the holstered Colt come to rest over his heart. Out of the corner of his eye, Carlow watched Del Gato for any sudden movement.

  Frozen in place, the halfbreed’s hands rested on a nearby table. His cold eyes indicated there would be no fight between them. Today.

  “Thanks, Lacy. You saved my life.” Carlow looked at her and smiled.

  “Anytime, honey. Anytime.” She winked.

  Down the street, a black-haired man emerged from the whorehouse whistling. Immediately he stepped into the shadows lingering next to the building. The defensive move was a well-honed habit developed from being on the run. He massaged his right shoulder, trying to relieve the pain.

  Sunset was attracted to the silver rings on his hands, shivering when it reached them. Erotic pleasure within the whorehouse had served only as a momentary diversion from the total soreness in his face and body. He cursed the big Ranger Kileen under his breath as he touched his swollen, bruised face and felt the empty spaces two teeth had once occupied. He ached everywhere, especially his cheekbones and ribs.

  Trying to move his shoulder again, Silver Mallow expanded his cursing to include the young widow who shot him before he could kill the two Rangers. It never entered his mind that the bullet crease on his shoulder could have been much worse; he didn’t hear Ellie Beckham tell Ranger Carlow later that she had been aiming for Mallow’s chest.

  Agitation returned to his dark eyes as they searched the town for any sign of the Texas Ranger following him. It surprised Mallow when Rellena Kahn announced the lawman was in town, searching for him; he was certain Time Carlow had been badly wounded. Or was dying. My God, he had shot him in the head! What kind of man was this young Ranger? Mallow’s gang had shot him full of holes once before.

  In spite of worn trail clothes, cracked ribs, a battered face, and a bullet-cut shoulder, Mallow carried himself with the air of an elegant Southern gentleman. A pearl-handled revolver was barely visible in his waistband, just above the gunbelt carrying a second holstered weapon. Still whistling, his hand slid from one weapon to the other for reassurance of their presence.

  The madam’s distinctive face watched him from the curtained window and smiled as he turned toward her. She held up a silver cross on a silver chain around her neck and blew him a kiss. He grinned and acted as if it had hit him in the chin, then returned to watching the street again. Although he felt undressed without it, the gift of the necklace was a small price for her help. The intensity of their lovemaking hadn’t hurt, either. She had even brought a young whore into the room to sing while they enjoyed each other.

  Continuing his own whistled song of “Dixie,” he noticed a crowd building around the saloon. A white-shirted, skinny clerk hurried past, and Mallow stopped him with a question. “What’s going on at Charlie’s? I heard they had some music there.”

  The clerk wasn’t eager to be retained, but something about the stranger’s puffed face warned him to be polite. “Well, Lowry and Mickey are always there, if’n yah call that music. But there’s a fight right now. Red Anklon and a Ranger.”

  “A Ranger? Are you sure?”

  “Well, that’s what I heard. There were a couple of gunshots, too. But I think it’s over now.” The clerk’s hands waved in circles to reinforce his report. He found enough courage to add, “Goin’ to see what happened. Wanna go along?”

  “Thanks. You go on ahead. I’ll join you in a minute.”

  “Say, looks like you’ve been in a fight, too. Are you all right?” the clerk asked curiously.

  Mallow tried to smile, but it hurt when he spread his mouth. “Yeah. Jealous husband. You know how that is.”

>   The clerk laughed, enjoying the fact he was considered worthy of having a similar encounter. He noticed Mallow’s gun and commented innocently, “Ah, did you know there’s . . . a law against carrying a gun in town?”

  Mallow’s smile was condescending but his words were controlled. “I’m leaving town.”

  “Oh. Sure. Say, you’d better hurry or the fight’ll be over for sure. I heard the marshal’s on his way,” he said over his shoulder as he resumed his pilgrimage of curiosity.

  Looking around to see if anyone was paying attention, the dark-haired stranger resumed his whistling and went back inside the whorehouse. A few minutes later, a man in a dirty trail coat came out and mounted a long-legged sorrel among the six horses tied to the hitching rack in front of the unmarked building. He yanked free the reins of the bay standing beside his horse and loped away, trailing the second. No one noticed the rider with a relief mount slip over the low ridges to the south of Presidio, pause beside an entangled mesquite treeline, and vanish behind them.

