West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels

by James Reasoner

  "Never . . . never expected . . . anyone'd . . . figure out . . . my scheme . . . Ranger . . . let . . . alone . . . endin' up . . . gut . . . gutshot." He choked, let out a sigh, shuddered, and lay still.

  Jack Martin and Mike Trombley emerged from the brush. Neither was armed. Right behind them were the rest of the women of the troupe.

  "What's goin' on here?" Martin shouted.

  Turnbo pointed his Colt at the men. "I'll explain in a minute. Meantime, stay over there until I sort all this out, all of you. I don't want to have to shoot anyone else."

  "You don't have to worry, Ranger," Tangela said. "I'll keep an eye on them for you."

  "Much obliged again."

  Turnbo checked the other bodies for any signs of life. He found none. He turned back to face the remaining performers.

  "Your boss and some of your pardners have been robbing banks and murdering folks all over Texas. Lucast used his theater company as cover. Now, I guess it's all over," he said. "Reckon I'd better . . . lie down."

  Turnbo's arm dropped and his gun fell from his hand, then he slumped to the dirt.

  Chapter 11

  When Turnbo came to, he was propped against a small boulder. A damp cloth was across his forehead, his shirt was opened, and a bandage wrapped around his middle. Tangela Peele was sitting next to him, along with Molly Dowd. Both women were dozing, but looked up when they heard him stir.

  "Ranger . . .?" Tangela said.

  "Miz Peele? Reckon I passed out," Turnbo murmured. "Sure am thirsty."

  "I'll get you some water," Molly offered. "There'll be some soup ready soon. You should try to eat some of that."

  "I will, and thanks. Where's everyone else?" Turnbo asked.

  "I'll get them," Molly said.

  "Good. I need to fill y'all in a bit more on what this was all about. My horse. Where's Hat?"

  "He's tied to one of the wagons."

  "Fetch him, too, will you, Miz Dowd?"

  "Certainly. You take it easy until I get back."

  Molly headed for the wagons. Five minutes later, she returned, along with her companions. Carla Kennedy led Hat up to Turnbo. The paint nuzzled his rider's cheek and nickered.

  "I'm all right, Hat," Turnbo assured the horse, with a pat to his nose.

  "Are you positive about that, Ranger Turnbo?" Sally Jane Stark asked.

  "Considerin' what I've been through, yep," Turnbo answered.

  "Ranger, here's your water," Molly said. "Don't drink too fast."

  She passed Turnbo a canteen. He took a long drink, and then handed it back to her.

  "All, right, I'm ready to clarify everything for y'all."

  "And we're sure ready to hear what you have to say, Ranger," Trombley said.

  For the next half-hour, Turnbo went over the events of the past several weeks, answering the many questions put to him. He assured all of the performers they did not have to worry about being accused of complicity in any of the crimes. Ross Lucast's statements had exonerated them from any part of his gang's actions.

  "I'm sure glad we won't be implicated," Trombley said. "I can't believe they were able to pull this off right under our noses."

  "Lucast was right clever, there's no doubt about that," Turnbo said. "He even managed to keep any of you from realizin' I was in that wagon ever since you left Junction. And now I've got a question for you, Miz Peele. How did you realize what was happening, that I'd been stupid enough to be discovered, and that Lucast was gonna kill me?"

  "I woke up when I heard Julie Ann get out of her bunk," Tangela explained. "She was tryin' to sneak out of our wagon real quiet-like, so I wanted to see what she was up to. I followed her, and, well, you know the rest."

  "And I'm sure grateful," Turnbo said. "I'm sure glad you carry a gun, too. You saved my hide."

  "It wasn't nothing," Tangela answered. "I learned quite a while back how to use a gun to protect myself."

  "Yeah, but I never would've guessed you carried one," Turnbo said. "Where'd you hide it?"

  Tangela glanced down at her cleavage.

  "Ranger, if you have to ask, then you'd better get your eyes checked," she answered, with a laugh. "There's plenty of room in there for a pistol . . . probably even a rifle."

  Turnbo blushed.

  "I reckon," he managed to stammer.

  "Ranger, what's your next step?" Martin asked.

