by Cotton Smith
Carlow strolled toward Flanker’s table and extended his right hand. Wagging his tail in celebration, Chance followed at the Ranger’s heels.
“Again, Mr. Flanker, I do thank you for taking my part.”
“Why, anytime, anytime at all, my young friend. Call me Jimmy,” Flanker responded warmly, shaking his hand. The man’s ample belly wiggled with the exchange. “Range-uh Carlow, isn’t it?”
“Make it Time . . . Jimmy. My friends call me Time.” It seemed strange to be calling this infamous gunman by a boy’s name.
Flanker’s reputation was well known across Southwest Texas. Six known gunfights—and many other stories. All of his adversaries were facing him when they went down. As far as Carlow knew, there were no warrants for his arrest. Carlow was glad of that, for now.
“Why, thank you . . . Time.” Laying down his hand showing three eights, Flanker added, “But I do believe you can take good care of yourself most anywhere. That’s quite a weapon.” He stared at the cards spread on the table and proudly announced, “Excuse me, Time. I believe the pot is mine, gentlemen.”
“No problem. Maybe we’ll cross trails again someday.”
“Let us hope it is for a drink of friendship and that you remember my assistance this day.” Flanker raked the coins, chips, and paper toward him, looked up at Carlow, and smiled, then began placing the rewards into careful piles along with his other winnings.
“You can count on it.”
“Good that it be so. Could I offer you a drink now, Time?”
“No, thanks, Jimmy. I’ve got a man to find.”
“I almost pity that . . . Silver Mallow. I saw that, Leland. Shuffle those again. Let the ace go where it pleases.” Flanker chuckled heartily as Carlow excused himself and walked to the saloon door.
After glancing back at Del Gato, who was sipping a drink, the young Ranger paused beside the marshal and the doctor, who had completed their tasks. Nearby, three men were helping a wobbly Anklon to his feet. The rancher told one of his helpers that his balls were cracked, and the man turned away, smiling. Dr. Holden’s face was reddened, his mouth a thin line of disgust. Marshal Dillingham tried to appear in charge by pointing in the direction of the saloon door. No one was certain if he did it to show the men helping Anklon where they should head—or if he was hoping all the trouble would quickly leave.
“I am truly sorry for this mistake, Ranger,” Dr. Holden said, his words rolling like salve on a wound. “We are all on edge due to the rustling problems.”
“I hear that. Maybe you need a better marshal,” Carlow said grimly, and resumed walking.
Marshal Dillingham’s mouth dropped open and his arm followed, but Dr. Holden’s eyes told him to remain silent.
The short physician brushed imaginary dust from his lapels and murmured in a warm, friendly voice, “Well, at least it’s all over now, Ranger. You can go about your duties in peace.”
Carlow couldn’t agree more. Like Chance, he would be more comfortable outside. Especially away from this place. At the doorway, the curious backed up to let him pass, and many used his exit as a reason to return to their own lives.
Chance glanced backward to make certain his master wasn’t being followed, then froze at the doorway. His warning growl followed.
Carlow stepped to the side of the entrance to determine what was waiting for him without revealing himself. People were moving purposely away from the saloon, dodging an occasional rider or rumbling wagon. He didn’t see the one-armed beggar anywhere and shook his head in pity at the thought of the man.
Then his gaze settled on Chance’s concern.
Across the street was a black man with heavily muscled ebony arms accented by a sleeveless shirt. He looked more like a pirate than a cowhand or a businessman, with a large gold earring dangling from his left ear and a red sash about his waist. His broad-brimmed hat was held in his left hand. His right hand wasn’t visible behind the hat. Carlow guessed it held a gun, so the weapon wouldn’t be evident to casual passersby. A second pistol was visible above the crimson band. Was he one of Dr. Holden’s men? Why else would he be there? The saloon wouldn’t have allowed black men inside.
Stepping back to avoid being seen, Carlow tried to find a remembered face in his mind but couldn’t. Maybe the black man was an acquaintance of Flanker’s; he was obviously a gunfighter. But this was not a moment to assume friendship. More likely he was the backup, assigned to stop Carlow if he managed to leave the saloon.
