Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  Rustlers screamed and ran, some for the horse string, others for the trees. Crazed steers slammed mindlessly through the campfire, trampling the already downed men and running over the slow.

  Baldy Demetrie grabbed his fallen revolver and aimed it at Carlow as he rode toward him. The first shot missed. Carlow swung his hand-carbine, and the barrel smashed into the outlaw’s head. Blood splattered onto Carlow’s hand and face. Demetrie’s pistol blasted once more, aimlessly, inches from Carlow’s ear, deafening him momentarily before the former Cradle 6 cowboy collapsed.

  Struggling to retain his balance after the impact to his ear, he saw Nichols down, his horse bolting. Carlow urged his wild-eyed horse toward the winded Nichols as steers flew past him on either side.

  He turned his horse toward his staggering friend. Powerful rear legs of the fearful horse slammed into the prairie dirt as he fought to bring it to an unwanted halt beside Nichols. The horse shook its head, snorted, and pawed the ground, wanting to be a long way away from the advancing madness.

  “Go on, T-Ty. Go on,” Nichols said, his left leg covered in blood. “I can’t make it.”

  “Grab my arm. You’re going with me. Come on.”

  Nichols’s strength was leaving him fast. Shock was eating into his grit. Carlow was proud of his rustler’s horse, blowing and sweating and wanting to run but standing in place, as if understanding the need to get the wounded man on its back fast.

  Carlow helped the wobbly cowboy get his boot into the right stirrup, then took Nichols’s right hand in his left and lifted. Nichols’s leg quivered but held as he swung his wounded leg up. Carlow’s strength took on Nichols’s full weight to keep him from falling when he stalled halfway onto the horse. Reaching his left arm backward to grab Nichols’s belt, he pulled the one-handed cowboy’s limp leg over with his right hand.

  Carlow whistled the animal into action. It responded as if the double weight were nothing. Ground-eating strides took them away from the army of cattle that had once been the camp. Carlow turned in the saddle and fired once, twice, then a third time with his hand-carbine, into a gray shape shooting at them from a low tree limb. A groan from the outlaw was swallowed by the ground shaking all around them.

  Behind him came a scream. A scream that rammed itself into Carlow’s mind. Where was Two-Wolves? Where was Chance? Impulsively, he glanced backward but saw nothing but a brown sea. He turned back, and a scrub oak slapped him viciously in the face. A grunt, and his outlaw hat was gone. On they ran, clearing a low ravine in a thunderous bound and skirting a limestone ridge that ran ten feet high for a half mile into the prairie. The rustler camp was almost that far behind them. He began to slow his blowing horse. He was certain they were safe.

  Running wasn’t natural for cattle. He figured they would soon play themselves out. Behind them, cattle were agreeing with his thought, slowing themselves gradually into a walk. Some were already grazing again. He held the reins of his own horse tightly as a precaution as a few steers lumbered past them on the way to something only they understood. Fear was fierce in the horse’s nostrils, and the animal yanked on the reins, prancing and snorting, resenting the curtailing of its escape.

  Carlow’s gritty voice was low and calming. “Easy, boy. Easy now. We’ve got to be smart. Easy now.” Gradually the horse stood without jerking its head, blowing, or stomping. He patted its wet neck in appreciation.

  For the first time, he realized they were beside the ridge. He couldn’t remember seeing it before. A stray brown-and-white steer wandered through, mooing for brethren. Three loose horses from the outlaws’ remuda burst past with heads held high and nostrils flaring. Carlow’s horse tensed and wanted to bolt. His restraint eliminated the possibility.

  Nichols was no longer holding on; Carlow thought he might have passed out from loss of blood.

  A sound above him!

  He spun his hand-carbine toward the new threat.

  “It ist I, Two-Wolves. Nein shoot, Star Warrior of Tehannas.” The Comanche wrangler appeared on top of the ridge, his bare feet just inches above Carlow. He was bleeding from his right arm. From the looks of it, a steer’s horn had caught him.

  Charlie Two-Wolves! Carlow’s mind said. Where is Chance?

  An eager bark answered the question. In an instant, a familiar shape stood beside the Comanche wrangler, barking happily to see Carlow.

  Carlow realized Nichols was leaning against his back. “Will, we made it. Will . . . Will?”

  There was no response.

