Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  Then his mind clicked to another concern. Where was Jessie? Two-Wolves said she had done the killing of the two Cradle 6 men. Where was she? Two-Wolves hadn’t seen either Del Gato or Jessie now, but said they were both there earlier. According to the Comanche wrangler, she had been dressed as a man. He studied the six men at the fire again. He was certain none was her.

  His binoculars picked up four rifles stacked against the closest of two cottonwood trees ten or twelve feet behind the campfire. That made him restudy men around the fire; this time to see if they were holding rifles. It didn’t appear so.

  As Carlow watched, Anklon reached for a coffeepot settled among the coals, refilled his cup, and said something to the man next to him that both thought was very funny. Spread out on the middle log, a thick-jawed cowboy with a thick, curly beard was in control of the whiskey bottle. He pushed away the younger man next to him, grabbing at the drink.

  Carlow replayed to himself his uncle’s advice about getting close and opening up on the rustlers without warning. He wasn’t against the idea in any moral sense; these men were trying to destroy Bea Von Pearce. Rather, he was concerned about the execution of that approach. They might get the four riders watching the herd. Might. But they wouldn’t get the men at the fire. Anklon would have them dug in the minute any firing started. He didn’t like the idea of not knowing where Del Gato and Viceroy were either. Jessie wouldn’t be a long-range threat—or would she?

  He handed the binoculars to Two-Wolves and, with his own eyes, returned his attention to the riders in charge of the cattle. The closest remained twenty-some yards away to their left. A second was fifty yards to their right but only fifteen yards from where the creek bent to the north. The third rider was on the far side of the grazing animals, and for the moment, Carlow had lost track of the fourth rider. Where was he?

  There. A head surfaced above the herd on the far side. He was moving toward the other rider. The boredom of watching cattle, mixed with a long night, had dulled the alertness of the herdsmen, Carlow hoped. Steamy sunshine returning after two days of rain would also help take away their tension. Ducking down again behind the embankment, he outlined what he thought would work if they were careful. And lucky. It would start with eliminating the closest rider. He explained his idea in whispers to the other two.

  Two-Wolves’s response was to make the sign of a slash across his throat, creep up the bank, and slide into the long grass. An instant later, he was little more than a ripple of green. Carlow glanced at Nichols and shook his head. The one-handed cowboy nodded his own agreement to Carlow’s plan, as if it made any difference.

  As they watched, Two-Wolves reappeared, leapt onto the back of the rider’s horse, and held his other hand over the surprised man’s mouth as he cut his neck. Moving forward into the saddle itself, the Comanche wrangler let the bleeding body slide toward the ground, grabbing the man’s hat as it passed. He placed the hat on his head and resumed a position similar to the rider’s own. Unless someone was watching closely at that moment, no change would be readily evident.

  Carlow held his breath, waiting for a reaction from the campfire or the other herdsmen. None came.

  Two-Wolves motioned for Carlow to come forward and the young Ranger eased himself over the bank and moved in a crouch toward him. Chance hesitated and followed, only after Carlow indicated he should. The wolf-dog moved as if he were tracking something, keeping pace with Carlow’s advance. Carlow shook his head in wonderment; maybe Two-Wolves was right. He didn’t let his mind seek out Kileen’s opinion about the animal’s true spirit.

  “Take shirt, amigo. Vest. Ich give hat,” Two-Wolves ordered.

  Quickly Carlow replaced his shirt with the rider’s more distinctive checkered one and added the man’s black leather vest. Blood covered the shirt collar, but he didn’t think it would matter. Two-Wolves swung down and handed the rider’s hat to Carlow, and he gave the Comanche his own Stetson with the pushed-up brim. The young Ranger sprang smoothly into the saddle. With a pat on Carlow’s leg, the Comanche wrangler returned silently to the creek with Carlow’s hat in his hand. Chance went with him at Carlow’s command and Two-Wolves’s hushed encouragement.

  Carlow yanked the brim of the hat lower to cover his face and turned the horse toward the second rider. He wished he had heard the first rider speak so he could imitate his voice. A hand signal would have to do. As he rode toward the other man, he made motions that he needed a cigarette. The other man welcomed him over and reached into his shirt pocket for makin’s.

