Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  Her smile was again a devastating combination of sweetness and mystery. Come-hither yet cold at the same instant. She leaned over and released the cat to the floor. The animal purred and wrapped itself around her high-buttoned shoes. After straightening herself, Jessie touched his arm again. The tingling of her fingers on his skin followed her burning eyes toward the silver chain barely visible around his neck.

  Seeking permission with a faint smile, she pulled the Celtic cross from beneath his shirt. Her eyelids closed. Both hands held it tightly for a tantalizing moment. She opened her eyes. Her gaze was fixed on some other place, some other time. Carlow was puzzled by the performance but said nothing.

  “This . . . was your father’s. He was . . . a great warrior. ” Her voice was an unsteady whisper, as if forced through eternity. “His spirit stands close. So does your mother’s. The fullness of the moon brings them so. She worries about you. Another Irish warrior of this world . . . rides with . . .”

  Jessie stopped in midsentence and blinked. Her eyes were huge; a glaze covered them like the veil of a just-cast-off deep sleep. She released the cross, her fingers pausing against his exposed chest hair. Carlow took a half step back to avoid the words reaching his mind. But they did anyway. Who is she? How does she know about my father? My mother? Thunder?

  A wistful smile dawned on her face. Beads of perspiration followed on her upper lip. Acting as if nothing had happened, she said blandly, “I’ll be right back.”

  Carlow watched her disappear into the office, with the gray cat happily trailing behind her. He fought to regain his composure. Had she actually gone into a trance? He was sweating, but he was chilled, and his head wound was pounding again. The hammering was enough to force him to balance himself with an outstretched hand against a display of bowls and containers.

  Although he had never seen one, he knew about spiritualists, so-called mystics and mesmerists. It seemed like spiritualism had sprung upon the land sometime before the war and had even been embraced, in some cases, by serious ministers and zealous churchgoers. Some champions of women’s rights had been drawn to spiritualism as well, or so he had heard.

  Perhaps Jessie Holden was such a leader; she seemed quite suited for it, he thought. Before Carlow joined the Rangers, his uncle had arrested a “professor of Egyptology” over in San Antonio; the man was bilking older people out of their money to reach dead loved ones.

  Most of the “high arts of the ancients” were actually well-practiced magic shows, parlor ghost tricks, and clever charades. Some of these spiritualists were quite gifted at reading people for clues or even getting them to talk about something personal without realizing it. A light trance, some said. Hypnotism, he thought it was called. Had she hypnotized him and he hadn’t even known it?

  He was breathing hard. The thought of reaching his dead parents, or of their spirits being close, had never occurred to him. The idea sounded more like something a Comanche believed. Like Two-Wolves. Or his late Apache friend, Kayitah. Or someone superstitious like his uncle. What was this woman up to? Had she just guessed correctly? Was there someone in town who knew him? Silver Mallow? Mallow could’ve heard about his past from Kileen while the outlaw was in the Bennett jail. He pushed out his jaw and shook his head. This was silly. He was letting her get inside his mind.

  A wall of memories rushed into his consciousness, like water bursting through a broken dam. Gleaming spray revealed glimpses of yesterday. One shard of memory might have been his father, but that couldn’t be. His father died on shipboard headed for America, leaving a pregnant young wife with no money or hope. The young Ranger was depressed and elated at the same time. His mother put her arms around him.

  He shook his head and tried to concentrate on something else. He must. Something earthly. Something real. It did no good to analyze what had just happened. Dr. Holden’s wife’s beauty masked evil, he told himself. Her husband was a bad man; why should he expect anything different from his wife? He was answered by a voice within his mind. Or was it? The voice said she was close to the spirit world. He shook his head again and his head wound rattled with pain.

  With great deliberation, he made himself walk over to the display of cigars lined up carefully in a large box. He remembered tossing his cigar at the saloon and decided to buy several for the trail. It gave him something to do while he waited. He lifted three from the container and saw her reenter the store from the unseen office. As she walked briskly toward him, her eyes sought to embrace his, and Carlow felt like his mind was being pulled from his head. Her cat bounded along, playing a game with her moving feet.

