Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  That was before the Rangers, with Kileen’s urging, offered badges to Carlow and his late best friend, Shannon Dornan.

  “Maybe this is the time, Thunder. The time for me to make a stand,” he murmured to himself, and wondered whatever had happened to that horse’s tooth.

  He patted his vest pocket where Kileen’s gift of an acorn remained. The buckskin’s ears twisted toward him, trying to understand the comment. He chuckled to himself at what his pockets would be like if he still had all of the things Kileen had given him over the years to keep him safe from harm.

  Only last year, he discovered the crushed remains of a bumblebee in a pocket of an old pair of pants. Kileen had given him the dead insect several years before, announcing that it was the first bee of the spring and was, therefore, exceptionally lucky.

  He glanced at Dr. Holden and his entourage, now a block away. Del Gato hadn’t left the saloon. Standing there wasn’t a good idea; the halfbreed could easily shoot from the doorway. This whole situation, with Dr. Holden and the Von Pearce ranch, wasn’t his concern. Bea would have to deal with her problem as best she could. His job was to find and arrest Silver Mallow.

  He was a Ranger, and Rangers followed orders.

  Captain McNelly would never understand any other action. Would Kileen understand? Or was his statement years ago just the emotion of the moment? It didn’t matter. He had a job to do. The captain was depending on him, had shown his confidence in him. He had sworn an oath to the memory of his best friend. With a sigh, Carlow decided to check again at the livery and the hotel, then the general store. If no sign of Silver Mallow surfaced, it meant the outlaw had fooled him and hadn’t come to Presidio, and he must ride out and try to pick up his trail again.

  The excited hotel clerk wanted to ask about the disturbance at the saloon, but something in Carlow’s manner kept him from it. Instead, he responded to Carlow’s question about any more strangers coming to the hotel. Eagerly the clerk explained two drummers had checked in since Carlow had been there.

  Neither description came close to Mallow. Even in disguise. Both men were quite short, according to the clerk’s hand-held measurement. The young Ranger declined an interest in going to their rooms. Nervously the clerk reminded him of the woman guest and said she had left the hotel, advising him that she was going to the millinery shop. That was an hour or so ago.

  “Doesn’t sound like Silver Mallow stopped at your place. Thanks anyway.”

  “Ah, sir, Ranger?” The clerk inhaled courage and slid a hand through his greasy hair as if to match the audacity of his next question.

  “Yeah?”

  “Were you . . . in that altercation at Charlie’s?” The clerk continued. “Fortis Jones came in here talking all about a Ranger who beat up Red Anklon and shot Luke Mitchell. Was that . . . you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” The clerk was definitely disappointed. He was already thinking of the stories he would tell his friends. “Say, I’ve got a real nice room if you’re staying over. Only a dollar. It’s gonna rain, you know.”

  “No thanks. I’ll be riding on. Doesn’t look like the man I’m after came to town.”

  “But . . . you’re wounded.” The clerk motioned awkwardly toward Carlow’s head. His hand barely paused before nervously retreating.

  “Yeah. I am.”

  “A-and your hands . . . they’re all cut. I’ll get you some water.”

  “No thanks. I’m not thirsty.”

  The clerk’s face jerked into a mechanical smile reserved for special guests and looked past Carlow. “Well, good day, Mr. Flanker. Didn’t expect to see you so soon, sir.”

  Carlow turned to see the heavyset shootist standing in the doorway. He was more slump-shouldered than Carlow had realized. Flanker’s ruddy, round face appeared like it was about to burst. His light brown eyebrows were nearly invisible over narrow, impish eyes that could turn hard and cruel faster than a bullet. He brushed at an imaginary fleck on his lapel.

  “Thought I’d give the locals a bit of a break,” Flanker grunted. “Besides, I haven’t had any sleep since two days ago.”

  “Your regular room is ready, Mr. Flanker.”

  “I take it that means there are new pillows, new sheets, and a fresh bottle of whiskey as I requested.” Flanker’s expression remained unchanged. “Oh, and swept out good. There was a cobweb in the corner last time I was here.”

  “Oh yes, sir. Everything is just like you asked.” The clerk looked like he was trying to remember about any cobwebs.

