Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  Encouraged by Carlow’s support, Nichols suggested they switch to fresh horses after he searched the bunkhouse to see if any guns had been left behind.

  Pushing his tongue against his cheek, the big Ranger looked up into the reddening sky. “Aye, an’ three times ’round the ranch as the clock be movin’, we will ride—before leaving for the red man, and the findin’ of the herd.” He smiled at Bea with his mouth closed. “That will keep the wee people close to watch over this fine house.”

  “I’ll get horses saddled, Will. You look for guns,” Carlow said, and led their horses toward the corral.

  From his tied position at the outside corral post, Carlow’s black horse greeted him with a loud and nervous whinny. Stomping hooves demonstrated eager readiness. Immediately the young Ranger looped the reins over the closest rail and went over to Shadow. The powerful horse whinnied softly this time and lowered his head.

  After rubbing his dark face and ears, Carlow checked Shadow’s legs and was pleased to see the animal was recovering fast. But he explained to the horse that he was not ready to run again. “Not yet, my friend. You must rest here first,” Carlow whispered. “I know. I know. I will have to take a lesser horse, but soon we will travel together again. I promise. You stay here—and get well.”

  Chance strutted next to them but was quickly distracted by a courageous rooster that challenged the wolf-dog with a loud cock-a-doodle-do. The bird’s outstretched neck and cocked head signalled defiance at this strange beast stalking his domain.

  “No, Chance. No. Stay with me, boy.” Carlow looked up from talking with his horse.

  The wolf-dog growled his response. Tentatively the rooster backed away to a safer stand and crowed once more.

  Coming up behind him, Nichols laughed and said, “That’s one stupid rooster.”

  “Yeah. It’s one thing to yell a challenge. Something else to make it stick,” Carlow said casually. He leaned over to talk with his wolf-dog and waved at the rooster, telling it to use this moment to leave.

  Nichols thought about Carlow’s comment and headed for the bunkhouse, shooing the farm bird as he passed. With one last crowed declaration, the rooster trotted out of sight behind the barn.

  “See, Chance. He’s gone. You can relax. Those are Bea’s and you can’t have them.” Carlow rubbed his fingers along the bullet graze on Shadow’s flank, noting Charlie Two-Wolves had drawn a circle of red paint around it.

  Mysterious marks danced within the shape and a yellow salve of some kind had been placed along the entire cut. He smelled it and decided the medicine was mostly beeswax mixed with vinegar and herbs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his uncle discussing something with Bea. He was holding Hattie’s hand. Carlow scratched his chin and returned to his examination of Shadow’s wound.

  Kileen’s heavy stride could be felt as well as heard. The young Ranger looked up and smiled. Bea and Hattie were nowhere in sight. He assumed they had gone back inside.

  “When I see your fine mount be carryin’ a bullet line and be worn from much ridin’, me heart worried.” Kileen ran his thick finger along the horse’s creased flank.

  “Yeah, I rode Shadow too damn hard. It was dumb.”

  “Duty did the riding, me son. But proud I am that ye come back to help the widow.”

  “I couldn’t ride on, Thunder.”

  “I know, me son. I know.”

  It was decided Kileen would remain behind in case Dr. Holden’s men made an unexpected move on the ranch. It was the big Ranger’s idea. Recalling Bea’s engaging looks at his uncle, Carlow grinned to think there was more to the tactic than simple smart defense, but he didn’t comment. He also guessed that was what Kileen was sharing with the woman earlier.

  The strategy made sense for the same reason Kileen had stayed behind when Two-Wolves left. They had to assume the ranch was being watched. Carlow suddenly raised his arm and waved at the hillside.

  “What ye be doin’ that for, laddie?” Kileen asked.

  “Well, if they are watching, it’ll make them think we know it.”

  Kileen laughed deeply and his belly rolled with emotion. Then, he raised his arm and joined in the salutation, laughing and shaking his head.

  “That should make them wonder what we’re up to,” Carlow said, and returned to his buckskin and Nichols’s horse.

  “Aye, or be thinkin’ we’re a wee bit touched in the head.” There was something else Kileen wanted to say.