  Back at Charlie’s saloon, Chance slipped away from Carlow’s side and headed for the door, uncomfortable with being inside. Carlow saw the fearful front row of the crowd and commanded the wolf-dog to return.

  “Funny thing, Marshal, you asked about my guns but didn’t seem to care about these men being armed.” Carlow reached down to pet the obedient wolf-dog with his left hand. Chance returned the greeting with a lick of the outstretched hand. The young Ranger’s right fist still held the hand-carbine; his thumb reassured him that it was cocked.

  Dr. Holden’s frown was brief, disappearing quickly into a practiced smile. “I believe the guns were quite justified under the circumstances, Marshal Dillingham. These men thought they were arresting a horse thief.” He finished his statement by opening his coat with both hands to indicate that he wasn’t carrying a gun. His eyes ordered Del Gato to disarm.

  The halfbreed snorted, unbuckled his gunbelt, and let it drop at his feet.

  “Kick it away, Del Gato,” Carlow commanded.

  A second snort preceded the halfbreed’s ceremoniously pushing the holstered weapon with his boot in the direction of the bar.

  “Now the gun in your boot.” Carlow’s challenge surprised even Del Gato. The gunman’s gaze moved to Dr. Holden, but the physician broke the connection with a blink.

  Del Gato hesitated, then leaned over, dropping his right hand alongside his boot.

  “With your left hand,” Carlow growled.

  “I hardly think that’s necessary. He’s a law-abiding citizen.” Dr. Holden crossed his arms.

  Marshal Dillingham mouthed agreement.

  “I’m sure he is. Just like you.” Carlow raised the hand-carbine and motioned with it toward Del Gato. “Real slow. Fingers holding the butt and nothing else. Worry that no one else in the room moves—because I’ll drop you first.”

  A snarl weaved its way across Del Gato’s tightened mouth as he complied like a woman lifting a napkin with her thumb and forefinger. From the hidden holster inside his boot, a short-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver appeared. He tossed it casually next to his gunbelt.

  “Nice to see what the law-abiding citizen of Presidio is wearing these days.” Carlow lowered his hand-carbine.

  Slapping his thigh with his only hand, the beggar roared. “Hiccup. That’s a good one. ‘Nice to see what the law-abiding citizen . . .’ ” He didn’t finish, hiccuped, and turned back to the bar in search of more whiskey.

  The big-nosed bartender gave him a look of disgust, which the beggar either ignored or didn’t see. A glance at the fat gambler preceded his refilling the one-handed cowboy’s original glass. Peering intently at the two fingers of amber liquid, the beggar waved his sole arm vigorously at the bartender to continue. After it was three-fourths full, the bartender spun around and left.

  The one-handed cowboy lifted the glass in appreciation. “To the Chisholm Trail. Hiccup.” He licked his front teeth with his tongue to savor any remaining whiskey.

  Three gulps emptied it again. He set the glass down on the bar, stared as if waiting for it to fill magically once more. His bleary gaze at the bartender yielded no attention this time. Nor did his waving. His shoulders rose and fell, and he staggered around to watch Dr. Holden kneel beside the groaning Red Anklon. A low curse slipped from the beggar’s lips, but no one heard it. His bleary stare went to Del Gato’s weapons on the floor before recoiling to see if the bartender was going to bring more whiskey. His expression indicated the free drinking had ended.

  Ignoring everyone, Del Gato sat down at the closest table and loudly told the bartender to bring him a bottle. The big-nosed man jumped as if he had been challenged to a gunfight and scurried to complete the request.

  Watching the room warily, the young Ranger wondered why no one asked Flanker about his weapon, clearly visible beneath his coat. It felt as if this whole thing wasn’t real and he was watching someone else, not himself. His eyes wandered toward the death-twisted face of the slump-shouldered gunman on the floor and recoiled from the sight. He had come to town seeking an outlaw. Not this. What was going on in this settlement? Was Silver Mallow somehow behind this? No, that didn’t make sense. He took a deep breath, reminding himself not to relax.