  “Sounds acceptable,” Flanker said, and nodded at Carlow. “Range-uh Carlow . . . Time . . . may I have a word with yo-all, suh?”

  “Of course.” Carlow saw no need to tell him that he was searching for Mallow; the gunfighter would know that.

  Flanker’s gaze took in the curious clerk who quickly found importance in his ledger.

  Without looking to see if Carlow was following, the heavyset shootist walked toward the small adjoining restaurant. “Noticed yo-all’s beer was interrupted back there. How about a try at somethin’ to eat? This place has more than passable beef stew.” His movements were steady but slow, as if an older man than he was.

  Carlow liked the idea but it wasn’t what he should be doing. “Another time, Jimmy. I need to find an outlaw.”

  Flanker nodded and stopped. “Of course. I should have known you’d be locked into duty. That’s fine. I just didn’t want anybody else to hear what I have to share. Then yo-all can be on yo-all’s way again.”

  The message was free of sarcasm, simply a statement of fact, or that’s how Carlow read it. Or was it how he wanted to read it?

  “I could use some coffee, how’s that?”

  “Excellent. Excellent.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Only three soldiers occupied the small hotel restaurant; they ate quietly at the farthest table. Flanker and Carlow sat at the first table in the room, and the thick-bellied gunfighter immediately waved at the waitress, calling her by name.

  She brushed her hair with her hand and scurried over to them. Her soiled apron covered a dress that had long ago given up its shape. The stale brown cloth hung on her skinny frame.

  “First, Wanda, honey, we need the table wiped off. See those crumbs? And that ring from somebody’s coffee cup?” Flanker pointed.

  “I’ll get a rag, Mr. Flanker. Just take a minute.”

  “Of course, Wanda. I know it was an oversight.” His smile cut his oval face in half. “Then, we’ll take a pot of coffee. Fresh. Two cups, all right, honey?” Flanker winked. “Make sure they’re nice an’ clean.”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Flanker. Right away,” she gushed, and fluttered her stubby eyelashes and timidly added, “We have a gooseberry pie. Just out of the oven. Smells real good.” She glanced toward the kitchen. “Mr. Wilkinson said to tell you about it.”

  Flanker grinned. “Excellent. I’ll take a big slice of that. Range-uh, suh, would yo-all’s duty allow for that?”

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  “Two big slices then, Wanda. Make sure Wilkinson added a swipe of cream and sprinkled cinnamon on top, like I showed him last time.”

  She smiled her best smile and left. The expression reminded Carlow of a horse showing its teeth when annoyed.

  As soon as she was out of earshot, Flanker declared in his soft Southern drawl, “Range-uh Carlow . . . Time . . . yo-all need to be watchin’ your back. Yo-all really stirred up a hornet’s nest by messin’ in the good doctuh’s business.”

  “Seems to me the hornets came after me.”

  “Yeah, they did at that.” Flanker laughed, low and laced with old whiskey. “Yo-all handle yourself well, Time, if yo-all don’t mind my sayin’.”

  The conversation ended as the waitress returned with a wet rag wrapped over her arm and carrying the coffeepot, cups, and pie. She set them down on the adjoining table and wiped off their table ceremoniously, going over the uneven surface twice, then presented the coffee and pie with her best flourish.<
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  “Can I get you anything else?” It was an invitation delivered with the same horselike smile.

  Flanker didn’t respond, pouring coffee for both.

  Carlow grinned politely. “We’re fine. Thanks.”

  Her own smile seemed to say she couldn’t decide what she should do next. The cook told her to ask if they wanted any supper. That was easy to suggest in the kitchen. Standing next to the two dominating men, it was a different issue. She had heard the story about the handsome young Ranger’s victorious fight. He was courteous but distant, and the thick-bellied gunfighter was interested only in examining the pie to see if it met his standards. But what if they became angry at her? The decision was made. She curtsied awkwardly and left, not daring to ask anything.

  Without looking up, Flanker asked, “How’d yo-all know Del Gato had a third gun?”

  Carlow was surprised at the question. “Saw it . . . when he moved. Should’ve checked earlier. . . .”

  “Not many carry three guns.”

