Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  A knock on the dark walnut front door interrupted his thoughts. More pounding followed, then the testing of the locked brass knob.

  Who in the world would be coming here tonight? In this rain?

  It couldn’t be Viceroy; Holden was going to meet him tomorrow morning. He shivered when he recalled their parting. The physician had proudly proclaimed, “Tomorrow is a big day for me. I take over the Cradle 6.” Viceroy had responded without emotion, “Tomorrow I kill a widow, an Indian—and a little girl.” The words were as smooth as the doctor’s whiskey.

  Dr. Holden had halfway expected the black gunman to chase after the Ranger when he left town. Viceroy wasn’t like Del Gato; he would want to face the fierce young man. Just for the thrill of it. Then again, Viceroy was also interested in the black whore at Kahn’s place. Knowing Rellena, she would let him in the back way. The physician chuckled to himself. Given the choice, he would choose being with Bethinia too. Any day. She was something special in bed. He shivered with delightful memory and decided he would enjoy her again after this was all over. And that would be soon. The Ranger wasn’t a threat anymore. By the time he returned, if he ever did, the valley would be Holden’s and all signs of illegal activity would be gone. Forever.

  Viceroy didn’t know it, but he would be blamed for the deaths of the widow and the others. Eyewitnesses would tell the marshal—and the newspaper—about seeing a black man in a red sash ride away from the Von Pearce ranch house. The witnesses would be Anklon and some of his men. If Jessie did decide to ride along with the rustling raid and killed one of the Cradle 6 riders—because the moon was full or whatever crazy reason she always gave—Vicerory would be blamed for that, too.

  Oh, it was perfect. Perfect. He took a long swallow, choking on the volume.

  Another knock. Even louder this time.

  “I’m coming. I’m coming.” Dr. Holden took another drink, a smaller one, rose and headed for the door.

  Straightening his cravat, he picked up the gas lamp and strolled toward the entryway hall, umindful that the person at the door was exposed to the rain. He passed a large golden dragon statue that guarded the hallway’s end. To his right was a winding staircase. Family portraits followed up the steps. An examination of the gold-framed photograph of himself was disrupted by more pounding at the door.

  Smiling, he resumed his walk to the door, past red walls lined with great scrolls, ornate tapestry, and tall, slender Egyptian vases. A long red runner with gold accents covered the wooden floor. All were purchases made by his wife. He didn’t care for any of it, except that it showed wealth.

  He shook his head, chuckling, and gripped the doorknob.

  Opening the door brought a sprinkle of dying rain. Marshal Dillingham stood there with his wide-brimmed hat sagging and his long coat following the contours of his narrow shoulders and thick midsection. His hat was pulled down so far that his large ears curled out where the brim pushed against them.

  “Good evening, Laetner. What brings you here of all nights?” Dr. Holden made no attempt to apologize for his slowness in getting to the door. “Come in. Come in.”

  Marshal Dillingham stepped inside, his wet boots bringing more water to the floor. He was unsure of what to do next; he knew only that he needed some answers. He wouldn’t be able to sleep until he got them. As an afterthought, he took off his hat. Damp hair flopped around his ears.

  “I-uh wanted to ask yo-all some questions . . .’bout today, Doc.”

  “Well, sure. Come into my study for a little whiskey to warm you—and we can talk.” Dr. Holden’s manner was that of a physician caring for a patient. “You can put your coat and hat there.” He pointed at the golden coat rack against the wall.

  “Yeah, sure, that-ud be real fine.”

  Without another word, the small doctor spun and headed back to the study, holding the lamp in front of him.

  Marshal Dillingham took off his soaked coat and rain-beaten hat, placed them on the rack, and hurried behind the physician like a puppy chasing someone’s feet. His large ears flapped with each step and a trail of water traced his path. The lawman’s gaze took in a particularly large carving mounted on the wall. The centerpiece was a tree; behind it was a full moon. All kinds of animals and birds hovered around the tree. Worshipping the tree, he thought, and decided it was a nice idea. Next was an image of a nude female torso with the wings and tail of a bird, holding a crescent moon in one hand. Her other arm was raised in a blessing. He didn’t know what to think of it.