  From the corner of his vision, he saw the beggar quietly squat beside Del Gato’s gunbelt, start to take the short-barreled revolver, then lose his nerve and return to the bar. No one else noticed the attempted theft, except the halfbreed. Annoyed by the bartender’s slowness, Del Gato appeared to be concentrating on the arrival of his bottle and glass. But his eyes slid toward the beggar, and his right hand slid from the table to his waist. A move so slow and easy that it didn’t seem to exist at all. Carlow knew then he had miscalculated. Del Gato had a third gun. It must be in his waistband, under his vest.

  His uncle would have told him the “little people” had arranged for the situation so that Carlow would see the third gun before it was too late. He would have reminded his young nephew that evil always comes in threes. This time Carlow found himself silently thanking the “little people” as his attention strayed to the one-handed cowboy. It seemed the miserable excuse for a man was even more shaky as he asked again for more whiskey. This time it was Lacy who responded favorably, mouthing it was on the house.

  At the young Ranger’s side, Chance remained quiet, but his powerful body was tensed and ready to attack. Carlow caught himself grinning. You’ve got the right idea, my friend. We’re not out of this yet, he thought. Resting his hand-carbine on an empty table, he slid his gunbelt from his shoulder and under his long coat. He rebuckled it around his waist but kept the room’s movement in his gaze. After returning the hammer to its safety position, he shoved new cartridges into the hand-carbine, hesitated, and holstered the reloaded weapon.

  Would Del Gato try something?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Annoyed by the big man’s ineffectiveness, Dr. Holden hovered over Red Anklon, wiping blood from his face with a white handkerchief and comforting him. Anklon’s mental return to the saloon brought shock, pain, and fear to the beaten rancher’s mind. He jerked back from the doctor’s attention, his dazed eyes fighting to understand what had happened. Shamelessly, Anklon grabbed his groin with both hands and howled like an injured animal.

  Dr. Holden cooed sympathy.

  At the bar, the one-handed cowboy leaned over. “Sishsorry I am for your troubles, Anklon. S-screamin’ like a little baby. D-did you pee in your pants? Or did the Ranger ram your pecker inside your belly? Peeing in your pants is a sad happenin’ for a drinking man, I know. I wet all over myself just last week.” He paused and added, “But you’ve still got both of your hands. Not like me. But I won’t forget. Some day, Holden. Some day you’ll get yours.”

  Dr. Holden stood. “Shut up” formed on his lips, but the words didn’t get any further. Instead, the short physician gave a measured proclamation: “I saved your life, you fool. Maybe you would have preferred to let the gangrene take all of you.”

&n
bsp; The disabled beggar squared off to face him, then lowered his chin and walked jerkily from the bar and out of the saloon. Dr. Holden watched the beggar leave with a strange smile on his face.

  Pouring himself a full glass of whiskey, Del Gato was startled to sense someone standing close beside him. His first instinct was to reach for his remaining hidden gun. His second instinct was the one he relied on to survive: the uneasy feeling that he didn’t have the edge.

  “You can toss that third gun over with the others.” Carlow was standing beside him, hands at his side. The message was little more than a whisper in a room blossoming with renewed conversation.

  Del Gato’s eyes charged at Carlow, but the rest of him was unreadable. The Ranger’s coat covered his guns; could the lawman reach one as fast as he could reach his? It wasn’t worth his life to find out.

  “Or didn’t you think I saw it?”

  Del Gato’s tongue ran along his lower lip as he pulled a Sharps four-barrel pocket pistol from its small holster held by a loop through his belt and nestled on the inside of his pants. He held the gun by the bird’s-head grip with two fingers, hesitated, and laid the weapon on the table. With the back of his hand, Carlow slapped the pistol and sent it thumping across the floor toward Del Gato’s other weapons.

  A broad-shouldered businessman jumped at the noise, spilling his drink as he nervously turned toward Carlow and Del Gato. His deep sigh was an indication he was relieved that it was only the sound of a gun on the floor.

  “You can go grab one, if you think you’re good enough.” Without saying more, Carlow walked on.

  Across the room, Marshal Dillingham was gathering volunteers to help get the big rancher to the doctor’s office. No one paid attention to the dead gunman or the darkening pond of blood surrounding him. Behind the bar, the bartender asked Lacy if she would get the undertaker. She told him to do it himself. His potato nose honked disbelief, but he untied his apron and headed for the back door.