Lone Star Ranger

by James J. Griffin

  For twenty minutes they battled, neither giving in until both were completely plastered with snow and soaked to the skin.

  “I reckon I’ve had enough, Nate,” Hoot said, gasping.

  “Same here,” Nate admitted. He was hunched over, dragging air into his lungs. “I guess we’d better head on back, before Cap’n Quincy or Jeb start wonderin’ where we’ve gotten to.”

  “Just gimme a minute, first,” Hoot said. “I’ve got a chill from bein’ soaked to the skin. I need to pee, real bad.”

  “So do I,” Nate said. He unbuttoned his denims to relieve himself.

  “Hey, Nate, bet I can pee farther than you can,” Hoot challenged. “It’ll be easy to tell in this snow.”

  “So what? That’s not a big deal,” Nate answered. “Watch this.”

  Nate proceeded to write his name in the snow. When he finished crossing the “t”, he grinned.

  “Think you can do that, Hoot?”

  “I reckon I can.” Hoot also marked the snow with his name.

  “There, Nate. How’s that?”

  “The ‘t’s’ not crossed straight, and you didn’t quite finish,” Nate answered.

  “What d’ya mean, I didn’t ‘quite finish’ You sayin’ you want me to write my last name, too? I don’t hold that much water, Nate,” Hoot protested.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Nate answered. “Watch.”

  Nate put two dots in the center of the “o’s” in Hoot, then spelled out “Owl” underneath that.

  “See. Hoot Owl. Now your name’s finished, pard.”

  “All right, I reckon you’ve got me beat,” Hoot conceded. “It’s just a doggone shame you can’t hit a target with your rifle as good.”

  He laughed, then shivered.

  “I’m really startin’ to get cold, Nate. We’d best get movin’. That warm stove in the bunkhouse and a hot cup of coffee are sure gonna feel good.”

  “I’m gettin’ a chill too,” Nate said. “Let’s get on back.”

  They got their horses, mounted, turned them toward the Circle Dot E, and put them into a trot.

  ♦●♦

  By the time they got back to the ranch, both boys were thoroughly chilled. They took the bridles off their horses and turned them into the corral, making certain they had hay and water, checking their hooves for any ice balls which might have built up inside their shoes, which could easily cause a horse to strain a tendon or even break a leg, then hurried inside the Rangers’ quarters. Their teeth were chattering, they were shivering, and their skin had taken on a deathly pale pallor.

  “Hoot! Nate! Where in the blue blazes have you two been?” Captain Quincy shouted, when they came through the door. “We were worried you’d gotten lost, or mebbe ran into some renegades or Indians. We were just about ready to start searchin’ for you.”

  “And what the devil have you been up to?” Jeb asked. “You both look half-frozen.”

  “Nate was showing me how they have fun in the winter, up North,” Hoot answered.

  “I’m sorry, Cap’n Dave,” Nate said. “It’s my fault. I saw all that snow out there, and it reminded me of home. I just had to get Big Red and go for a ride. Then Hoot and I got into a wrestlin’ match, then a snowball fight, and—”

  “Don’t say it,” Jeb warned him. “You were about to say things snowballed from there.”

  “Well, not exactly, but now that you mention it,” Nate said. “Anyway, it won’t happen again.”

  “There’s no need to apologize, Nate,” Captain Quincy assured him. “There was no real harm done. Just please, the next time you decide to take off, let someone know.”

  “Sure, Cap’n.”

  “There’s no harm done as long as these two don’t catch their death of pneumonia, bein’ in those soaked clothes for who knows how long,” Jim said. “Nate, Hoot, you two had better get out of those wet duds. Carl, throw some more wood on the fire. Dan, get ’em some hot coffee.”

  While Dan went for the coffee, and Carl the wood, Nate and Hoot went to their bunks. When they sat down to take off their boots, they discovered the wet footgear was almost impossible to remove. They had to enlist the help of Ken and Shad to pull off the boots. When Shad gave a tug on Nate’s right boot, it came off suddenly, with a dull pop. Shad landed on his backside, still holding the boot and cursing.

  “Looks like young Nate, there, done give you the boot, Shad,” Joe said, with a chuckle.

  “I’ll give him the boot,” Shad retorted.

  “I don’t want to hear you kickin’ about what just happened, Shad,” Joe shot back.