  Carlow holstered his gun and turned around in the saddle, fearing the worst.

  Nichols was gulping for air. “I . . . I had the . . . breath . . . knocked outta me.” He inhaled and exhaled as fast as he could to bring in precious air. “Wh-when we . . . cleared . . . that damn hole . . . back there. You ever hear of goin’ around things?”

  Smiling, Carlow jumped down and offered a hand to Nichols. Both looked up. Standing next to them were Two-Wolves and Chance. The wolf-dog ran to the young Ranger, who greeted him with equal enthusiasm. In Two-Wolves’s right hand was Carlow’s hat; in his left, a bow.

  “Ich bring hat. Bueno medicine. Ja.” The Comanche wrangler held out the hat and Carlow smiled and pushed it onto his head.

  An examination of Nichols’s leg showed the cut was shallow; his weakness had come from being thrown, and not the wound. The three men decided to return and assess the situation with the herd and the outlaws. On the way back, an occasional steer watched them with mild curiosity. The camp itself was barely recognizable as a place where men had been. The fire was flattened ashes with tiny sparks breathing their last. Only one sitting log remained in place; the others were strewn about the area as if picked up and tossed. The only thing remaining of the remuda was a broken rope. Saddles were scattered everywhere like large brown toadstools. Surprisingly, the rifles remained exactly as they had been stacked, propped against the tree. Except for one. It lay near a body hanging in the crook of the tree.

  The next dead man they saw was Red Anklon. The side of his face was bloody from Carlow’s blow. His legs were twisted awkwardly from being trampled, and his leather shirt and pants were tattooed with hoofprints.

  Morgan Lewis, one of the turncoat Cradle 6 riders, sat on a log not far from the line of rocks where Carlow had thought Del Gato might be hidden. He was staring into the sky, the left side of his stovepipe chaps nearly ripped off. Beside him was the third Cradle 6 traitor. Unmoving.

  Gradually they found the others, except for two. Nichols guessed they might have been the men closest to the remuda and thus able to grab horses and get away. Three more had been trampled. Demetrie appeared mildly dazed and was walking around, holding his bitten arm and talking to himself. Another outlaw was trying to find coffee for the pot, as if nothing had happened.

  The hidden gunman’s body was gone. Two-Wolves didn’t seem alarmed by its absence, indicating he thought they would find it, assuring Carlow that the man was dead.

  “Dr. Holden is through,” Carlow said, staring at Anklon’s body. “I’ve got the evidence we’ll need.”

  “What about these boys, the ones still walkin’?” Nichols motioned in the direction of Demetrie. “How about they help us round up the Cradle 6 beef?”

  “Good idea. I’ve got paper and a pencil in my saddlebags,” Carlow said. “I want a signed confession about the Holdens from each man. Anybody who saw Jessie Holden kill your friends, I want that in there, too.”

  “What if they can’t write?” Nichols didn’t look at him.

  “Write it for them an’ have them sign it,” Carlow said. “You can write, can’t you?”

  “Better’n most. I can count to a hundred, too.” Nichols looked up, defiant. “Then what?”

  Quietly, he asked Nichols and Two-Wolves to handle this detail while he headed for town. Carlow told Nichols to let any man go if Nichols knew he was just a cowhand and not an outlaw, but only after he wrote down what he knew. The rest should be tied and held until they could be moved to a
proper jail. That would have to come later; he didn’t want to wait and take a chance on the Holdens getting away.

  Two-Wolves glanced up from searching the trampled grass south of the remuda. “Doc-tor Rem-eeng-ton Hold-den . . . he buys . . . white man law.”

  “Not my law.” Carlow’s response came through clenched teeth. “Not Texas Ranger law.” He didn’t mention expecting to find Del Gato and the black gunfighter there as well.

  Crossing his arms, Two-Wolves glanced down at Chance. “Ich go with. Si.”

  “Me, too, Ty,” Nichols said, still breathing deeply and acting like his leg wasn’t bothering him.

  Carlow felt tired and weak. His head was pounding again from Mallow’s bullet graze. “No, there’s unfinished business here. We’ll need those confessions and Bea’s cattle need returnin’. I’ll be fine. I don’t want the Holdens to get away.”

  Two-Wolves’s face was unreadable.