  Carlow could sense it as he pulled the saddles from their horses. He expected Kileen to blurt out what was on his mind as Carlow walked the horses into the corral, removed their bridles, and let them loose. Neither horse was inclined to do anything but observe the others. The same brown lead mare watched them with laid-back ears and a definite inclination to make sure they understood who was in control. The fiery grulla stomped and snorted. Carlow wondered why Bea and Two-Wolves hadn’t suggested he take that horse instead of the buckskin.

  But his mind wasn’t really on selecting horses. It was on his uncle. Sometimes he thought Kileen acted more like a mother sending her child off to school than a Ranger giving orders to another lawman. He knew the big man wanted to tell him something. He wished he would just say it so they could get on with their plan.

  After rubbing his unshaved chin, Kileen pulled a small buckskin pouch from his coat pocket and held it out toward Carlow. “This be from the red man hisself. Before he rode away, he told me that ye be comin’ and to be givin’ ye this fine gift.” He looked down at the discolored bag closed tightly at the open end with a wrapped thong. “ ’Tis wolf medicine, he be sayin’.” He licked his lower lip. “Strong she be, I’m thinkin’. Don’t know what be in the bag—for sure, ye know. Likely there’s a wee bit of spirit grass, a wild herb or two. Aye, an’ a bird’s claw, I be thinkin’.” He paused, as if trying to imagine what else was in the pouch, and continued, “Probably a small stone. There would surely be a wee bit of ground-up white powder from a wolf’s tooth, sure as the Isle be green. And ye know, one of those little hard balls from the great buffalo’s own belly. Aye, but I not be knowing for sure. Just guessin’, ye know.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  A wide smile popped across Carlow’s face. He couldn’t help it as he leaned over and placed the small pouch in his saddlebags resting on the ground. Of course his uncle had examined the contents carefully, touching each thing and adding an Irish blessing. There would have been no way the big Ranger could have resisted, unless Two-Wolves specifically told him it was unlucky to do so.

  But he quickly pulled in the smile; he didn’t want to embarrass his uncle. He knew Kileen had studied the ways of the Comanche, the Kiowa, and the Apache. Unlike most of his fellow Rangers, Kileen had never seen them as universal adversaries. Rather, he connected them to the early Irish warriors driven from their homeland. Carlow figured his uncle was also drawn to their rituals and beliefs, with many quite close to Kileen’s own. He had always approved of Carlow’s friendship with Kayitah—and had been greatly angered by his death and the way it occurred.

  The younger Ranger had always suspected it was his uncle who beat up four troopers in a saloon shortly after Kayitah’s death. None of the soldiers would press charges and professed not to know their adversaries. Carlow guessed they had been bragging about the massacre and his uncle overheard them. He surmised they were embarrassed to admit one man had beaten the four of them. If the truth were known, they were lucky to have survived Kileen’s wrath—and his massive right fist. Carlow knew of at least one outlaw who hadn’t.

  Carlow loosened a lariat from his gear, lifted Nichols’s saddle over his shoulder with his left hand, and entered the corral. After watching the milling horses and letting the lead mare approve him, Carlow focused on a sturdily built bay. He laid the saddle beside him, shook out a loop in his right hand, and walked toward the animal. The horse’s head came up as the lariat settled around its neck and tightened. For a moment the bay tensed, then relaxed as Carlow walked toward the anima
l, recoiling the rope and talking comfort.

  As Carlow gathered the horse, Kileen explained what everything meant in the pouch. Protection from the spirits came from the sweet grass, healing from the herbs, courage from the bird’s claw; long life from the stone since it was the most ancient of beings, strength and victory in battle from the smooth ball from the stomach of a buffalo, and wisdom and night vision from the wolf powder.

  After a few strokes along the horse’s back to reassure himself of its soundness, Carlow led the bay to the far corral fence and began saddling it for Nichols. Kileen followed, pursing his lips and noting that Two-Wolves had sung a special song over the pouch before giving it to him. The Comanche wrangler had said there was also the howl of a wolf, the scream of an eagle, and the roar of thunder placed in there. He had said it quite seriously, as if recounting a recipe.