  “This sure is one long damn day, Thresher. Wonder when Doc’s gonna get rid of that German widow. Hey, you’re not—”

  A gurgle ended his words as Two-Wolves was suddenly behind him on the saddle; his knife flashing in the sun.

  Holding the dead rider in place with his left arm, Two-Wolves motioned for Nichols to leave the creek bank and take his place on the second man’s horse. As Nichols came toward them, Two-Wolves let the dead man slump to the ground.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Carlow pointed at the man’s hat. Nichols replaced his own miserable excuse for one with the herdsman’s new-looking white Stetson, with its fancy woven-leather tie-down and a hawk feather stuck in the band.

  “Should I take his shirt, too?” Nichols whispered, his front teeth grasping his lower lip.

  “Just his vest. Hurry,” Carlow ordered, then realized the poor condition of Nichols’s clothes. “Yeah, you’d better take it. Someone might notice. Where’s Chance?” Carlow asked after a quick look around.

  “I told him to stay in the creek,” Nichols said with a smile, unbuttoning his filthy shirt. “He likes me.”

  “Of course.”

  Initially Nichols fumbled nervously with the buttons on the rider’s shirt, but soon he steadied himself, freed the garment, and put it on, then the vest. He stood for a moment, examining something in his old shirt.

  “What’s the matter, Will?”

  “Your cigar. I forgot about it,” Will said without looking up. “It’s all broken.”

  “I’ll get you some more when we go to town.”

  Nichols grinned and finished dressing.

  Two-Wolves slid from the horse, and Nichols mounted.

  “Good luck, Ty,” Nichols said, and nudged the horse a few steps toward the remaining two riders nearer the front of the herd.

  “Same to you, Will.” He noted that the one-handed cowboy was pale and shivering. Maybe he should have offered him a drink from the small flask in his saddlebags.

  Two-Wolves patted both men on the leg with his medicine pouch and disappeared into the grass.

  “What are we gonna do now, Ty?” Nichols said as they rode toward the other two.

  “Ride toward them. Easy like. Start talking to me.”

  “What about?”

  “Anything. Horses. Women.”

  “Whiskey?” Nichols’s tongue swabbed his front teeth.

  “Sure.”

  Nichols began to jabber about the delicious wonders of Kentucky bourbon, its color, its taste, how he liked to hold his glass up to the light before drinking it. Carlow nodded and made several comments that made no sense to Nichols, except for the Ranger’s telling him to keep his left hand down to his side.

  They were only ten feet away from the two Bar H riders, who were alternately talking and glancing at Nichols and Carlow as they casually approached. The riders showed no sign of alarm, only an interest in breaking the monotony of watching the herd.

  From the corner of his eye, Carlow noted that a stretch of long grass near the riders was waving in the opposite direction of the wind. Two-Wolves was there and ready.

  “Close enough. I’m getting down now.” Carlow jumped from his horse and bent over, holding his stomach. His groan was painful to hear.

  Nichols reined in his mount and swung down. He hurried toward Carlow and said, “My God, Ty! What’s the matter? Are you sick? They’re gettin’ close. Come on. Get up!”

  The two Bar H riders
looked at each other and kicked their horses into a lope toward the two downed men. Reining hard a few feet away, the taller rider, with an elongated face and eyes set too wide apart, said, “What’s the matter with Thr—”

  “Don’t move. Don’t say a word if you want to see the rest of this day,” Carlow said, his hand-carbine appearing from under his bent-over frame.

  Neither rider was any more surprised than Nichols, who jumped and blurted, “Well, I’ll be.”

  The second rider’s right hand moved to the holstered Colt at his waist. Carlow’s hand-carbine swung to meet the threat. Before he could fire, an arrow tip burst through the man’s chest. His cry was a cut-off gurgle. The rider straightened before slumping over onto the neck of his horse. The rest of the arrow stood shivering from his back.

  The frightened horse stutterstepped, trying to decide if it should run.

  Quickly Carlow stared at the camp but saw no reaction. “Grab your friend’s horse, mister.” Carlow motioned toward the remaining rider. “Ride toward us. Nice an’ slow. Unless you want the same. Two-Wolves has lots of arrows.”