  Inside the den, Dr. Holden motioned for him to sit in the companion sofa and poured whiskey for both. He had a good idea of what this was all about: the young Ranger. Marshal Dillingham was no fool, even though he often acted like it.

  The marshal sat and studied the room with its spare, but elegant, furnishings. One wall was completely taken up by shelves filled with books. He could remember seeing so many only once before, and that was when he visited a school friend, now a college professor, in Austin. He wasn’t certain why a man needed more than one book at a time anyway. The other walls were wood-paneled, with framed paintings highlighting them. One painting he liked; it was of a bunch of horses in a pasture. He didn’t understand another but thought it was a lake. Or maybe it was a closeup of a woman’s face. It didn’t matter; that wasn’t why he was there.

  “What’s on your mind, Laetner?” Dr. Holden handed him a glass half filled with whiskey.

  “Bin a-chewin’ on the day, Doc—an’ I cain’t figger what-uh dun went on.” Marshal Dillingham made a loud slurping sound as he tested his drink.

  Settling into his chair, the physician smiled, sipped his own refreshed whiskey, and said that it had been a trying day for everyone. Then he recited the story of how Red Anklon and his men had thought the young Ranger was a horse thief and finished with the resulting saloon fight. He didn’t mention the black gunfighter.

  “Yo-all surprised the Ranger boy dun whipped the colonel?”

  “Well, I’m not much of a student of violence, Laetner,” Dr. Holden replied, laying his left hand on the arm of the chair and trying to appear relaxed. “But it looked to me that the young man was lucky, caught the colonel by surprise.”

  “Not-uh the way I heard it.”

  “As I said, I’m not a student of violence.”

  “Yo-all think that Range-uh came to town aftuh that outlaw, like he claimed?” Marshal Dillingham slurped more of his whiskey and Dr. Holden tried not to show his annoyance at the sounds.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, do yah think he dun came in to check on what’s goin’ on around hyar?” Marshal Dillingham ran his left hand over his hair in an attempt to bring it back under control. The motion failed to return most of the wet strands to their former position. Only his ears responded to the movement.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what’s going on, Marshal.” Dr. Holden’s tone was suddenly harsher, more formal.

  Swallowing to regain the confidence he had found walking over, the stout lawman recited the rustling problems at area ranches, the killing of the Germans, two other ranchers leaving abruptly, the killing of Herman Von Pearce and a stranger in the hotel—and the removal of Nichols’s hand. Dr. Holden’s countenance showed no signs of being surprised at the directness of the discussion or the depth of the lawman’s knowledge. The short physician took another sip of his drink and decided to wait on his response. He was glad he did.

  “Ya know, I-uh could be a he’p to yo-all, Remington.”

  A smile leaped across Dr. Holden’s mind but didn’t reach his face. So that was it. Dillingham wanted in. Of course. Why didn’t he figure that before?

  “Ya know, it were me that-uh helped get the Rangeuh outta hyar. He’s probably holed up somewhars, a-waitin’ out the storm,” Marshal Dillingham observed, and downed the rest of his whiskey. “Or-uh did somebody go after him?”

  Dr. Holden stood and went back to the crystal bottle holding the liquor. Without speaking, he walked over to Marshal Dillingh
am and refilled his glass. The physician’s face was void of expression, as if he were examining a patient.

  “An’ who-uh is this Viceroy fella? Biggest damn Negra I-uh ever saw.” Marshal Dillingham watched the whiskey rise in his glass. “Haven’t seen him since . . . ah, the hat thang. He go after the kid Range-uh?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, Laetner.”

  “That-uh is my job.”

  “No, your job is keeping the peace,” Dr. Holden said, and smiled. “And I intend to see that you are well compensated for that.”

  Marshal Dillingham licked his lips, and his ears wiggled. “That-uh is what I dun come fer.”

  “How much do you think keeping the peace is worth?”

  Pressing his tongue against the side of his mouth, the lawman blinked and swallowed some of his whiskey, then more. “How-uh ’bout, ah, a hundred . . . a month?”