  “If I’m not back before you finish, go to the ranch. Tell Thunder . . . ah, Ranger Kileen.”

  “You take wolf. Medicine good. Mucho gut.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Cocky shadows were strolling across the main street of town as Carlow rode in. Nightfall was flirting with the horizon. Chance trotted at the heels of the young Ranger’s grulla. Neither Will Nichols nor Charlie Two-Wolves liked the idea of staying behind. Both were worried that Carlow would ride into trouble alone. The young Ranger assured them that he would be all right. That came with his usual confident smile, one that belied his own concerns about what waited for him in Presidio.

  This was Ranger business; this was what he was paid to do.

  He would stop first at the marshal’s office and notify him of his intention to arrest Dr. Holden and his wife for murder and attempted rustling.

  Whether the syrupy-talking lawman went with him or not wasn’t important. The announcement was just a courtesy. There would be a threat attached. The Holdens would be held until a circuit judge could be brought in. No local justice. And no excuses if they escaped.

  Presidio was looking forward to the evening; saloons were getting louder, and the stores were closed or closing. People scurried about, hoping to complete their tasks before the evening took them inside. Most seemed happy that the rain of the past two days was over. An occasional puddle reminded the town of the recent weather. The streets themselves were nearly empty, except for riders headed for the saloons and an occasional wagon headed home.

  Outside Holden’s hotel, a hooded priest watched from the porch as Carlow passed. The priest held his hands behind him as if contemplating the wonders of another day. Carlow wondered if the cleric had any idea of how fragile the town’s peace was. Especially tonight. The young Ranger decided to stop and ask if he had seen either Del Gato or the black gunfighter. But when Carlow swung his horse toward the porch, the priest turned and went inside. Just as well, thought Carlow, it would have taken more explanation than he wanted to give.

  But the two gunmen were around somewhere. Waiting.

  The realization that neither would announce himself in advance made him glance at his hand-carbine, held across the saddle as he passed the general store. He read the sign in the window without interest: “Manufacturers’ agents for Ladd’s Celebrated Sheep Dip. The Only certain Cure for scab and its prevention. It destroys vermin and increases the Growth of Wool. The cheapest, most safe and effective remedy known. Orders Promptly Filled.” His gaze jumped to the watchmaker’s familiar, hateful sign: “No Irish. No Coloreds. No Mex.” He tried to concentrate. This wasn’t the occasion to deal with a prejudiced store owner, and he breathed away the desire to confront the man.

  The Holden Apothecary looked as if it, too, was closed. Gray inside and no sign of movement. He would return there anyway; the Holdens might be in the store, closing up.

  A freight wagon rumbled past him on its way north. The driver spat and nodded his head as a greeting; his eyes slid toward Chance. He shook his head as if disbelieving what he saw. Carlow returned the greeting with a nod and rode on. He stopped at the hitching rack in front of the marshal’s office. Swinging down, he told Chance to remain with the horse and walked inside with his cocked hand-carbine at his side. He didn’t like the marshal and wasn’t certain whether he was just inept or owned by Dr. Holden as Flanker and Nichols suggested.

  “Wal, wal, this hyar’s quite the day for our litt-ul town. Two Range-uhs.” Marshal Laetner Dillingham’s large ears wiggled as he greeted Carlow. He was seated behind his desk, sipping from a porcelain coffee mug.

  Carlow was surprised. “Two Rangers?”

  “Yas suh, two o’ yo-all. A big fella. Biggest thang I dun ever seed came in hyar. Hour back, it were, I reckon. No, more’n that. Hour an’ a half. Yah, hour an’ a half.” Marshal Dillingham took a swig of his coffee. From his expression, it either wasn’t hot or wasn’t very good. “Yo-all git that Silvah Mal-low feller, huh?”

  Carlow waited, but his impatience with the man was shoving against his judgment. “No, I haven’t. Not yet. Right now, I’m after justice for Bea Von Pearce and her late husband—and others around here.”

  “Uh, I see that.”

  “Good. Now tell me what happened here.”

  Gradually the slow-talking lawman explained Kileen had come to town and deposited the beaten Dr. Holden. It took minutes that seemed like hours before Marshal Dillingham finally said the doctor was in a jail cell.

