by Cotton Smith
Chance barked his support of moving on.
“Oh, all right. You don’t have to shout.” Nichols remembered the cigar and examined it. His frown indicated it was too wet to smoke. Carefully, he pushed it into his shirt pocket.
They were saddled and riding in minutes. Nichols was definitely showing signs of a vicious hangover and stopped three times to vomit.
Carlow wondered if the man would make it through the day without returning to the bottle. After each retching, though, Nichols would utter a recommitment and spur his horse. Carlow told Chance to stay away from the pungent mess.
Into the misty dawn, they rode without talking, both lost in memories of better days. A drenched sun was trying hard to clear the horizon as the two rode up to the small ranch house.
Carlow remembered the half-beaten fence, the broken wagon, the outbuildings, the aging cottonwoods, the well and the tall windmill. Nothing had changed. Nothing had been damaged. It was reassuring to see Shadow where he had left his black horse, standing quietly outside the corral. Within the rail confinement, wet horses milled nervously. Only one chicken scouted the open yard; it looked like a ball of water with soaked feathers. The house itself was dark.
Were they too late?
A bear of a man stepped through the door and onto the porch. Carlow knew who it was immediately.
His uncle. Texas Ranger Aaron “Thunder” Kileen.
Damp shadows made the former bare-knuckle prizefighter look even bigger than he was. Streaks of dawn lay across his battle-marked face. At his side was a Winchester, looking more like a stick in his huge fist.
He was dressed, as usual, in a worn tweed suit showing signs of trail and battle. So far the fabric had not given way to the strain of resisting his powerful arms and thick chest, but it wouldn’t be long. A high-crowned black hat extended his appearance in the uneven light; the upper crease was decorated with an old bullet hole. Over his wrinkled suit was a heavy bullet belt carrying a holstered pistol and a sheathed Bowie knife.
“Mornin’ to ye lads. An’ would the handsome Ranger be lookin’ for a fine black horse an’ a wee bit o’ breakfast?” Kileen’s voice boomed across the open yard. His smile was a jack-o-lantern’s display of missing teeth.
Nichols looked over at Carlow and grinned. “Hope you know this mountain talkin’ to us.”
“That’s my uncle. Not sure why he’s here—but he’s a mighty good sight.”
“If he fights like he looks, he’s sure welcome.”
“Oh, he does that—and then some.”
“Get yourselves down and come on in, me lads.” Kileen’s welcome boomed again. “Meself just rode in this morn. Captain McNelly hisself sent me to find the gallant Ranger Carlow. We be taking three herds back to their fine owners—but the Mexicans be findin’ the great river too fast.”
“You did better than I did, then. Silver got away.”
“Aye, I not be thinkin’ the lad at your side be Silver. His masqueradin’ not be so good as that.”
A small shadow squeezed past him, studied the riders for a moment, and ran toward them.
“You came back! You came back!” Hattie yelled. “I knew you would.”
“I think the lass is talking about you, Ty,” Nichols said with a wry smile. “Alas, I’ve never had much luck with the ladies. At any age.”
Dismounting quickly, Carlow knelt with his arms outstretched to receive the excited Hattie. She ran into his chest and held him tightly around the neck. Carlow’s hat spun to the ground.
Chance barked happily, with his tail snapping briskly in spite of its wetness. A lick on Hattie’s arm followed.
Carlow laughed and hugged her back. “How are you, Hattie?” He patted her head, then motioned toward Nichols as he swung down from his horse. “Here’s another friend of yours. Remember Will Nichols? He came back to help with the ranch.”
She looked over at Nichols, who was adjusting his saddle cinch with his good hand, more to have something to do than because of a real need. Hattie’s eyes widened. “Has your hand grown back?”
Carlow winced.
Nichols only smiled, patted the cinch, and flipped the stirrup back into place. “No, it hasn’t, little lady, but my backbone has.”
Her eyes were a question. Carlow whispered in her ear and stood. The girl glanced at him for reassurance, then walked over to Nichols. “I’m glad you came, Mr. Nichols. Can you teach me another song? I sing the other one all the time. Do you want to hear it?”
Nichols beamed; crimson crawled from his torn undershirt up the back of his neck as he tugged on the brim of his forlorn-looking hat in response. “Well, sure, I’ll like that a lot.”