  “Remmy said that you were the only one who’s come to town on a Cradle 6 horse in weeks. That’s what made them suspicious. He told me to apologize to you again—and to give you this.” She held up her hand and opened it to reveal a small jar of salve. Her voice and manner were normal and casual. “He said to put this on your head wound and your knuckles. There is no charge. He said it was the least he could do.”

  Carlow accepted the jar and thanked her.

  “Of course, I think little of man’s medicine myself,” she said. “There is an unseen world of spirits that can do so much more. All one has to do is ask them to come. They are all around us, especially in the glorious resurrection of the moon’s power that comes with a full moon. Do you believe in spirits, Ranger Time Carlow?”

  She stepped closer to him, her gaze never leaving his face, not waiting for his response. There was an urgency in her manner; a strange gleam returned to her eyes. A triumphant sparkle. Her back straightened, and her bosom reached out to him. “The stones in your pocket. They are a connection to your friend. Your dead friend. He wants me to tell you he is happy that you are going after his killer.” She was staring. But not at him. She was focused on the ceiling. For a moment, she ruled him completely.

  Licking his lips, Carlow said with a forced grin, “Did he like what I had for lunch?”

  He might as well have hit her in the stomach with his fist. Her eyes flew at him with a wild rage beyond reason. He thought she was going to slap him. But her hand stopped as it started to rise from her side, as if by an unseen force. A polished mask quickly slipped over her anger.

  Her cat discovered the fringe on his Kiowa leggings and began batting it enthusiastically. He didn’t notice, concentrating on his own words. His natural combative nature was taking charge, overcoming her powerful enchantment.

  Carlow spoke through gritted teeth, determined not to fall under her spell again. “Maybe my father’s spirit can give me a few pointers on how to catch Silver Mallow. Or, better yet, how to help a fine widow lady keep her ranch.” He deliberately avoided including Dr. Holden in his assertions. “Or tell me where Del Gato or that black shooter—the one who looks like he just came off a ship—will be waiting for me.”

  Her smile would have felled most men. It was a long, deep kiss promised. The hint of a delicious night together. Her hand started moving upward again, sliding and slowly crossing over her right breast, until it finally found a strand of hair that had dropped across her cheek and flipped it away.

  “Your Irish uncle would call me a witch,” Jessie whispered. “And you? What do you think?” Her gaze invited him closer. She knew she was irresistible. Spellbinding. “The man you seek looks much like you, isn’t that so? That bothers you, doesn’t it?” She expected him to gasp at the observation.

  Instead, Carlow forced himself to laugh. “Only that I haven’t caught him yet. How much for the cigars?”

  This time she joined his mirth. “They are yours at no cost. Remmy would insist. If you can wait a few minutes, he said he’d be out and would enjoy talking with you.” She caught the wave of a young woman at the counter and waved back. “Oh, I need to help a customer.”

  The woman, in her late teens and wearing an azure bonnet that accented her brown curls and matched her eyes, continued to gaze at them. Her smile was directed at Carlow. He touched his hat brim with his hand in a greeting. Her smile widened.r />
  “I see you have an admirer, Ranger Carlow,” Jessie said. “Are all women drawn to you . . . as I am?”

  The young Ranger’s face reddened. He didn’t know what to say. He glanced at the young woman at the counter still watching him for more response, then back to Jessie, whose eyes were seeking further conquest.

  “Sure, I’ll wait. Thanks for your help, Jessie,” Carlow finally said, “and for the cigars . . . and the ghost stories.” He wanted to say the young woman didn’t compare to her but that would be foolish talk. It took all of his determination to do so as he shoved the medicine jar and cigars in the pocket of his trail coat.

  Jessie glanced at the waiting woman, then back to the young Ranger, as if dismissing her from competition. “Time Carlow, are you staying in town? I hope so. We can talk about spirits and spiritualism . . . seances . . . and the mysteries of ancient Egypt. It’s so far beyond anything you’ll hear around here or most places, I fear. You might find me most interesting. Some men do, you know.” Her smile was laced with arousal.