  Carlow’s eyes widened, and he walked to the dark cell area. The closest cell contained a man sleeping on a cot, probably a drunk. The next cell was empty. The last space was occupied by a bloody Dr. Holden, who also appeared to be sleeping. The young Ranger guessed Kileen had worked him over, and that meant the physician had gone to the Von Pearce ranch when he and the others were after the Cradle 6 cattle. Just as Kileen had suspected someone might.

  But would the physician have come alone to Bea’s place? Was he watching and waiting until they rode out? Carlow wondered. Dr. Holden didn’t seem like the kind of man who did anything without hired men to back him up. Or did he plan to pay a doctor’s visit to give Bea something for her “health”? Will Nichols had warned of such a move. So had Charlie Two-Wolves.

  “He dun tolt me to hold Doc for ah-tempted murdah—and for stealin’ the widow’s beeves. Yas suh, that’s want he said,” Dillingham hollered. “Said Doc fell down a’gettin’ outta his buggy. That’s how he dun come to hurt himself, ya know.” Marshal Dillingham waited for a response from Carlow. When there wasn’t one, he continued, “Didn’t say what ev-uhdence he dun be havin’. Gotta be a miss-take. Doc Hold-un bein’ a fine up-standin’ citi-zun an’ all, ya know.”

  Carlow realized the lawman was talking loud enough for the physician to hear.

  Finally fed up, Carlow spun and returned to the desk. “Well, you’re wrong again, Dillingham. We have plenty of evidence—and witnesses.” Carlow’s eyes went after the floppy-eared man. “Holden’s nothing but a murderer and a thief. So’s his wife.” He crossed his arms. “I hope you’re not involved.”

  “What do yo-all mean, ‘in-volved’?”

  “You guess.” Carlow’s glare forced Dillingham’s eyes downward.

  “Wal, I reckon we’ll be a’knowin’ the strai-ught o’ it when Doc comes a-round.” Dillingham lifted his cup to take a deliberate sip.

  Carlow reached across the desk and took the lawman’s arm, stopping his effort halfway to his mouth. “Holden better be here when I return. I’m going after his wife. She murdered two men last night.” Carlow released Dillingham’s arm.

  Marshal Dillingham’s fearful expression turned into a knowing smile. His silly grin vanishing as quickly as it rose, he said, “All I meant was that Doc might-ah . . . confess, ya know.”

  “And all I meant was Holden better be here.” Carlow rubbed his chin. “Damn, I remember the time when a local lawman let a prisoner of Ranger Kileen’s go.” He paused again. “It was a nice funeral, though.”

  Dillingham put down the cup, staring at it
as if the liquid were poison.

  “By the way, Red Anklon is dead. And Holden’s gang of rustlers has been arrested. We’re holding them outside of town. They’ve all signed confessions about your friend in there. And his lady.”

  Marshal Dillingham couldn’t hide the surprise on his face.

  “Red got run over by the cattle he stole,” Carlow added. “I’d say that’s justice.”

  Dillingham wanted to ask if Del Gato was dead or captured but decided he shouldn’t. He was trying to keep his lower lip from trembling.

  “Where is Ranger Kileen now?” Carlow asked, regaining his patience. Somewhat.

  Eager to change the subject, Dillingham pronounced, “He had a body to get rid of. Nig-gra fella—ah, the one ya met . . . yest-tuh-day.”

  The corner of Carlow’s mouth twitched in response to the use of the word. He didn’t like it, especially coming from Marshal Dillingham. He asked if the dead man was the gunfighter named Viceroy. Dillingham’s ears wiggled as he assured him it was. Kileen had his body in the doctor’s buggy. The young Ranger told him Viceroy was on Dr. Holden’s payroll. Dillingham’s ears wiggled as he expressed surprise. Too much surprise.

  “So where is the coroner?”

  “Now that is a goo-ud quest-shun. Yas suh, a goo-ud quest-shun. This time o’ the day, he could be ’most any-whur.”

  Carlow was fuming again but he waited.

  Marshal Dillingham’s explanation was long and hard to follow. But essentially the coroner was also the town dentist and barber. His office was next to the Remuda saloon. Carlow vaguely recalled it.

  “If’n I had to be a’guessin’, I’d say the big fella would be in a sa-loon by now, a’washin’ away havin’ to touch a dead nig-gra.”

  Carlow’s anger reached his eyes. “Have you seen Del Gato?”