  "We'll have to load up the bodies, take them back to Junction, and turn them over to the sheriff. I'll send a report to Austin once we arrive. Hopefully I'll be able to recover some of the stolen money, if Lucast hadn't already spent it all. When that's done, with luck, now that this case is solved, Hat and I'll finally be able to head home to El Paso. But what about you folks? What will you do for work?"

  "Dunno about Jack and Mike," Tangela answered, "But I've been thinking for some time now about putting together my own musical act, along with Carla, Molly, and Sally Jane. Even got a name picked out, Peele's Precious Pearls."

  "Tangela, ain't none of you can play an instrument," Trombley said. "Jack, you think you'd like to string along with them, if they'll have us, that is?"

  "Sure would, if it's okay with the ladies," Martin answered. "We've been together for so long it'd be a shame to split up now. How about it, ladies?"

  "It's all right with me," Tangela replied. "Ladies?"

  The others murmured their assent.

  "Seems like that's settled," Tangela said.

  "Good," Turnbo said. "Now let's get the bodies under cover. We'll spend what's left of the night here, then start out right after sunup."

  "We'll take care of that, Ranger," Trombley said. "You're done in. Get some sleep."

  "I offered Ranger Turnbo some soup, but you're right, Mike. He needs sleep more," Molly said. "Unless . . ."

  "No, you're right," Turnbo said, his voice fading and eyes closing. "Sleep sure sounds good."

  His head dropped to his chin, and he began snoring.

  Chapter 12

  Turnbo remained in Junction for a little more than two weeks to recuperate from his injuries. Once his physician cleared him to travel, he wired his commanding officer at Company A for orders. A reply came the next day, ordering him back to El Paso. Turnbo was in the saddle the same afternoon. Rather than riding north to Abilene to catch a westbound train, he decided to horseback directly west to Pecos, then catch a train there. Hat was well-rested from his wait for Turnbo to recover, so he would handle the journey with no trouble. He would arrive in El Paso seven days after leaving Junction.

  Capt. George W. Baylor was waiting for him when he arrived at Company A Headquarters.

  “Howdy, J.S,” he said. “Glad to have you back.”

  “I’m glad to be back home, Cap’n,” Turnbo answered. “Sure didn’t plan to be gone as long as I was.”

  “I know, you were away for quite a spell,” Baylor said. “But at least you took care of a lot of problems over San Angelo way. And bringin’ the Lucast gang to ground was a fine piece of work. Right now you deserve some time off.”

  “I appreciate that, Cap’n. Few days off would sure do me some good.”

  “I said you deserve some time off, J.S. Didn’t say you’d get any. There’s tall trouble brewin’ down in Alpine. There’s an election comin’ up for all county offices, includin’ sheriff, and things are gettin’ out of hand. Been buildings shot up, a couple burned. Peoples' lives threatened, and some folks hurt. Only fistfights so far, and a couple of brawls that were near riots. However, the way things are headed, shootin’s liable to break out anytime now. I’ve been asked to send some Rangers down there to make sure the violence doesn’t get completely out of control, and someone gets killed. Unfortunately, all my other men are out on patrol along the Border. So the job of keepin’ the lid on Brewster County falls to you. Think you’re up to it?”

  “Reckon you’re not givin’ me a choice, Cap’n.”

  “That’s right, I’m not. I’m sorry, J.S,” Baylor said.

  “No need to apolog
ize. I knew what I was gettin’ into when I signed on with the Rangers,” Turnbo answered. “Reckon it’s time for me and Hat to hit the trail again. Suppose you want us to start right off.”

  “I’d be grateful,” Baylor answered.

  “Then I’m ridin’.”

  “Good luck, J.S.”

  They shook hands. Thirty minutes later, Turnbo was riding out of El Paso, heading for the Big Bend . . . and more trouble.

  Seemed like that was always the way.

  Epilogue

  James McDaniel and Lewis Potter were sentenced to life in prison for the murder of Deputy Sheriff W. L. Jerrell and on federal charges of robbing the United States mail. While awaiting transfer from the Bexar County jail in San Antonio to the Federal penitentiary in Chester, Illinois, McDaniel broke jail. He made good his escape and traveled to the area around Boerne, Texas. There he was discovered at a goat camp about eight miles from Boerne by Kendall County Deputy Sheriffs James Van Rippen and Ed Stevens, Jr. McDaniel violently resisted arrest and was shot and killed by the two officers.