  “N-not me, mister. I—I didn’t do nothin’. Honest, I didn’t.” The tall man started to raise his arms, with the dead man’s reins in his right fist.

  “Leave your hands down,” Carlow snapped, and glanced in the direction of the camp. “Will, anything happening at the camp?”

  “Nobody’s moved. I’m watching.”

  “Good,” Carlow said. “If anybody stands and looks this way, take off your hat and wave at them.”

  Will wanted to ask why but didn’t. He studied the campfire as he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me what you were gonna do?”

  “Didn’t know how good an actor you were.”

  “Oh.”

  As the man rode slowly forward, Two-Wolves pulled the dead body from the other horse, yanked the arrow free as if it were little more than a flower in the earth. He sprang into the saddle and took the reins from the remaining, terrified rider. The Comanche wrangler studied the camp, too, but saw no suspicious movement, so he signalled for advance to something in the long grass.

  Chance bounded forward. Carlow shook his head in surprise at the wolf-dog’s obeying Two-Wolves’s command. A silent command, no less.

  “Now we’re going to ride together to the rest of your friends,” Carlow said. “You’re going to go first. If you do this right, you might just stay away from a hanging rope.”

  “I—I ain’t nothin’ b-but a c-cowhand, m-mister. I just do w-what I’m told. Them others is the rustlers. H-honest. Red’s got a bunch of ’em.”

  “Did Dr. Holden tell you and the others to steal the Cradle 6 herd?” Carlow’s eyes searched the man’s narrow face and stretched-apart eyes for the truth.

  “W-we got our orders from Red—an’ Mrs. Holden.” The man’s eyes moved from Carlow to Two-Wolves to Chance.

  “His wife?” Carlow wanted to hear the response; he looked at Two-Wolves and a slight smile flashed across the Comanche’s face.

  “Yeah, I was surprised to see her. Rain an’ all.” He licked his parched lips. “It wasn’t rainin’, though, when she caught up with us. Red was glad to see her. They’re brother an’ sister, ya know.”

  Carlow nodded.

  “H-hey, sh-she’s a scary w-woman. Likes cutting off the ears of dead folks . . . an’ paintin’ their faces . . . with their own blood.” He swallowed twice to keep down his revulsion. “She killed them Germans a while back. Two years, maybe.” The rider’s face sagged. He told about her killing two of the widow’s cowhands last night. She had Red and Del Gato hold them while she did it. The rider gagged with the telling and said he threw up when he saw what she had done.

  “She’s a crazy woman.” He shook his head. “I hear tell she’s cut up some others, too. Keeps their ears on a string. Damn.”

  Carlow tried to imagine the beautiful young woman doing something like that, but his mind wouldn’t draw the picture.

  “An’ she can bring ghosts on you. Del Gato calls her ‘Ghost Queen.’ ”

  Carlow’s eyes studied the frightened man. “Is Del Gato . . . over there now?”

  “Not now. He never stays around long. Doesn’t want to do this kind of work. An’ nobody’s gonna make him. He rode back to town with Mrs. Holden. Hour or so ago, I reckon.” He tried to smile. “Ya know, she were wearin’ man’s clothes, ridin’ with us. But you could tell she was a woman anyhow. Hard to hide all that.”

  “How about that black fella, the one with the earring?”

  “Oh, you mean Viceroy. He’s from one of those countries way down south. Lower’n Mexico, even. Speaks real pretty. Haven’t seen him. He’s scarier than the halfbreed.” Pulling in air to calm himself, the rider asked, “A-are you the Ranger that wh-whipped Red?”

  A shaking Will Nichols answered for Carlow. “He sure is, and he cut down that son-of-a-bitch Mitchell, too, when he tried to shoot him.”

  As the one-handed cowboy eagerly expanded on the saloon fight, Carlow holstered his gun, rode beside the rustler, and stopped. Nichols droned on, but the man wasn’t listening; he was trying to determine what was going to happen to him. The Bar H rider watched Carlow reach over and draw the frightened man’s handgun from his gunbelt. For an instant, he considered grabbing the long-barreled Colt himself, but his mind ruled out the idea almost as fast as it settled there.