  “Only takes one.” Carlow tasted the coffee. It was definitely fresh. A cut above most restaurant brew.

  “Yo-all carry two.”

  “So do you.”

  Flanker’s thin eyebrows lifted in amused appreciation. “I do?”

  “In your coat pocket, a small gun. A derringer, probably.”

  “Very observant, Range-uh Carlow. Very observant.” Flanker looked up, his eyes flashing. “Good coffee, isn’t it. Gave them the recipe myself. Has an egg in it. That’s Swedish style, I believe.”

  “Real fine.” Carlow took another sip. What did this notorious shootist want? His uncle would be angry that he was even talking with him. He could hear his Irish expletives now.

  “Try the pie, Time. Just the right mix of crust and filling. Melt in your mouth, it will,” Flanker advised. “Yo-all can’t find a better pie maker in Texas. No suh.”

  Carlow was intrigued but growing impatient. He ate the pie quickly and washed it down with more coffee, hoping it would accelerate Flanker’s getting to the point.

  “Do you use the same cartridge in both the carbine and the Colt?” Flanker asked. “May I see the Winchester? Here’s my Merwin.” He withdew the gun from his shoulder holster and held it toward Carlow, butt first. It was a pearl-handled Merwin, Ulbert and Company revolver, double-action. A beautifully made six-gun, Carlow thought from just his first glance.

  “Ah, sure. Sure.” Carlow took Flanker’s gun in his left hand, pulled his sawed-off carbine from its holster rig, and presented it to the fat gunfigher with the gun sideways in the palm of his hand.

  Carlow examined Flanker’s Merwin revolver, liking its weight and feel. The gun had been quite popular throughout the West, even considered once by the U.S. military for its official sidearm, and was the pistol of choice for Union Pacific Railroad guards.

  “It’s got perfect balance; well, nearly so. A gunsmith in Houston worked on it—to my specifications,” Flanker commented as he studied Carlow’s weapon, raising the circular lever slightly, then easing it back into place. “Somebody good made this. An’ yo-all handle it with the care it deserves. Did it take long to master? How much does it kick when you use it one-handed?”

  “A little more jump than a Colt. Not much though.” Carlow didn’t like being quizzed like this. Was Flanker evaluating his chances against him?

  Carlow handed the pistol back to the fat man, growing uncomfortable with the situation. Was this a ruse? Had Mallow engaged Flanker to keep him under watch? Or delay him? It didn’t seem likely, still . . .

  “I’ve got to get going, Jimmy. I’ve got to find Mallow, that’s my assignment. My first . . . alone,” Carlow said as Flanker returned the hand-carbine.

  “Oh, of course. Of course. How rude of me,” Flanker replied. “I just wanted to share something I thought yo-all should know.”

  With that, Flanker tilted his head to the side, crossed his arms in front of his massive belly, and proceeded to tell Carlow about Dr. Holden. Carlow holstered his gun and leaned forward to listen. Flanker’s presentation was as measured as his earlier requests from the waitress. The doctor’s father had built the hotel, the Rio Grande saloon, and the original Bar H. Both were immensely successful ventures. But his son never had any interest in lodging or cattle, only in the wealth they brought. Not long after Dr. Holden returned from New Orleans with his new wife, his parents died. Flanker’s face indicated neither were natural deaths.

  “Ol’ man Holden was tough but fair, so I’ve heard. Young Holden only got as far as the tough part,” Flanker declared and picked up the coffeepot, offering to pour more for Carlow.

  The young Ranger muttered, “No thanks,” and the fat man filled his own cup.

  After sipping the added brew, Flanker continued, saying that the loss of his parents made Dr. Holden a wealthy man overnight. That was five years ago. Dr. Holden had gradually expanded his cattle operation by taking over three smaller ranches. His current target was the Cradle 6. With it, he would own all of the significant year-round water and the best pastureland for a hundred miles. Red Anklon was Mrs. Holden’s brother; a cruel, sadistic rancher who ran the Bar H like a military post.