  Carlow finished saddling the bay and flipped the reins twice around the top rail. After removing his rope, he returned to his own saddle gear to repeat the switchover. Kileen was still talking, but it was difficult to catch many of his words over the restlessness of the horses in the enclosure.

  With his right fist holding the lariat, Carlow swung both saddle and head tack over his shoulder with his free left hand and returned to the corral.

  To make certain he was heard over the noise, Kileen yelled, “ ’Tis not for seein’, the wolf howl an’ the eagle scream’ an’ the thunder. Only a Comanche can see them.”

  “That was nice of him.” Carlow studied his uncle. Would the wily old Ranger ever give him advice about how to succeed against Dr. Holden’s men? That would be helpful. The rest was just silly superstitious talk and he didn’t have time for it now. He tossed his noose over the neck of the grulla and tightened it. The horse straightened its neck and snorted; its front legs dug into the ground and its rear dropped to provide strength against the restraint.

  Carlow assured the animal everything was all right. “Come on, big fella. I know you’re the best in here. You don’t have to prove it to me.”

  The horse’s ears cocked toward the man walking toward it, soothed by the comfort in his voice.

  “Takin’ the piebald, ye should. ’Tis a horse full o’ good luck,” Kileen said, pointing toward a speckled white horse in the middle of the huddle.

  “Not half the horse this grulla is. Have you watched him at all? He’s a fighter.”

  “Aye, but struttin’ is for roosters an’ such.”

  “He wasn’t strutting, Thunder, he was making a stand. Reminds me some of Shadow.”

  The grulla’s head cocked to the side, understanding what was next. Carlow walked toward it, talking softly. He liked the animal’s attitude already.

  “Just one wee hair from a piebald will be curin’ the whooping cough.” Kileen’s further observation interrupted Carlow’s study of the horse.

  “I don’t have whooping cough.”

  “Don’t be lookin’ at his tail, though, me lad. ’Tis the only way ye get bad luck from a piebald.”

  “How about a brown tail? Or a grulla’s? Is that all right to look at?” Carlow’s voice couldn’t hide the sarcasm. Surely his uncle had some observations about recovering the herd and dealing with Dr. Holden’s men. Enough of this superstition nonsense for one day, he fumed to himself. At least Will Nichols wasn’t superstitious.

  He tied the horse next to the first, laid his saddle blanket over the tall animal’s back, and smoothed it. He was surprised to see Kileen enter the corral. What now? he thought, and swung the saddle into place.

  Without glancing at his nephew, Kileen strode directly to the piebald, waving his arms to get the other horses out of the way. The speckled horse whinnied and lowered its head as Kileen stopped a few feet away. The other horses sought the railings, and a gray wandered over to Carlow and his two horses.

  After spitting on the fingers of both hands, the big Ranger bent down and touched the toes of his boots. He took several steps closer, crossed his fingers, spit over his left shoulder, and touched the piebald on the right shoulder with both hands, his first and second fingers crossed.

  Loudly he proclaimed, “Shakespeare come true.”

  Stepping back, he stood quietly, then spun around and went to his nephew.

  As if nothing had occurred, Kileen immediately gave his nephew some advice. “If ye be hearin’ four wolf cries close together, ye be turnin’ back. Charlie’s wolves be tellin’ ye that your medicine is not strong this morn.” Kileen’s giant forehead was a series of furrows.

  “Four. I got it,” Carlow replied, tightening the cinch. “Say, what was that Shakespeare crap all about?”

  Kileen explained it was part of the piebald ritual he’d learned from an Irish witch.

  “Oh. Well, you didn’t let out all those noises when you opened the pouch, did you? You know the thunder, howling, and all.”

  “What are ye askin’?”

  “Never mind.”

  Satisfied, Kileen spoke again, “An’ ye be lookin’ for nine.”

  “Nine? Nine what?” Carlow stopped after checking the thongs holding the sheath of his saddle gun in place.

  Disappointment took shape on Kileen’s craggy face. “Nine o’ anything, me lad. That is the sign the wee faeries be close at hand. Very lucky indeed. Three times three, it be. Three times as lucky.”