He turned toward the saloon and commanded, “Dr. Holden, I think you meant ‘rest in peace.’ There’s a friend of yours—or Red’s—waiting for me. Across the street.”
Dr. Holden’s face was pure hatred. The veins in his forehead pounded against his skin in angry frustration. Adjusting his cravat, the blond physician spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m not sure to what you are referring, Ranger. This town is full of my friends.”
“This one’s black and holding a gun. Looks like a pirate. Big arms. Earring. Red sash.”
From the poker table, Flanker’s attention was immediate. “Well, well, that would be Viceroy. My goodness, Doc, you don’t mess around, do you? He was in Houston the last time I saw him. Jamaican gentleman, I believe. Used to prize-fight. In New York and about.” He nodded at Carlow and tossed his cards on the table. “I fold. Found out he could make more—killing.” Glancing at Anklon, he added, “Viceroy will be sorry he missed your fight with Red there. He fancies himself quite the pugilist.” He smiled mischievously. “Pugilist. That’s a boxer, Marshal.”
Tightly released chuckles rippled through the saloon suddenly on edge again.
“I know of no such man. Why would I?” Dr. Holden’s manner had become that of the indignant citizen.
Marshal Dillingham didn’t realize he had been shaking his head negatively the entire time, making his ears salute the air.
“I want you to step out first, Holden.” Carlow drew his sawed-off Winchester. “Better have you come, too, Del Gato. If there’s trouble, I want you in front of me. You look like a man who’s fond of a man’s back.”
The halfbreed’s plucked eyebrows rose in a snarled response to the young Ranger’s insinuation.
Unexpectedly, Flanker announced with a flourish of his hand toward the bar. “Do as you wish, Time. But don’t worry about our friend, Del Gato. If the boy tries anything, I personally will see that it is the last thing he does. Nice hand, William. Beats your two queens, doesn’t it, Leland.”
The halfbreed didn’t even glance at Flanker. His grin reminded Carlow of a mountain cat’s. Slowly, Del Gato downed his drink, and poured another.
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
“Don’t mention it. Time.”
“Just you and me, Doc. I’m sure you won’t mind going out first,” Carlow said. “Be a nice opportunity for you to meet . . . a new friend.”
“Say something, you fool,” Dr. Holden snapped under his breath to Marshal Dillingham.
“Uh, yeah, uh, Range-uh, yah cain’t do this.” Marshal Dillingham continued shaking his head. “The doctuh, ah, he’s . . . ah . . .”
“Well said.” Carlow thumbed back the hammer of the hand-carbine. “You come along too, Marshal. You and the fine doctor here. We’ll make it a threesome.”
Excited, Lacy yelled fom behind the bar, “He’s right, Marshal. It’s your duty to see about this man outside.” She beamed her confidence and winked at Carlow.
At the poker table, Flanker picked up his new hand, examined the cards, and tossed in a gold coin. “Price of poker just went up, gentlemen. Marshal, you’ll like Viceroy. He talks real pretty.” His attention stayed on the men at the table as he added, “Time . . . he can shoot with either hand.”
There was no color in the lawman’s face; his eyes pleaded for help but the only words from Dr. Holden were directed at Carlow. “You will regret this day, young man. I am not a citizen to be trifled with. I happen to know the governor quite well.”
“Tell him howdy for me.” Carlow’s eyes
matched the snarl in his voice. “After you.”
“This is absurd.” Dr. Holden grunted, shoving Marshal Dillingham out of the way as he strutted toward the doorway.
He passed Carlow without looking at him. A step before he reached the swinging doors, the physician pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket and extended his arm so the dangling white cloth was outside before he was. Moving slowly through the entrance, he proclaimed in a loud voice, “I am Dr. Remington J. Holden—and I am an unarmed and peaceful man.”
As soon as he reached the planked sidewalk, he wiped his face with the handkerchief and carefully replaced it in his coat breast pocket. A sense of relief settled on his face as the black gunfighter relaxed and nodded slightly.
Marshal Dillingham hesitated at the doorway, very uncomfortable with the rifle in his hands.
“Now you, Dillingham.” Carlow’s command was firm.
Chance growled a reinforcing threat.
