"And? I heard more in what you said but you never put it into words."
I considered carefully saying anything about Jeremy Hudson courting Mira Nell since the marshal was sweet on the girl. Jeremy had trouble aplenty keeping his brother out of prison or maybe from hanging. The marshal wouldn't much care which brother was the outlaw if he eliminated a rival for the girl's affections, as if she would give a short, fat, bowlegged cuss like him the time of day.
"I got this for you. Did it while I was up in the hills chasin' down rustlers." I parted with Mira Nell's picture. Seeing the marshal's face light up was worth parting with it. "The sketch I did of Josiah is mighty accurate, but you'd have to put him and his brother side by side to see how close I came. It's not quite the same as Jeremy's phiz. You don't want to arrest the wrong brother."
"Wouldn't want to do that," the marshal said, smiling like a danged fool as he stared at the picture I'd given him.
"Arrest one of Mr. Cheshire's most valued wranglers and who knows the next time you'd see him in town."
"Right." He put the drawing into his desk drawer and locked it, tucking the key into his vest pocket. "You say the gang's headin' toward Billings?"
"You can get a posse out there before 'em if you cut across country."
"The roads'll be all muddy and bad to travel along anyway," he said. "Ned Fenton? You say that's the leader?"
"That's the name I heard."
"Got a wanted poster on him. A thousand dollars. He's a bad hombre wanted for 'bout every crime there is. The marshal who catches him would be real famous."
"And rich, if you collect the reward."
"There's that, of course, but doin' my duty's foremost in my mind."
When he said that, I reached into my pocket and fingered the leather pouch with the gold and silver coins in it. The marshal was fixing to get rich off my information since he wouldn't pass along a plugged nickel of the reward to me if he captured the Fenton gang, but keeping the money I'd taken from Josiah Hanks — Hudson — wasn't right.
"Got this from the gang. Must be ill gotten gain from a bank robbery." I painfully stood and shoved the bag across the marshal's desk.
He looked at it as if it might catch fire, then opened it by clumsily pinning the bag down with his left elbow and working open the leather tie with his right hand. The wound in his left side still bothered him more than he let on. His eyes went wide as he looked from the coins to me.
"Telegram came in that 'bout this much was stole from a Miles City bank."
"You're gonna rack up a whole raft of crimes as solved, Marshal."
He poked through the coins, separating them and pushed most of the silver in my direction.
"Reward. Twenty dollars."
I started to say how I didn't know for a fact where the money had come from. For all I knew, Josiah had stolen it from his partners after they'd sold off rustled cows. My aching body argued with my sense of propriety. Aches and pains won. I deserved something for all I'd been through, and neither Cheshire nor Phillips had offered me a reward for recovering so many head of their rustled cattle.
The money returned to my coat pocket. Other than bumps and pains, I was coming out in fine shape with twenty dollars in silver and a slicker that looked the worse for wear and tear now but which I thought Jack Cheshire owed me. That bit of deception worried me. I knew I'd pay for the slicker. It was a good one and still had a few seasons in it if I patched up the bullet holes and tears. I wouldn't be beholden to a man like Cheshire under any circumstances.
"Come on along, Charlie. I got to get a posse formed and deputize some men."
"You're in no condition to ride, Marshal."
"You ain't neither. Let's go see if the boys over at Gus' Watering Hole are eager to share in a big reward for capturin' the Fenton gang."
Turned out a couple dozen were. Some of them weren't even drunk.
After he set them on the rustlers' trails, the marshal and I sat in the corner and bought each other drinks until he passed out. I took a pencil from my sash, smoothed a sheet of Gus' paper and began sketching the marshal snoring loudly, his head on crossed forearms and a deck of cards splayed out beside his head. I saw five aces in the spread. That made a perfect drawing for Mr. Wyatt.
As I sketched, my mind turned to the posse out on the prairie, racing to find the rustlers and bring them to justice. In a way, I hoped Jeremy cut his brother from the herd and got him away before the posse arrived. I had no love for Josiah, but his brother had saved my life, no doubt about that.