  “Nine it is, then,” Carlow snapped back, easing the bit into the horse’s mouth and curling the leather head stall over its ears. “Here comes Will. Looks like he found a Winchester.”

  “ ‘No heat like that of shame.’ ” Kleen whispered an Irish saying.

  “He’ll stand, Thunder.”

  “Maybe,” Kileen responded, “but ye do not be expectin’ hisself to be at your back. Do ye hear your fine uncle? The drink be ownin’ him still.”

  “Yes, and you’re wrong.” Carlow frowned and waved at Nichols.

  “He’ll be lookin’ first for a reason to go bury the dead.”

  “What’s wrong with caring about friends?”

  Kileen sighed. “Friends be the great feast of life, me son. But there be livin’ friends an’ dead friends. Which do ye think should get attention first?”

  “That’s not a fair question.”

  “Aye—an’ this life not be fair either . . . Ranger Carlow.”

  Shrugging his massive shoulders, Kileen finally turned his attention to the challenge facing them. He was certain Two-Wolves would locate the stolen Cradle 6 herd even though the rain had washed away their tracks. It hadn’t rained since the Comanche wrangler left, so his own tracks should be easy to follow, if he decided to make them.

  Surprise would be their best weapon, the old Ranger advised; when they found the herd, they should spread out, use the land to get close, and start shooting. Don’t worry about the cattle stampeding. No first announcement of being a Ranger. He told Carlow to capture one of Dr. Holden’s men alive, if possible, so they would have a witness to the physician’s involvement.

  At last his uncle was making sense, Carlow thought, then teased him to be careful around the widow.

  “She carries a pistol in her apron. All the time. Something her late husband told her to do,” Carlow said.

  “Aye, I be seein’ that. I be partial to women with fight in their bosoms.”

  “Well, that’s a fact.” Carlow grinned and slapped his uncle on the back. “Angel’s got enough fight in her for three men.”

  Kileen’s smile showed his vacated teeth.

  Twenty minutes later, Carlow and Nichols rode away. Nichols had found a gunbelt with a shortbarreled revolver to go along with the rifle. He thought both had belonged to a rider named Harrison, who was killed months ago. Carlow told him to keep the extra handgun he’d given Nichols tucked in his waistband as well.

  Bea came out with two steaming cups of coffee, which Carlow and Nichols gratefully downed. Nichols winked at the young Ranger and said it would taste even better with a bit of whiskey. Hattie brought three sacks of food for the two of them—and Charl
ie Two-Wolves, when they had the opportunity to give it to him. At Kileen’s insistence, all three men rode around the house three times before the two young men left.

  After watching his nephew and the one-handed cowboy disappear toward the east, Kileen turned his own horse out in the corral and went to the front porch. As a courtesy to the German widow, he removed his long trail coat and pistol belt and laid them a few feet from the doorway. His saddle rifle was propped against the house next to a basin of fresh water on a sturdy washstand, presumably moved outside for his use. A fresh towel lay on the stand as well.

  This was no rawhide outfit, he thought as he soaped his hands and face. A lot of hard work had gone into building this ranch. A bit run-down at the corners, perhaps, but definitely built to last. Nothing like the one-room hacienda of his longtime girlfriend, the outlaw Angel Balta. His return visit to her run-down place was brief after Silver Mallow and his men were arrested. Their orders were to rejoin Captain McNelly’s main force immediately. However, it had been long enough to apologize for the way he had acted upon learning she had once ridden with the outlaw leader. As usual, Angel had accepted the apology warmly—and lustily.

  The cool liquid felt like fingers were touching him, and he repeated the soothing treatment. It also helped to dissolve the lust rebuilding from the memory of that last visit to Angel’s. She would have to wait. Kileen brushed down his hair with wet hands. Another woman was worthy of his attention. Angel would understand, he was certain.

  Happy with his refreshed appearance, he picked up his gunbelt with one hand and his rifle with the other. Pausing at the doorway, he tapped the doorframe three times with the barrel of the Winchester as he entered. Quietly, he propped the gun against the wall beside the front door and laid the pistol belt next to it. The courtesy would impress Bea, he thought, showing his polite side. But the weapons would be handy if any trouble came while they ate. He didn’t expect any.