From his back came a request from Flanker. “Oh, Marshal, tell Viceroy for me—he isn’t good enough. The young Range-uh’s quite superior. Tell him it’s just a professional courtesy. All right?”
Marshal Dillingham bit his lower lip and looked down at the Winchester in his hands. It seemed heavy. Very heavy. He considered leaving it propped against the wall but realized he would be the brunt of jokes forever after. But that would be worth it if he could just get through this day. He shut his eyes, swallowed, and stepped out.
Chapter Sixteen
“Point your gun at his belly, Marshal.” Carlow crouched slightly behind him to keep his appearance from the gunfighter. Chance was at his heels, focused on the dark shape across the street.
Slowly, Marshal Dillingham raised his rifle, holding it in both hands as if trying to tell the black man that he wasn’t serious.
“Now, tell him to put on his hat,” Carlow said. “Tell him it’s a town ordinance, you have to wear a hat in public. Tell him anything you want—but I want to see the gun in his hand.”
“But . . . ah . . .”
“Tell him.”
Carlow could see through the narrow opening between the marshal’s arm and body that the gunfighter’s face had turned into a puzzle. The man called Viceroy twisted his head to the right and shrugged his shoulders, not understanding what the presence of the two men meant.
A slight nod of Dr. Holden’s head was a signal to the gunfighter, but Carlow wasn’t sure how to read it.
“You tell him, Doc,” Carlow snapped.
“Me? Why me?”
Carlow’s eyes flashed. “Take a guess.”
Instead, Dr. Holden glared at the marshal. “Do your duty, Dillingham.”
His ears wiggling compliance, the town lawman swallowed the intensity of the doctor’s demand and turned back toward the imposing figure staring at them from twenty feet away.
“Ah, suh, I’d like ya to put . . . yo-ah hat on.” Marshal Dillingham’s voice cracked.
Carlow leaned around Marshal Dillingham so the black man could see him. The young Ranger touched the brim of his hat with the barrel of his gun as a greeting, then settled its steel nose at the black man’s middle, mirroring the marshal’s weapon.
A wide smile of white teeth stretched across the black gunfighter’s face. He returned the hat to his head, spun the pistol in his hand, and shoved it into his sash. Laughing to himself, he turned and walked away. Carlow watched him disappear down the alley.
Marshal Dillingham grunted relief.
“I hope this satisfies you, Ranger, that I am an honorable citizen,” Dr. Holden said in a conciliatory tone. “I made a mistake in listening to Red and his men—but I am no criminal. Only a humble doctor.”
“You have a nice, humble way with a handkerchief, Doc.”
“Well, I am not foolhardy either, sir. From the description I heard, one must always expect trouble.”
“Good words to remember.”
Behind them two Mexicans carried a limp body from the saloon; two other men helped Anklon stagger down the sidewalk. Dr. Holden excused himself and went over to the big rancher. The big-eared marshal looked at Carlow, then at the exiting physician, muttered something Carlow didn’t understand, and walked away. Carlow tried to smile but couldn’t.
He inhaled a long, jagged breath and let the anger slip into the cooling air. The town was settling into an early sunset that promised rain wouldn’t be far behind. His hands throbbed from the fight, and he dared not look at them. He eased the hammer down on the hand-carbine and holstered it. The pounding sought his forehead and extended its ache to the crease there, then slid across to the bullet burn on his shoulder.
A clammy dusk clung to Carlow’s nerves, and he spun toward a shadow emerging from the alley. He stood for a moment, watching and listening, letting his mind clear.
A cat.
No, Thunder, it’s not a witch in disguise, he thought. It’s just a gray cat. He shook his head. Ranger Kileen probably had some kind of belief about gray cats, too. It didn’t matter. He looked again across the street. The black gunfighter was nowhere in sight. Instinctively, his gaze took in the windows. Nothing.
Growling, Chance took off after the small animal, down the alley where the cat had come from. Carlow’s buckskin pawed the ground with its right front hoof and Chance skidded to a stop. Wagging his tail, he returned to check the spot where the horse was demonstrating its agitation. Carlow barely noticed the wolf-dog’s activity. He wasn’t yet convinced the black man had left so quickly, so innocently. A sideways glance at the doctor and marshal told him they were eager to leave the situation. The two Mexicans carrying the dead body laid it down in the street to rest a moment before continuing. Anklon was walking without assistance and the two men were dropping back.