With that, Hattie began singing “The Rose of Alabamy” in her clear little voice: “Away from Mississippi’s vale, with my ol’ hat there for a sail, I crossed upon a cotton bale to Rose of Alabamy. Oh brown Rosie, Rose of Alabamy! A sweet tobacco posey is my Rose of Alabamy, a sweet tobacco posey is my Rose of Alabamy.”
Redness completed its tour of Nichols’s face, and he looked at Carlow and mouthed, “It’s the only song I know.”
Carlow turned away to hide his smile while Nichols told Hattie quietly that it was a special song she shouldn’t sing around her grandmother. Hattie said her grandmother liked it and asked again if he would teach her another. Nichols promised he would when he had the time, glancing at Carlow as if to secure his help in the matter. Satisfied, she skipped over to the wolf-dog to return the beast’s friendly greeting with a hug and began singing the verses to Chance.
A large paw of a hand was laid on Carlow’s shoulder, and he looked up into Kileen’s craggy face.
“Aye, ’tis a shame ye be losin’ Silver’s trail an’ have to come back here.” Kileen’s eyes studied his nephew. The huge brawler’s concern for the striking young man he loved like a son was easy to read. “An’ praise the good Lord, where did ye be gettin’ the fine cut on your head, me lad? An’ your hands have been in a round of fisticuffs. A button ye be losin’, too.”
“I almost rode into one, Thunder. Silver was waiting for me. I got lucky.” Carlow grinned mischievously at this use of the word “lucky” to his uncle. He also told him about the fight in town.
Kileen had seen that look often. It was a smile that indicated everything was under control, or would be. It was a smile of great confidence and courage. It was the smile of the young man he thought of as his son. “Glad that Silver be not knowin’ enough to count his bullets.”
“Probably so.”
“Aye, but we’ll get the blackguard,” Kileen said. “Have ye wired the fine captain hisself about this?”
“No. Haven’t had time. Silver’s in Mexico by now.”
“Aye. We’ll be wirin’ Captain McNelly when we get to town.”
“Sure. When we get to town. I doubt he’ll be sending me on any assignments by myself for a long spell. I failed.” Carlow turned toward the waiting Nichols. “Will, come and meet the mountain, my uncle, Ranger Aaron Kileen. Call him Thunder.”
“My pleasure, Ty,” Nichols announced, and walked over to the two Rangers. “Glad to meet you, sir . . . ah, Thunder.”
The bedraggled-looking cowboy saw Kileen’s eyes review him and catch his missing hand. Embarrassed, Nichols tugged on his empty sleeve and said, “I know I don’t look like much, but I can hold my own. I came to fight. No one’s going to take Mrs. Von Pearce’s ranch.”
Kileen’s voice lowered to his idea of a whisper. He told them the Cradle 6 had lost its remaining herd during the night’s rain—and the last of its riders. Two men were found dead by Charlie Two-Wolves; he assumed the other three had ridden away. A full moon was partly to blame, Kileen thought; it was an omen of death. His heavy eyes widened as he described the condition of the dead riders; each was missing an ear and their faces were painted with moon and arrow signs in their own blood.
With a hitch of his shoulders, Kileen said he had asked Two-Wolves if it was the work of renegade Indians. Without any outward emotion,
the Comanche wrangler assured him it was not; he said it was the work of the “devil woman from the moon”—Dr. Holden’s wife. Kileen shrugged his shoulders again, and Carlow nodded his understanding.
Stretching out his neck, Nichols asked, “Who’s dead?”
Kileen pursed his lips. “It t’were hard for me to understand the brave Two-Wolves. But the fine widow be tellin’ me the names of the blessed dead were Keller and Winnard.”
“Addison Keller . . . an’ Emmett Winnard. Damn. They were friends of mine. I’ll kill those—”
“Widow Von Pearce be havin’ only a wee day or two before she be forced to leave,” Kileen interrupted. He didn’t mention the other obvious option: or die. Without saying so, it was clear Kileen understood Carlow had returned to aid the widow.
With an enormous frown, the thick-shouldered Ranger added that he had heard a whippoorwill calling for the souls of the dead as he rode in an hour earlier. Kileen said he had come to the ranch shortly after the Comanche wrangler returned from the valley. Two-Wolves had heard shooting the night before and went out to determine the cause, even though it was raining. Kileen figured Two-Wolves had heard cattle mooing, and at night, that meant death for certain.