  “I reckon most would find you quite hard to walk away from.” He looked over at the cash register, then down at his boots, where her cat continued to play. He forced himself to close and open his fists. “But you’d better go take care of your customers. They might have some ghosts getting riled up, too.”

  Her eyes studied him again and he felt like she was trying to climb inside his head.

  To break the connection, he leaned down and picked up the cat. “Hey, you, I’ve got a big dog outside who’d like to meet you.” The cat meowed softly, squirming in his hands as he scratched behind its ears. He handed the animal to her.

  “They say he is a wolf. From somewhere else,” she murmured. “That his spirit comes from beyond the grave. It is so.”

  “Who’s they?”

  Her forced smile turned into one of lopsided annoyance. “I don’t think you would believe me.”

  “Probably not. Because he isn’t.”

  She cradled the cat in her arms. “Marianne likes you. She usually doesn’t take to men.” Like a queen before her subjects, she slowly raised her eyes and stared at him. “Do you want that woman at the counter? Esther McCollough . . . she is a virgin.”

  He was pulled toward Jessie and, for a moment, wanted to be in her arms.

  “Or maybe we can talk with your father and your mother some night. I feel their spirits are close, don’t you?”

  His attempt at smiling was a wistful curling of his mouth at the right corner. His attention was returned to her and she knew it. Her eyes sparkled with victory.

  “I was born under a Witch Tree, you know. Just outside of New Orleans. My real mother is the moon. She watches over me—and those I care about.” Jessie’s beautiful face twisted into a smile that wasn’t quite a smile; her eyes glowed with an animal look that saw nothing and everything.

  Before he could respond, the store’s front door swung open, and Marshal Dillingham came charging into the quiet. His ears wiggled as he stomped inside. He squinted to adjust his eyesight to the grayness, spotted the young Ranger, and hurried to him.

  “Range-uh, a hoss has dun been a’stole. Ex-cuse me, Mrs. Hol-den, down by Ree-llena’s, ah, place. A fella soundin’ a lot like your Sil-vuh Mal-low skee-daddled outta town. South. Headin’ for Mexico, don-cha reckon?”

  Carlow cocked his head to the side. “How long ago?” “Accordin’ to Clemens—the cowboy who dun had his hoss stole—he be . . . ah, inside . . .’bout a hour back—or so.” Dillingham waved his arms to support his estimate of time, forcing his huge ears to flap.

  Touching Carlow’s arm again, Jessie Holden interrupted. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but I have customers. You come back, Ranger, and we’ll talk.” Her face was again a mask of indifference as she walked away, carrying the cat. “Oh, what shall I tell Miss McCollough?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the woman was pouting and had put her hands on her hips in a demonstration of impatience. However, her shoulders were thrown back to accent her bosom.

  “Ask her if she likes ghosts.” Carlow pulled his gaze away from Jessie’s retreat and studied the lawman. It helped him to concentrate. “You say the stolen horse was taken from in front of the Kahn house?” He was glad Jessie wasn’t near; her eyes would have glistened with satisfaction that he knew about it. He remembered Flanker saying the doctor secretly owned the whorehouse.

  Chapter Twenty

  Carlow knew he should have been smarter than to trust Rellena Kahn. Mallow was there when he searched her place, and the madam was trying to get Carlow into a room so Mallow could kill him. Kileen told him often not to believe what a woman with fancied-up eyes had to say; if she didn’t want you to see her real eyes, she wouldn’t be telling you the truth, either. He wasn’t sure what his uncle would say about a beauty like Jessica Anne Holden. Probably what she had said herself.

  A witch.

  Dillingham glanced over at her as she greeted the young woman, who seemed to fade before Jessie’s beauty. He nodded an appreciation for Jessie’s appearance and continued his report. “Yeah. Clemens dun came to my office, a’hollerin’ an’ a’bellerin’ somethin’ fee-erce. Be a fine lookin’ red hoss. Front white stockin’s.”

  Carlow headed toward the door without another word.

  “Whar ya a’goin’?”

  “After Silver Mallow.”

  “It’ll be dark afore long, Range-uh. Rain’s a’comin’.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Shall I tell Clemens that ya be gittin’ his hoss fer hee-um?” Dillingham grinned as he asked.