Like the advancing threat of rain, the significance of the situation fully came to Carlow’s mind. It wasn’t about him at all. Not really. It was about Bea Von Pearce. They figured he was working for her; that’s why they came. He wondered how many other Cradle 6 hands they had handled that way.
Of course! Why had he been so stupid? He didn’t know how Red Anklon and Dr. Holden were connected, but they were. Del Gato and the other gunman were working for them. Like the slap of a glove across his face came the question: Was he going to leave Bea Von Pearce and little Hattie to the evil of Dr. Holden and Red Anklon and continue his pursuit of Silver Mallow?
That was his assignment: get Mallow. If he stayed to help Bea Von Pearce, the man responsible for killing his best friend would get away. Frustration dug into his mind, roughed up by indecision. He knew what he was supposed to do, but was it what he should do? Charlie Two-Wolves’s story about a cowhand having his hand cut off by the doctor popped into his mind. Could the bucktoothed drunk in the saloon be that man? Possibly, but it didn’t matter.
Chance rubbed against his leg, and Carlow bent down to recheck the powerful animal’s head. The cut was dried and scabbing over. He glanced at his own hands and saw they were raw and cut. A little bloody but not much. He closed them tightly to ward off the stiffening that was sure to come.
Carlow scratched the wolf-dog’s ears. “Well, boy, I don’t like it either, but our job is to find Silver. Let’s go back and check everything again. Hell, maybe he never came to Presidio.”
Chance cocked his big head and looked at his master; Carlow figured the dog understood. He untied the reins and swung into the saddle.
Thinking about Hattie, the little girl at the Von Pearce ranch, and her not having parents had tugged out a memory locked away in his soul. It was something his Ranger uncle had said to him before a teenage Carlow rode away to help drive a herd of cattle to the railhead in Dodge City. He could see the man who cared for him as no other in this world. A huge bear of a man with a thick mustache to match barrel arms and a massive chest. “Old Thunder” Kileen had a bare-knuckle prizefighter’s physical attributes: a six-foot-two, 220-pound frame; a broken nose; cauliflower ears; several missing teeth; and scarred fists the size of hams.
> Standing beside sixteen-year-old Carlow mounted on a green-broke horse, the elder Texas Ranger’s squinted eyes stared up—and deeply—into his young nephew’s fresh face. A litany of superstitions followed, with Kileen reciting anything that might cause his young nephew a problem on the trail. Every time Carlow thought his uncle was finished, another superstitious concern would be expressed.
If Carlow came across a dead bird, he was to spit on it and keep riding. He was to watch out for a swarm of bees because this meant death was close. If the campfire turned blue, a spirit was near. A cat on the prairie was surely a witch. Of course, he should always count out his bullets and never use the thirteenth. And he should be careful never to lose a bucket; no water would be found until the bucket was secured.
If a weasel crossed his path, he was to drop a coin at that point so the evil would cling to it. But any horseshoe found would have ten times the power of any horseshoe acquired any other way. And there might come a moment when a steer would have to be sacrificed to the spirits to save the herd. However, spirits could not cross running water, so Carlow was to spit three times on the ground before crossing water at night to confuse them.
The young Ranger remembered biting the inside of his cheek so hard that it bled, to keep from laughing at all the shenanigans his uncle described. Kileen had even given Carlow the back tooth of a horse, which was very good luck, his uncle had claimed enthusiastically.
After that long-winded presentation, the hard-faced Ranger blinked twice. The young Carlow thought he was through and was glad none of the other trail riders were near to hear the goofy advice. But Kileen wasn’t finished. He had one more thing to tell his beloved nephew.
Taking a deep breath, Kileen set his square jaw. “One day t’will be a stand ye be makin’, me son. To your likin’ it probably won’t be, as to the where or when of it, laddie. But have it to do, ye will be knowin’. A man ye will be then, me son. An’ wherever I be, Ol’ Thunder knowin’ of that stand, I’ll be. An’ proud as an Irishman on a fine morn in Dublin. Ride well, Time Carlow, me son. Ride well—and may the wee people ride with you.”