  Nate and Hoot stripped to the skin, wrapped themselves in blankets, and went back to the stove. They moved two chairs even closer to it and sat down, stretching their legs toward the stove. Dan came back with two steaming mugs of coffee.

  “Here you go, boys,” he said, handing Nate and Hoot the hot, black brew. “George added a dollop of whiskey. He said that’ll help drive the chill from your bones.”

  “Thanks, Dan,” Hoot said, as he took a mug.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Nate added. He took a good-sized swallow of the whiskey-laced coffee.

  “Dan, this tastes just fine,” he said. “It should warm me up real fast.”

  “Yep, it sure does hit the spot,” Hoot added. “It’s warmin’ my belly up just great.” He took another gulp, then wriggled his bare toes. “Boy howdy, that fire sure feels good,” he said. “It’s gettin’ downright cozy in here. I’m real comfortable. Nate, the next time you want to go play in the snow, you’re on your own. I’m a southern boy, bred and raised, and I’ll take the blazin’ hot sun over snow and cold any day, thank you very much.”

  “You mean you don’t want to ride out again tomorrow, Hoot?” Nate asked.

  “Only if it’s seventy degrees, the sun is shinin’, the birds are singin’, and the flowers are bloomin’,” Hoot answered.

  “Nate, do you mind if I ask you a question?” Captain Quincy said.

  “Not at all, Cap’n,” Nate answered. “What is it?”

  “Like Hoot said, he’s a southern boy. All of us here are. That means we don’t know a whole lot about how to handle cold weather, ice and snow, and all that. In fact, a few years back, up in the Panhandle, I lost a couple of good Rangers to the cold. They got caught in a storm, tried to make it back, but froze to death, less than a quarter mile from town. They were found still holdin’ onto their horses’ reins. The horses were frozen solid, too. I’m hopin’ mebbe you can give us some ideas how to cope with weather like this.”

  “I’d be glad to, Cap’n,” Nate said. “First of all, cover every bit of flesh you can. You don’t want frostbite to set in. A man can lose fingers, toes, even a hand or foot from frostbite. If his skin is turning gray, and he’s lost all feelin’, get him inside, quick. Shiverin’s also a bad sign, but a man who’s stopped shiverin’ is in even worse trouble. You need to get him into a warm place as fast as you can.”

  “Anythin’ special you can do for an hombre who’s that far gone?”

  “Get him under blankets, near a fire or stove, or in a tub of hot water if one’s available. Some folks like to rub a frostbitten man’s arms or legs. With luck, any of those will warm him up before it’s too late.”

  “Nate, you said cover every bit of flesh,” Jim said. “How about stayin’ dry?”

  “That’s real important, too,” Nate answered. “Even wearin’ too many clothes can give a man a chill, if he starts sweatin’ and those clothes get damp. And of course, a man workin’ in the cold will build up a sweat a lot faster’n one just sittin’ a horse, or ridin’ in a wagon.”

  “Which is a lesson you and Hoot just forgot,” Jeb pointed out.

  “I reckon you’re right about that, Jeb,” Nate admitted.

  “Nate, suppose a man’s caught out in a storm, and can’t get to a warm shelter?” Captain Quincy asked. “Is there anythin’ he can do to mebbe save his life?”

  “There’s a few things,” Nate answered. “Firs
t, get out of the wind, if possible. Second, if there’s enough snow, dig a snow cave. Believe it or not, buryin’ yourself under the snow helps keep you warm. And you can still breathe under there, as long as you dig yourself a space around your mouth and nose. You have to make certain the snow doesn’t get too packed around you, or you could suffocate. I don’t know if any of you have ever seen a picture of the igloos the Eskimos up north build, but a snow cave’s the same idea. If you’re in the woods, and there’s evergreens, you can cut off some branches to build a rough shelter. Evergreen boughs make fine shelters from the snow.”

  “Is there any way to warm up if you do catch a chill?” Quincy asked.

  “You can tuck your hands under your armpits,” Nate said. “You can curl up in a ball. If you’ve got a dog with you, lie down with him up against you. If you’re on horseback, get your horse down, and get up against him.”