  “A hundred . . . dollars . . . a month?”

  Marshal Dillingham scooted forward in his chair and waved his arm for emphasis. The motion brought drops of whiskey to his pant leg and more wobbling of his ears. He explained that he could do a great deal for the physician, but he was careful not to be specific. But he wondered if he should have said fifty dollars.

  “You know, Laetner. There’s no telling how far a savvy lawman like yourself could go.” Dr. Holden nodded. “Why, with the right backing, you could become mayor. Ever think about that?”

  Marshal Dillingham’s face lit up with pleasure. He hadn’t. But why not? He was well liked in town, and a powerful man like the doctor could make it happen. He and his wife.

  That made him think about Jessie Holden.

  As he was arriving, a flash of lightning showed her in the second-story window. She was naked. He knew the stories about her. More than most. First, there was the strange story about Comanches raiding the German ranch when she was there, killing the rancher and his wife but leaving Jessie unharmed.

  Then there was that dead Frenchman staying in their hotel two years ago. One of the man’s ears was gone. Just like the German couple’s. Holden had explained quietly to him that it was a robbery and murder; the culprit had escaped in the night. Of course, that didn’t explain the blood drawing on the Frenchman’s face. Holden said the killer may have been a halfbreed; he had seen a stranger in town that day. The explanation had been followed with a hundred dollars in gold to cover the lawman’s expenses in the investigation.

  It was difficult to imagine someone as beautiful as Jessie Holden being so evil. His mind examined her nude body from its brief presentation in the window and pictured her being nice to him in return for his help.

  “I think a hundred a month . . . for keeping the peace . . . can be arranged, my friend.” Dr. Holden’s pronouncement broke Marshal Dillingham away from his sensuous thoughts.

  Upstairs in the darkness, Jessie prayed to the goddess Diana as she always did during the full moon, the most powerful time of the month. She stood next to her window, letting the rain splatter against the glass as if it were trying to reach her naked body. She watched the soft rays of the pale moon caress her breasts, making her tingle with excitement. It had angered her that the rain dared to fall at this time, but she had waited for it to pass and allow the moon’s majesty to take its rightful throne in the sky.

  Finally, a glorious sight of rebirth and complete resurrection.

  Her late mother had thrilled her with stories of the moon goddess Diana. The full moon was a symbol of Diana’s domain, and she could control the fates of men and women. The dark spaces of the moon were the forests where she hunted. Some called her the “Goddess of the Hunt.” As a small child, she especially liked the story about the moon’s being Diana’s spinning wheel, where she spun the fate of the lives of men and women on Earth. Another favorite was that the moon was actually a jewel on Diana’s necklace, and the stars were decorations on her dress.

  Over the years, she had added ideas of her own, from reading Greek mysteries and forbidden dark books, mixed with her personal assessments of the power of moon magic. However, it was her own decision to become a huntress and to kill with a ceremonial knife, then cut off the victim’s ear as a trophy to commemorate her fate. Drawing symols of the moon and arrows on her victims was a tribute to the moon. Also her own idea. It was her destiny to become Diana on earth. Her own mother had told her so in a dream.

  On the window ledge, in front of her, was a clay bowl filled with water, eight seashells, and a small clear piece of stone. The water was from the Gulf of Mexico, gathered on a trip there years before. Under her bed were a dozen bottles filled with similar liquid. Water was the common element in her moon rituals, learned mostly from her mother. The moon’s phases affected the tides of water, and since man had water in him, too, man was also affected by these changes. She had been aware of them since childhood and knew she was extraordinarily powerful during the full moon.

  Around the bowl was a leather thong holding eight dried ears. One from each of her chosen victims. Five had been hunted before she met her husband. She had decided not to include his mother and father as her trophies. Partly because she hadn’t been the actual executioner, and partly because she didn’t think he would let her cut off their ears.

  Next to the bowl was her ceremonial knife. Although the bowl had been her mother’s, the knife had been crafted herself from one of her husband’s scalpels and a bone she had secured.