  Carlow hesitated at the doorway. “Finding town horses is your job, Marshal—or did you forget?”

  Jessie’s words trailed him. Soft. Polite. Yet poetic and pleasuring. A forbidden invitation at their edges. “Please be careful, Ranger Time Carlow. Come back now, so we can . . . talk. The ones we spoke of are asking for you.” She patted the young woman’s hand; her whisper wore a definite condescending tone. “All men are alike, aren’t they, dear? Someday, maybe, you’ll know that, too.”

  Esther McCollough was pretending to examine the label of a medicine bottle before her; her upward gaze was an attempt at indifference.

  Jessie’s cat jumped down from the counter and scurried in pursuit of Carlow, as if to reinforce its mistress’s cryptic message, but arrived as the door closed behind him.

  Carlow was riding in minutes, with the buckskin eager to be on the move again. So was Chance. And he was, too. There was a sense of freedom that came with leaving Jessie Holden’s animal magnetism and mystical ways behind him. He saw Del Gato standing in the doorway of the saloon as he rode past and gave him a nonchalant wave. The halfbreed’s right hand jerked to respond; then he snorted and was still. Carlow chuckled.

  Someone recoiled from an upper window on the opposite side of the street. Carlow sensed the movement more than saw it. It could have been anyone. But he was reminded of the black gunfighter from the alley earlier. The thought was enough to make him draw the hand-carbine as he rode and to kick the buckskin into a gallop. His long coat fluttered around his leggings as the horse raced toward the end of town.

  Chance barked and bounced alongside the horse’s legs as they quickly cleared the last buildings of Presidio and headed toward the Rio Grande. The young Ranger saw the hoofprints immediately. Fresh among a trail of tired marks in the land, heightened by the long fingers of dusk.

  Two horses. One being ridden, the other trailed.

  He didn’t like what the advantage meant and cursed himself for not stopping at the livery to get a second horse. Worse, ahead of him, blackness was rising at the edge of the world. Fat and angry clouds eyed the land ravenously. More rain was less than an hour away. Hard rain. At least as heavy as last night. Nightfall would come with it.

  Around Carlow, the prairie held its breath, bracing for the coming storm. How far was it to the Rio Grande? Would Mallow cross before the rain came? What about Fort Leaton? Would he go there i
nstead? It was right on the way. The huge adobe home overlooking the Rio Grande wasn’t really a fortress, but in the past, it had provided protection from Indian attacks for the Leaton family and others. Even been an occasional base of operations for Army and Ranger units. The forty-room enclosure had been owned by John Burgess since before the War.

  No Rangers were there now, Carlow was fairly certain. Unless they just happened to stop over for the night. Still, he imagined Mallow would avoid the place and head straight for Mexico.

  Carlow passed a worn-out stream bed. Brown ghosts of dead willows lined a natural stone wall forming a long crease in the land, breathing from a spring whose life lay deep within the earth. Mallow had waited there to see if he was followed. The young Ranger could see where the outlaw’s knee had pushed into the embankment for leverage. His wolf-dog charged into the tired land crease to examine its hidden stories firsthand. Resuming hoofmarks headed directly toward the Rio Grande, disappearing into the graying horizon.

  What were the chances of catching up with Mallow before the storm wiped out all traces of his escape? Carlow tried to decide if he should seek shelter or keep riding. If Mallow reached Mexico, Carlow had no right to cross after him. That was the stuff of international incidents. Not even Captain McNelly and the rest of the Rangers would be allowed to cross the great river after the Mexican rustlers ravaging the corners of Texas. At least not with permission from Washington, D.C. But McNelly would do anything if he thought it was right. That was good enough for Carlow.

  He glanced down at the Ranger badge on his shirt and pulled it off. He would follow Mallow as an ordinary citizen. Shoving the badge into his vest pocket was a reinforcement of his decision. His mind didn’t quite agree. Returning to help Bea Von Pearce tugged at his determination to follow Mallow. He tried not to think of what would happen to her. Or Hattie. Or Charlie Two-Wolves. Or his great horse, Shadow. He bit his lower lip as he pictured Dr. Holden riding the fine horse into town.