  “I heard tell of a feller one time who saved himself durin’ a wicked snowstorm by slaughterin’ a steer, cuttin’ its belly open, and crawlin’ inside. The hide froze, but by the time the storm blew over, that feller was still nice and toasty inside that steer’s belly,” Shad said. “I reckon it’d work with a horse, too, but I sure ain’t ever gonna kill my Brandy horse just to save my own skin. If that ever happens, me’n Brandy’ll die together.”

  “I’d reckon a lot of men feel the same way,” Jeb said. “I know I do, about my Dudley.”

  “There is one other way to save a freezin’ man’s life,” Nate said. “Two of my cousins were out huntin’ when they got caught by surprise in a wicked storm, and they had to do this. You take the man who’s freezin’, strip him to the skin, and get him between two blankets. Then the other man, the one who’s not dyin’ from the cold, also strips to the skin, and slides under the blankets. He’s gotta get right up against the first man. His body heat will warm up the dyin’ feller, and maybe save his life.”

  “That seems a mite drastic, Nate,” Carl said.

  “It is, but it my cousin Martin saved his brother Ned by doin’ just that,” Nate answered.

  “It wouldn’t be so bad, if it was Lily from the Cannon Saloon back in Austin warmin’ me up,” Joe said. “In fact, it might be worth nearly freezin’ to death just to get her alongside me.”

  “The last time you even tried talkin’ to her, Joe, she tossed your beer in your face,” Dan answered, laughing, “I’d imagine she’d let you freeze rather’n help you.”

  “Nate, when you have the time, would you mind writin’ up everythin’ you just told us for me?” Captain Quincy requested. “I’d like to pass these suggestions along to Headquarters. Someday, they just might save a Ranger’s life.”

  “I’d be glad to,” Nate said. He yawned and stretched. “Guess I’m more tuckered out than I realized.”

  “Cap’n, I reckon the best thing for these two boys right now is a nap,” Jeb suggested.

  “I can’t think of a better idea than that at the moment,” Hoot said.

  “All right, boys,” Captain Quincy said. “Rest a spell. We’ll call you when it’s time to eat.”

  The other men returned to their bunks, reading, or card games.

  “Hoot,” Nate said a few minutes later, “I’m gettin’ downright comfortable. Not hardly cold at all, now.”

  “Yeah, this ain’t half bad,” Hoot agreed. “The only thing that’d warm me up faster is snugglin’ with Clarissa. And I’d say cuddlin’ with Consuela, that Mexican firebrand of yours, would heat up a feller real fast. Yessir, real fast.”

  “Except they’re both up at the main house, and we’re stuck here, with only each other,” Nate said. “More’s the shame.”

  “Yeah, it’s a real pity.” Hoot shook his head. “A real pity. Too bad there’s nothin’ we can do about it. Might as well get some shut-eye.” He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  “Well, maybe we can at least dream about those girls,” Nate said, once again yawning. “That’s what I’m gonna do.” His eyes shut, and a moment later he was softly snoring.

  4

  Early the next morning, Nate got out his sketch pad and pencils. He’d decided he wanted to do some drawings of the Circle Dot E while snow still covered the land. Unlike in Delaware, where most winters the ground would be snow-covered from late November or early December through March, here in Texas snow was usually melted away within a few days. He got Big Red, saddled and bridled him, and rode to the top of a low mesa which overlooked the ranch.

  “You stay here while I draw, Red,” he ordered the sorrel. Red snorted, and commenced nibbling at the tender branches of a scrub willow, which had sprouted from a crack in the rocks. The little tree had somehow found enough moisture to survive. Nate found a rock, brushed the snow off it, sat down, and began to draw.

  The Circle Dot E buildings, unlike most in the region, were not constructed of adobe bricks and stucco, but had been built of cedar logs, freighted in at considerable expense. The main house was a low, rambling structure, with a porch across its entire front. The rich, reddish tones of the cedar houses, barns, and outbuildings contrasted nicely against the blinding white snow and the deep azure sky. The pencils seemed to come alive in Nate’s hands, as he sketched the buildings, corrals, and yard.

  Red wandered over to Nate and nuzzled the back of his neck, then lipped at the sketch pad. He pulled the pencil out of Nate’s hand, held it between his lips, and tossed his head.

  “You tryin’ to tell me you want to go home already, Red?” Nate asked the horse. “I’m not done here, yet.”

  Red shook his head and snorted.