  Carlow flipped open the loading latch and emptied the gun of cartridges. As he returned the unloaded Colt to its holster, he looked up at the rustler. “Nice-looking gun. That’s some real fancy carving on the handles.”

  “Ah, th-thanks. I—I ain’t very good with it.”

  “I see. Not many cowhands carry a gun like that.”

  “Uh, it was my brother’s.”

  “How about that Winchester? Any good with that? Or is that your brother’s, too?” Carlow slid the man’s rifle free from its saddle sheath.

  “Ah, snakes an’ varmints, that’s all. Not sure it’s even carryin’ fresh lead.”

  After relieving the bullets, Carlow replaced the gun and told the rider that the three of them were going to ride to the camp. Carlow would feign being sick but would have his gun aimed at the rider’s midsection. The rustler couldn’t help but glance at the holstered handcarbine, then at the Colt, at Carlow’s waist. Turning to Nichols, the young Ranger told him to veer toward the horse string when they got close, as if he sought a fresh mount. That position would put him nearly behind the men at the campfire and also would give Nichols a clear look at the men near the string itself.

  “Keep your head down like you’re sleepy,” Carlow added. “That whole bunch looks pretty damn relaxed. Let’s don’t give them a reason to change.”

  “I’ll keep my left arm crossed over the saddle.”

  Carlow studied the young cowboy. “Can you hold a Winchester there with your left . . . arm?”

  Nichols answered by yanking the gun free and balancing it in front of him. His expression was determined but fearful. “I’d give a lot for a little whiskey right now.”

  “It would be a lot. Your life,” Carlow said. “You need to be sharp, but don’t worry. They’re going to see what they expect to see.”

  “What if they don’t? There’s a lot more o’ them than us. I’ve got the shakes real bad, Ty.”

  “They’ll go away. Shoot low and often, if it comes to that. Get off your horse, if there’s time.”

  “You really believe I can do this, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  As if to emphasize his confidence in Nichols, Carlow turned to the Bar H rider and told him what he was to say when they got close, and reminded him that if anything went wrong, he would be the first to die. Gulping his understanding, the rider’s attention moved to Two-sWolves and Chance. His eyes spoke of fear and bewilderment at the combination. A question was at the edge of his mouth, but he didn’t have the courage to give it sound.

  Studying the camp to make sure there weren’t signs of alarm, Carlo
w rode over to the Comanche wrangler and told him what they were going to do next. After touching Carlow’s leg with the side of his knife blade as a tribute, Two-Wolves disappeared again into the grass, Chance alongside him. Carlow admitted to himself that it felt odd to see his animal companion so comfortable with another man.

  Carlow rode back to the waiting Nichols and the Bar H rider. He stared at the wide-eyed rustler and said, “Yeah, it’s a wolf. Mostly he likes to chew on men who steal cattle from a nice lady.”

  Nichols chuckled.

  “You’re gonna keep him an’ that wild Injun away from me, aren’t ya?”

  “If you do like you’re told,” Carlow growled. “Let’s ride.”

  In minutes they approached the camp, riding three abreast. Slowly. At a walk. The scared rider was on the left. Carlow was in the middle, bending over and groaning. Hidden by the masquerade was the Colt in his right hand. He preferred the cut-down Winchester, but it would have been difficult to conceal. Nichols was on his far right.

  From under the brim of his hat, Carlow assessed the men sitting around the campfire on close-drawn logs or squatting on the ground. Six. All armed with belt guns. But they were a band of self-satisfied, overconfident men more interested in a nap or another swig of whiskey than in examining the three incoming riders. Red Anklon was there, sitting with his men. Had Del Gato really gone back to town with Jessie—or was that a lie to make him relax?

  Two shadows now moved near the string of horses. Each held a saddle. Likely some relief for the current herdsmen. He couldn’t tell if they were armed but figured they would be. These were rustlers, not drovers. They would be Nichols’s responsibility. Where was the third? Had the shadows played tricks on his eyes? Maybe that was Del Gato. Or Jessie. He glanced at the group around the fire. Still six.

  One rustler, sitting at the far right side of the campfire, glanced curiously in their direction, then said something to the man beside him.