Happy endings are usually for my stories, but Jeremy and Mira Nell might find eloping was their trail to happiness. Or maybe everything I knew was wrong and that Jeremy was a rustler, too, just like his brother. He might marry into the Cheshire family. That struck me as fitting, a rustler among the ranchers. That'd make Jeremy another . . . successful rancher.
I looked up as Mr. Wyatt rushed in, looked around frantically, then spotted me. He slipped on the sawdust and caught himself, almost knocking the marshal to the floor. The newspaperman never noticed.
"Russell, you're back. Good. Mr. Phillips showed me that card you sent."
"Which one?"
"The frozen steer."
"Waiting for a chinook," I said.
"That's the one. Inspired! The head of the Cattle Growers Association saw it and wanted a copy. I done up a hundred copies on eighty-weight card stock and sold the lot of them for a dollar each. I want you to do more!"
I silently passed him the sketch of the sleeping marshal. Mr. Wyatt looked back and forth between the subject matter and the drawing, then laughed.
"Charlie Russell, I'm gonna make you famous with all your drawing!"
He ran from the saloon before I had a chance to ask if I got any of the money from the postcards he had sold. If my sketches were that popular, might be putting my cracker ass in a saddle was a thing of the past. I might get famous and rich and —
"There you are! Dammit, Charlie, Mr. Phillips is fit to be tied 'cuz you rode off like that." Rusty Rawlins peered down at me.
"He missed me?"
"We all did. Now let's git on back to the OH. There's work to be done 'fore that next storm socks us in and freezes up more cattle."
I knew where I belonged. My joints pained me as I stood, but every subsequent step came easier. Rusty had brought around Monte for me. I stepped up without any trouble, we hit the trail back to the ranch. Drawing and painting could wait for another day. I had real work to do and friends to ride beside me — until I had time to get back to creating artwork.
The material in this book comes from a variety of sources, but I would direct your attention to two fine volumes. Charles M. Russell's Trails Plowed Under provided the kernel for many of the trail stories in this novel. Russell's wit and adept turn of phrase made Will Rogers write in the introduction: I always did say you could tell a story better than any man that ever lived.
The stories are lively and reflect the life as a wrangler that Russell lived. The other great western artist, Frederick Remington, sculpted and drew of the military. Russell's subjects were earthier. Having lived among the Indians and cowboys, those provided his inspiration and represent his finest work.
An invaluable reference was Austin Russell's:
CMR Charles M. Russell Cowboy Artist, a Biography.
And if you are not familiar with Russell's superb artwork, peruse his entire collection at http://cmrussell.org
About the Author
Jackson Lowry is the pen name of a prolific writer born in Texas and now living in Albuquerque, NM. His novel Sonora Noose was nominated for both a New Mexico Book Award and a Western Fictioneers Peacemaker Award. Forthcoming is a new western series from Penguin/Berkley, The Great West Detective Agency, taking a lighter look at the western genre without abandoning all that makes the traditional western reflective of America's spirit.
For more information, see the author's Web site.
WEST OF THE BIG RIVER
THE
RANGER
James J. Griffin
Also in the Series
WEST OF THE BIG RIVER:
THE LAWMAN by James Reasoner
THE AVENGING ANGEL by Michael Newton
THE ARTIST by Jackson Lowry
Western Fictioneers Presents
West of the Big River
The Ranger
A Novel Based on the Life of Texas Ranger Sergeant J.S. Turnbo
James J. Griffin
West of the Big River
The Ranger
A Western Fictioneers Book published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © July 2013 James J. Griffin
Cover Design L. J. Washburn
Texas Ranger badge image courtesy of the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum, Waco.