Carlow looked over at Nichols.
The one-handed cowboy’s expression indicated disbelief. He saw Carlow’s grin and smiled back through his grief at hearing about the loss of his two riding companions.
Kileen caught the exchange, and his mouth spread again into a wide, awkward grin, something he didn’t do often because it showed his missing teeth. The look was the result of a combination of fighting and a drunk Mexican dentist. Of course, the big Ranger had been equally drunk. If he ever explained his loss of teeth, which was rare, Kileen would attribute it to a dream about rattlesnakes the night before the dentist worked on him. He never explained the relationship between the dream and the tooth pulling, however.
But it wasn’t like him to explain much of anything about himself. Carlow recalled the occasion, as a boy, when he’d asked his uncle why he had a different last name than his mother’s maiden name, if they were brother and sister. Her maiden name was Lucent, the young Ranger’s middle name. Kileen had said he was surprised his nephew hadn’t thought of that before. Then the big Ranger had told him in one sentence that something had happened in New York, not long after they arrived in America, that caused him to become Kileen. He wouldn’t elaborate. Carlow had quit asking years ago.
Now Nichols found the nerve to challenge Kileen’s superstition about cows mooing, saying that he had heard cattle mooing many an evening riding nighthawk and nothing bad happened.
“Aye, ’tis much going on that is beyond your believin’ I know,” Kileen said. “But such is the way of things. How do you know there were no deaths on those nights.”
“Well, there weren’t.”
“Ye mean ye know of none. Close by.”
Nichols changed the subject, not wishing to argue with the huge man. “We have to bury Addison an’ Emmett. We have to.”
Kileen took a deep breath. “Laddie, I know how ye be feelin’. We all have lost friends. Aye, too many, it be.” He folded his arms and his body sagged slightly. “Ye understand we must find the widow’s herd first.”
“Where’s Charlie now?” Carlow knew his uncle didn’t like having his beliefs challenged—and he didn’t want to think about the dead men being torn apart by animals.
A glance at Nichols told the young Ranger that the latter was on the one-handed cowboy’s mind.
Chapter Twenty-four
Kileen was animated as he described the Comanche wrangler’s objective. “Aye, he left once more, he did. Told me hisself would track the herd and come back for me. The wolves told hisself to follow.” His hands waved to help describe Two-Wolves’s attire when leaving. “And painted for war he be. Naked except for a breechcloth, a necklace of wolf teeth, and a pouch at his waist. Wolf medicine, he be sayin’.”
Carlow and Nichols listened intently; both glad to be away from the big Irishman’s insistence that cows mooing at night indicated death.
Kileen motioned with his head toward the house, where Bea Von Pearce was working in the kitchen. “I be thinkin’ ’tis a good thing for meself to be waitin’ here.”
“Yeah, she makes great sausages.” Carlow smiled.
“Aye, that she does, me son,” Kileen said. “But, alas, I be no tracker—and this was a doin’ for one man. One can be goin’ where two would be seen.” He paused as if deciding whether to say something or not.
“What’s the matter, Thunder?”
“Oh, ’tis nothing. When the noble red man rode away, he be tellin’ me that he saw ye coming back here—in his dream. He be sayin’ to tell ye that his spirit helpers came back. Said ye would be understandin’. Do ye?”
“Should we wait for him here?” Carlow asked, ignoring any comment about the dream or the question.
“Aye. When he comes, we ride.” Kileen twisted his mouth. “Ye didn’t answer me question about the spirit helpers hisself said.”
“Nothing much to tell, Thunder. He just felt his way of life had disappeared. I guess it has for the most part.”
“Does he believe the spirits be mad at hisself?”
Carlow’s eyes twinkled, knowing this would be his uncle’s highest concern. “I think it was more feeling sorry that his life had changed. Comanches don’t control the Staked Plains like they used to.”
“Aye. Llano Estacado. The great Comancheria. Kings of all they once be.” Kileen waved his arms to complete a circle and went on to describe the vast land controlled by the nomadic warriors—north to the Red River, but not across it since the Five Civilized Tribes held the land there; south into the northern Mexico settlements and all the way west to villages in New Mexico; and east to the Cross Timbers. He shook his head at the description, using his hands to indicate the tremendous range of their influence.