  Flanker thought the Bar H riders were mostly solid cowhands left over from the elder Holden’s days, with a small group of outlaws brought in to help expand Holden’s hold on the region. Del Gato and Mitchell were the best known of the group. Viceroy, the black gunfighter, had evidently just been hired; Flanker hadn’t seen him before today. He surprised Carlow most by telling him that the physician had secretly underwritten Kahn’s pleasure house and took good profits from it, as well as enjoyment, especially with Black Bethinia. He didn’t think anyone of significance in town was aware of either fact.

  Questions shot from Carlow. “How do you know all this? Didn’t you just get into town? Why are you telling me?”

  Chuckling, the fat man pushed his fork against some remaining crumbs on his plate and placed them in his mouth. “Hmmm, mighty good.” Without hurrying to respond, he sipped his coffee, put down the cup, and leaned forward. His slitted eyes caught Carlow’s and held them. “Old habit, listenin’. Ran into the big colonel, Red Anklon, two days ago—at Kahn’s. Just after I got here. Being with a woman loosens up a man, yah know. Makes him talkative. That and some whiskey at that excellent bar of theirs. He told me pretty much everything.”

  “That’s one answer.” Carlow made no attempt to look away. If this was the beginning of a fight, so be it.

  Flanker threw his head back and guffawed so loudly the troopers at the far table looked up and the waitress hurried from the kitchen. She stopped as she cleared its door.

  “Yo-all are a man to stand with, Time Carlow,” Flanker said, shaking his massive head. “I’ll bet it never entered your mind that Red might whip yo-all, did it?”

  Carlow wasn’t certain how to respond. Of course he had been afraid. That’s what drove a man sometimes. The fear of losing. Only a fool didn’t know fear. “It entered my mind. Just didn’t see much use in the idea.”

  Flanker pursed his lips and the smile returned. This time it was curled higher on his right side. “I like yoall, Range-uh Carlow. Like the way yo-all handled things in the saloon. I guess that’s why I wanted to make sure yo-all knew what was goin’ on. Had a feelin’ yo-all would care—about the widow.”

  “Thanks. I believe you, Jimmy.” It still felt strange to call this imposing figure of a man by a boy’s name, but it was beginning to feel more natural. “But I’m only interested in Silver Mallow.” He let the words settle in his mind but they didn’t want to. “If he’s not in Presidio, I’ve got to find him. The problems around here aren’t my business.” He swallowed, not liking his own statement.

  “I haven’t seen this Silver Mallow fellow. Yo-all been after him a long time?”

  Carlow explained his history with the outlaw, including the murder of his best friend.

  “Well, don’t count on ol’ Big Ears, the marshal. I figure Holden’s got him p
aid off—or just buffaloed,” Flanker said, studying the young Ranger.

  “I read it the same way.” Carlow reached into his vest pocket and retrieved two coins.

  “Let me get this, Time.” Flanker held out his hand to stop Carlow’s movement. “Least I can do. I won a hundred on the fight, bettin’ on yo-all.”

  Carlow stood, letting the coins hit the table. “Next one, Jimmy.”

  “Watch your back, my young friend.”

  “I always do.” Carlow held out his hand.

  Flanker shook it vigorously. “I hope we meet again—as friends.”

  “So do I, Jimmy.”

  “It wouldn’t be a fight either of us would walk away from, yo-all know.”

  Carlow nodded, not caring for the comment but acknowledging to himself that the gunfighter was probably right.

  As Carlow left, Flanker reverted to an earlier subject, Bea Von Pearce. “Time, I understand duty. I really do. No disrespect, but I believe yo-all do be carin’ about that widow. She won’t be able to hold on long. Yo-all know that as well as I. Heard she’s down to five hands—plus some crazy Indian who lives at the ranch.”

  Carlow’s mouth tightened but no words came as he continued his exit. He heard Flanker calling to the waitress for a large bowl of stew. “Make sure it’s hot. Lots of vegetables. No pepper. Got any fresh bread? Bring a bottle of your best, too.”

  The young Ranger smiled and the clerk said something that Carlow nodded a response to, without caring what was said, and studied the far side of the street before stepping onto the sidewalk. Where could Mallow be? Finding him now—if he was in town—would mean Carlow could ride back to help the old widow, assuming Marshal Dillingham could be trusted to hold the outlaw in his jail. Carlow’s threat if something happened might be enough to make it so.