Western Fictioneers logo design by Jennifer Smith-Mayo
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
Credits: This story is based in part on actual events which took place from February through May, 1884. The main character, Texas Ranger Sergeant J.S. Turnbo, was in fact a Ranger assigned to Company A in El Paso. Much of the information was obtained from the library of the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum in Waco, Texas, and from Texas Rangers Tales II by Mike Cox (Woodacre Publishing). The author is grateful to them for allowing access to their files and work.
Thanks as always to Karl Rehn and Penny Riggs of KR Training, Manheim, Texas, and Jim Huggins, Lecturer of Forensic Science at Baylor University and Texas Ranger Sergeant, Retired, for their invaluable assistance.
James J. Griffin
Chapter 1
"Travelin' by overnight stagecoach is sure blasted uncomfortable, ain't it, Ranger?" Las Cruces, New Mexico Deputy Sheriff W.L. Jerrell said. He shifted around in his seat, trying to ease the pain in his butt, and then settled deeper into his coat in an attempt to ward off the early February cold. "No heat, cramped and smelly, and this road's sure rough. I don't think our driver's missed a chuckhole yet. Too bad the rails don't run to San Angelo."
"I'd rather be ridin' my horse," Texas Ranger Sergeant J.S. Turnbo answered. "When all's said and done, though, don't much matter to me how I travel, long as I get where I'm goin'. Besides, it's not all that far to San Angelo. We'll be there before sun-up. For now, I'm gonna try and get some more shut-eye before we reach town."
Turnbo leaned back in his seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes. He'd prefer to be back in Abilene, having a beer at John Billings' saloon rather than taking a ninety mile ride in a jouncing stagecoach. Even more appealing was the thought of returning home and to Company A in El Paso, but that wasn't about to happen until most of the rustlers and robbers plaguing the Abilene area had been run to ground. He'd been sent to Abilene to solve those problems, but this assignment was taking him away from doing just that.
Jerrell had taken a Texas and Pacific train from Las Cruces to Abilene, the closest point the T & P tracks came to San Angelo. He had a warrant for a man wanted for armed robbery back in Las Cruces, and needed a Texas lawman's authority to serve it. Turnbo had been given the chore of accompanying the New Mexico deputy to San Angelo. Ordinarily a Ranger wouldn't have drawn the menial job of serving a warrant on a penny-ante out of state criminal, but Jerrell's brother-in-law was El Paso County Sheriff James White. When White wired Austin asking for Ranger assistance, his request was promptly granted.
Besides Turnbo and Jerrell, there were four other passengers inside the coach: Corporal Adam McGee, a cavalryman on his way to Fort Concho, Sam P. Cochran, a Dallas businessman, rancher John Reed, and a dry goods drummer named Paul Dunham. In addition, one other man, Wade Thurston, a Kansas City cattle buyer, had decided to ride alongside the driver in the shotgun seat. He wanted to take advantage of the relatively cool night air and breeze, as opposed to being crammed in the stuffy coach along with six other men.
Despite the rough ride Turnbo dozed off, for a Ranger grabbed sleep whenever and wherever he could. However, when the stage slowed he was instantly alert.
"Hey, driver! What're you slowin' for?" he called as he eased his six-gun from its holster.
"Eastbound stage's comin'," the driver answered. "Wavin' for me to stop. Looks like trouble."
He pulled the horses to a halt. A moment later, the Abilene-bound stage rolled up and stopped.
"Hey, Albie, what's wrong?" the westbound driver shouted.
"Robbers! Bandits! That's what's wrong, Jake. Sons of bitches hit us about a mile back," the eastbound driver answered. "Warned me not to turn back to San Angelo but to keep headin' east."
Turnbo and Jerrell, along with the other passengers, had climbed out of the coach.
"They shoot anyone?" Turnbo asked.
"Nah," Albie answered. "Robbed the passengers of some cash and valuables and rifled through the mail. Jake, I'd bet my hat they're waitin' on you to do the same thing."
"They ain't gonna get the chance," Jake said. "I'm turnin' around right here. We'll head back to the last way station, spend the night there, then head for San Angelo come daylight."