Carlow wasn’t interested in the geography lesson. “Maybe we should ride out that way now. Why wait?”
“I agree. Been running . . . from myself,” Nichols added, his eyes hard. “All the way to the bottle. I’d like to keep after ’em.” He thrust out his jaw. “An’ I still think we should bury my friends . . . first. I ain’t gonna let wolves an’ such tear ’em up.”
Kileen put his hand on Nichols’s shoulder. “A brave soldjur ye be, lad. Proud to have ya with us. A memorable fight ’twill be. A memorable fight. But we wait. Here. We wait, lads.”
Carlow told Kileen about Dr. Holden, Red Anklon, and the attempt to control the region’s cattle business. He didn’t mention the doctor’s wife but told Kileen that Dr. Holden had cut off Nichols’s hand. He left out the cowhand’s personal nightmare of whiskey and fear but told about his coming to get Carlow and returning to fight. Nichols looked embarrassed with the telling and kept glancing down at where his hand had been. Carlow made no mention either of Del Gato or the black gunfighter. Or the heavyset shootist, Jimmy Ward Flanker, who had helped him.
All of that could come later. None of it mattered right now. They were outnumbered and should expect an attack of some kind soon. Everything in him wanted to attack first, but he trusted his uncle in matters of battle. There was always a reason for Kileen’s actions, a reason beyond some expressed superstition.
Bea Von Pearce appeared in the doorway and cupped a hand to her forehead to see better. Her smile indicated recognition. She waved and shouted, “Mein Gott, it’s yah, Herr Nichols. Oooch, Ich thought yah had passed.” Her hand dropped to her eyes to wipe away the sudden teary rush.
And in a mixture of nervous German and English, she ran to Carlow and gave him a warm hug, then the same greeting to an even more embarrassed Nichols. She held his face in her hands, but no words would come through the tears that shredded her stout cheeks. Finally she gathered her emotions enough to say, “Herr Ranger Carlow, yah vere nein to kommen back until yah vere catching der evil man. Silver, he be.”
“Yes, Bea, that was my plan. It
just didn’t happen that way. He got away. For now. I’ll get him though.” He raised his chin. “But right now, I have no more important thing to do than to help you, Bea. I assure you.”
She looked at him in disbelief, wiping the dampness from her cheeks. “Ja, but Ich be sehr happy yah ist hier. Your uncle tells me sehr much.” She looked at Kileen and smiled warmly. She drew in a long, hesitant breath and continued, “They haff taken mein Herman from me—and der brave reiters of der Cradle 6. Now they have mein cows. They do not know of mein feelings. Ich vill not leave mein land. Ich vill die hier.”
Carlow looked at Kileen and Nichols before responding. “Bea, nobody’s going to take the Cradle 6 from you. I promise.”
She tried to smile. “Vhat ist about Charlie? To me he vould not listen . . . this time.” She glanced at Carlow, adding that the Comanche wrangler was right when he’d told about her troubles. She just didn’t want to bother the Ranger with them.
“Charlie’s doing what he does best. He’ll find the herd—and then we’ll go get it,” Carlow said, believing the statement. “We’re going to make them hurt for a change. We’re going to end this. You’ve suffered too much. So have others around here. Rangers are supposed to help Texas. That’s what we’re going to do.”
Her smile wobbled, and a fat tear escaped from the emotion still building in her eyes. She insisted they stay for breakfast before riding on; Carlow acknowledged it sounded wonderful, but they shouldn’t take the time. He agreed with Nichols that they should ride out to meet the Comanche wrangler instead of just waiting. Two-Wolves might try to take back the herd himself, instead of returning. Carlow thought his one-handed companion hadn’t given up on the thought of taking care of the dead riders first either.
Kileen noted to himself that waiting was not a preferred way for his nephew even after his teaching and that of his nephew’s Apache friend. For once, he decided not to dissuade him. His primary reason for waiting had been to protect the ranch house from attack. It would have been easy for someone to watch their movements and to strike the home after Kileen and Two-Wolves rode off. His reasoning hadn’t included the wonderful smells of breakfast cooking or Bea’s attractiveness to him. They weren’t factors, he told himself. Not at all.