  “I told you we’re not goin’ back yet,” Nate said. He looked at the horse and rubbed his jaw. “Wait a minute. I just thought of somethin’. I’ve never done a drawin’ of you, pal. I’m gonna take care of that right now.”

  Nate took the pencil from Red, replaced it in his kit and took out another one, then began to draw his horse. The sorrel’s rich red coat seemed to glow like a newly-minted copper penny against the backdrop of snow-covered rocks and bright blue, cloudless sky.

  “Too bad these pencils are just charcoal, Red, rather’n oil paints,” Nate said. “I’d love to have a color paintin’ of you. Mebbe someday. But, I sure can’t try’n do any oils while I’m ridin’ with the Rangers. Canvases, brushes, and oil paints would just take up too much room, and oils take too long to dry. I guess I’ll just have to settle for this picture.”

  In a short time, Nate finished the sketch, and held it up for Red’s approval.

  “There. You like it?” he asked.

  Red nickered, then nuzzled Nate’s shirt pocket.

  “I get it,” Nate said. “You like the drawin’, but you’d rather have a piece of biscuit. Well, I’ve got somethin’ even better for you. Stole it outta the cook shack while George wasn’t lookin’.”

  He pulled a carrot from his pocket and gave it to the horse. Red crunched down happily on it.

  “Satisfied? Good,” Nate said. “I only want to do one more drawing from up here, then we’ll head back down. All right?”

  Red’s only answer was taking another bite off the carrot.

  ♦●♦

  Nate finished his drawing from the mesa top, then headed back down to the ranch proper. He put Big Red back in the corral, forked him some hay, and began to sketch the Circle Dot E’s main bunkhouse. Zack Ellesio came out and spotted him.

  “What’re you up to, Nate?” he asked.

  “Just doin’ some drawin’,” Nate answered. “I like to do that whenever I get the chance.”

  “Can I take a look?”

  “Sure.” Nate turned the pad so Zack could see the drawing.

  “Say, that’s pretty good,” Zack praised. “Would you mind drawin’ a picture of me and my horse?”

  “Not at all,” Nate answered.

  “Good. Let me go get Shenandoah and I’ll be right back,” Zack said. He hurried toward the main stable.

  Nate put the last details on his sketch of the bunkhouse while he wa
ited for Zack to return. The young cowboy took longer than he expected, so Nate did another drawing, of several saddles hung on the top rail of the corral, to keep busy until Zack got back. He was nearly finished with that one before Zack reappeared.

  “Sorry I took so long, Nate,” Zack apologized, “But I wanted to get Shenandoah all slicked up, and put my fancy, go-to-town saddle blanket on him.”

  “That’s all right, Zack,” Nate answered. “There’s plenty here for me to draw while I was waitin’, and you did a fine job on your horse. It’s just too bad these are only pencil sketches. That’s a right pretty saddle blanket your horse is wearin’, and I’d have loved to do a color paintin’ for you. You’re lookin’ pretty fancy, too.”

  Zack had brushed his chestnut gelding so that even his thick winter coat shone like a chunk of raw copper. The horse’s mane and tail were combed out, and he sported a colorful Navajo patterned blanket under his saddle. Zack had even polished the silver conchos on Shenandoah’s bridle. And the young cowboy had also brushed the dirt off his sweat-stained hat, changed into a clean yellow shirt, and hung a bright green silk bandanna around his neck.

  “That don’t matter none, as long as I can have a picture of me’n Shenandoah,” Zack answered.

  “That, you’ll have,” Nate assured him. “How do you want to be drawn? Standin’ next to your horse or sittin’ on him?”

  “I’d rather be in the saddle,” Zack replied. “Can you do the picture with me holdin’ my gun in my hand, like I’m gettin’ ready to shoot some outlaw?”

  “Sure, that’ll be easy,” Nate said. “Just climb on up there.”

  “All right.”

  Zack mounted his horse, pulled out his six-gun, leveled it, and screwed up his face into a look of grim determination, almost a scowl.

  “Do I look mean enough, Nate?” he asked.

  “That’s almost as mean as the look you gave me the day you found me,” Nate answered. “It’s enough to scare the bejeebers out of pretty much anyone. Now, stay as still as you can. Hold Shenandoah as quiet as you can keep him, too. I’ll do a quick sketch, then fill in the details. Your arm’d get too tired holdin’ that gun up long enough for me to finish the whole drawin’.”