"No, you're not, driver," Turnbo said. "You'll get back in your seat and start this stage movin' for San Angelo again."
"You can't give me orders like that, Mister," Jake snapped.
"This says I can." Turnbo dug in his shirt pocket and pulled out his badge. "I'm Texas Ranger Sergeant J. S. Turnbo of Company A in El Paso. Man with me is Deputy Sheriff Jerrell out of New Mexico. This could be the best chance we'll have to finally track down some of the stage robbers plaguin' this entire territory."
"I ain't gonna do it," Jake insisted. "I ain't hankerin' to get a bullet through my brisket."
"If you don't, I'll make sure this is the last stage you'll ever drive in the state of Texas," Turnbo said.
"So you ain't givin' me a choice."
"Reckon not, at that."
Jake shrugged his shoulders.
"Then we might as well get rollin', even though I don't like it."
"Just a minute," Turnbo said. "Gentlemen, we're gonna change our seats. I'll take the window on the left side. Deputy, you'll take the one on the right. Any objections?"
"No, sir, Ranger," Dunham said. "Better it's you than me in the line of fire when the shootin' starts."
"Good. Mister Thurston, do you want to ride inside?" Turnbo asked. "Might be safer."
"No, I'll keep my seat up top," Thurston answered. "I've got a .32 caliber belly gun stuck inside my belt, and I can use it if need be."
"Wish I could help, but I'm traveling without a weapon," Corporal McGee said.
Turnbo nodded. "Appreciate that, both of you. Let's get underway."
"Good luck," Albie, the eastbound driver, said. He cracked his whip over his team, putting them into a run.
Jake and Thurston climbed back to their perch, while the others settled inside the coach. Turnbo and Jerrell took their pistols from their holsters and placed them in their laps.
Jake, muttering curses about outlaws in general and Ranger Turnbo in particular, clucked to the horses and slapped the reins on their backs, putting them into a trot.
The stage had gone about a mile and was still five miles out of San Angelo when two men stepped out of a mesquite thicket on Jerrell's side of the coach, guns in hand. They yelled for the driver to stop. As he reined in the team and pulled back on the brake lever, Jerrell raised his six-gun and fired at one of the robbers. He missed.
The outlaws reacted instantly, returning Jerrell's fire.
Two of their bullets punched through the thin wooden sides of the coach and slammed the New Mexico deputy back against the leather seat. He slumped to the floor. While the other passengers ducked for cover, Turnbo jumped to the right side of the coach and aimed at one of the gunmen. He fired and saw the man drop his gun and claw at his stomach. The man went down but quickly got back on his feet, retrieved his pistol, and resumed shooting.
More lead tore through the coach as Turnbo and the robbers kept shooting at each other. Corporal McGee grabbed Jerrell's pistol from where it had fallen and joined in the gunfight. Sam Cochran grunted when a round struck him in the back. From above, Thurston added bullets from his little .32 caliber to those of the Ranger and soldier.
All the gunfire spooked the horses. Despite the driver's efforts to control them, the stage lurched forward. The robbers were not deterred, but kept shooting at the coach. With the horses running in fright, Turnbo opened the door of the coach and leaned out to shoot back at the bandits. With bullets from three guns coming at them, the robbers decided discretion was the better part of valor. They didn't mount their horses and give chase, but just kept shooting at the stage until it disappeared into the dark.
Instead of stopping at the depot when the stage rolled into San Angelo, the driver pulled it to a halt in front of the San Angelo hotel.
"Someone get a doctor!" Turnbo shouted. "Got a badly wounded man here. He needs help fast."
A bystander ran off to summon a physician. Turnbo and two others carried Jerrell into the hotel.
"Room eleven's empty," the desk clerk said. "Just down the hall on the right. Take him there."
Jerrell was taken to the indicated room and placed on the bed. Barely conscious, he lay moaning with pain. In less than five minutes another man, carrying a medical bag, entered.
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