  Breathing deeply and slowly to absorb the energy of the ritual, she recited an incantation of her own as she passed the palm of her right hand over the bowl. Eight times. Then she repeated the ritual with her left hand. Eight more times. She could feel the moon’s energy gather within her and her knife. Most of her chants were her own. She preferred them over her mother’s gentle requests for health and happiness. Jessie’s sought power over specific people. Her demands were always met. By the moon.

  Of course, she was Diana, goddess of the moon, goddess of the hunt. But when her husband finally took control of the region, she would truly become a goddess. There would be wealth beyond her imagination. And power. She and her husband were brilliant, far too smart for the fools around Presidio. Their plan to control the region’s cattle ranching was nothing short of masterful. She fully expected him to become governor in a few years. One of her chants asked for that.

  Her magic was at its best during the full moon. So were her seance techniques. She had been good at such presentations since she was a teenager. Once in a while, she would recall her early attempts to talk with the spirits and would laugh at her clumsy skills. But she had learned how to get the information—without appearing to do so—to make her spirits come alive. She had learned the craft from a mesmerist in New Orleans. The man had gladly showed her all of his secrets in exchange for her body. He was also her first victim. Her first ear. The moon had asked her to prove her worth as a huntress.

  And like the goddess Diana, no man could ever watch her bathe. That’s why the town clerk, William Reisler, would have to die; he had seen her bathing in the creek last week. That’s why he had to be sacrificed to the moon. She wasn’t certain if the marshal had seen her nakedness tonight or not. She would seek answers from the moon water. If he had, then he must be sacrificed as well.

  Her words and movements were faster now. She must dress and ride to catch up with her brother when he and his men moved the Cradle 6 herd. A final prayer to the moon to protect him was necessary, though. He must not have to endure such a terrible beating again. He was a proud man and no one had the right to take that away from him.

  That’s why Ranger Time Carlow must die. He had done this, then had the audacity to challenge her connection to the moon, to the spirits. Her earlier conversation with Silver Mallow had provided the insight she needed to cast a spell over him, but she was uncertain of its extent. Oh, he wanted her body all right. Any fool could see that. She smiled. Too bad, that might have been most enjoyable. Maybe she could do both. Lure him to her bed, then kill him. Her tongue walked across her l
ower lip. Oh yes, that would be nice.

  Her incantation began to focus on his death. “Water to water, moonlight to moonlight, a witch’s spell, hear me, oh Goddess . . .”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Neither Carlow nor Nichols heard the rain retreat during the night. Sometime before false dawn, Nichols screamed out, and the young Ranger jerked awake, his hand-carbine in his hand. Chance was at attention, with his back knotted in fierce anticipation, white teeth bared and ready. The young Ranger couldn’t remember where he was or why. He looked over at the sleeping Nichols, and recognition returned. A quick word to Chance relaxed the beast into a resting position.

  With a deep sigh, Carlow slowly stood, letting his saddle blanket, draped over his body, fall to the wet ground. His damp long coat clung to him like it had always been there. He couldn’t remember when it hadn’t. Riding now might put them at the Cradle 6 by breakfast. His stomach liked the idea a lot. He looked out at a rain-sodden world and nudged Nichols’s leg with the toe of his boot.

  Curious, Chance went over to investigate the sleeping cowhand.

  “Y-yeah, yeah, I didn’t hurt your damn straw any. I’ll be . . .” Nichols stopped in midsentence. “Hey, I’m wet an’ I’m . . . I’m sober. My head’s pounding somethin’ awful. You’re not the regular stable guy. Who are you?”

  “I’m Ranger Time Carlow. We’re headed for the Cradle 6, remember?”

  Nichols squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Oh . . . yeah. I knew there was something I was supposed to do.” Nichols patted the ground. “Let me sleep on it.”

  “No. Get up. Bea’ll have breakfast on, if we hurry.”

  “I’m not hungry. You got any whiskey?”

  “No—and you don’t need any. Get up. Now. We’re riding.” Carlow leaned over and retrieved his saddle blanket. It was as wet as his coat and pants. Quickly, he rolled and tied the blanket with the loose rawhide strings and headed for his saddle. He had decided to stuff his extra shirt back into the saddlebags even though it was damp, too.