  Six days after McDaniel was killed, Potter was taken from San Antonio by two deputy United States marshals, to begin his prison sentence in Illinois.

  About the Author

  Jim Griffin became enamored of the Texas Rangers from watching the TV series, Tales of the Texas Rangers. He grew to be an avid student and collector of Rangers' artifacts, memorabilia and other items. His collection is now housed in the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum in Waco.

  His quest for authenticity in his writing has taken him to the famous Old West towns of, Pecos, Deadwood, Cheyenne, Tombstone and numerous others. While Jim's books are fiction, he strives to keep them as accurate as possible within the realm of fiction.

  A graduate of Southern Connecticut State University, Jim now divides his time between Branford, Connecticut and Keene, New Hampshire when he isn't travelling around the west.

  A devoted and enthusiastic horseman, Jim bought his first horse when he was a junior in college. He has owned several American Paint horses. He is a member of the Connecticut Horse Council Volunteer Horse Patrol, an organization which assists the state park Rangers with patrolling parks and forests.

  Jim's books are traditional Westerns in the best sense of the term, portraying strong heroes with good character and moral values. Highly reminiscent of the pulp westerns of yesteryear, the heroes and villains are clearly separated.

  Jim was initially inspired to write at the urging of friend and author James Reasoner. After the successful publication of his first book, Trouble Rides the Texas Pacific, published in 2005, Jim was encouraged to continue his writing.

  West of the Big River

  The Forty-niners

  A Novel Based on the California Gold Seekers

  Charlie Steel

  Chapter One

  Slavery, the harsh, cruel, and meanest kind, existed since the beginning of man. In 1772, St. Louis, Missouri recorded 198 slaves—by 1849, nearly 6000. Decades of relations with Indian, Spanish and Negro slaves produced children who looked more like their white masters than the original slaves. It was only strict laws and documented births that kept these white-skinned children slaves. Once escaped into the populace, no one was aware what blood coursed through the veins of those individuals. And, since the outside appearance of man was judged, and blood could not be, no one knew.

  Except for the escaped slave.

  Lance, a white-skinned young man, had all he could take of slavery, and despite the penalty of death, was ready to run. The hovel Lance escaped from could be compared to that of a rat's nest. Some would say not even a rat would have resided in such a place. Forced up early in the morning, fed a breakfast of dirty half-cooked gruel, he was sent into the fields to work the earth. It was the overseer who wielded the whip. The master in his home was often unaware and unconcerned.

  Lance was twenty-one when he ran. He escaped, and the many slave patrols that roamed the city, those ruthless men who enforced the slave laws, ran after him—chasing him down like the dog they considered him to be. In fact, it was with dogs that he was tracked. His description went out: twenty-one, muscular, over six feet tall, light skinned with green eyes, and a crown of curling straw-colored hair. How such a splendid product of humanity could be produced from a slave hovel with so little decent food was a miracle of nature. For Lance towered above most men, his scarred back a glorious construction of muscle and sinew. Lance was a living example of what Greek statues were meant to represent, a perfect reflection of the very best attributes of man.

  There was only one place Lance could run to escape the noses of the dogs and the slave patrols—the Mississippi River. As he ran, the young man passed by one of the many well-displayed slave signs:

  By order of the City of St. Louis, all Slaves are forbidden to do the following:

  Ride in a carriage—without permission

  Walk with a cane

  Make seditious speeches

  Meet in church without white observers

  Smoke in public

  Read or Write

  The State of Missouri does not recognize marriage between slaves.

  All Slaves and Free Blacks must possess a pass at all times.

  Violators face penalty of capture, whippings, or death.

  Lance could not read, but he knew what the sign said, that because he was a slave he had no rights or freedom—not even the freedom of a free-roaming mongrel dog. Today, he chose to gain the rights of a human being, he would run and fight to be allowed to live without another man having ownership over him.

  He decided that he would rather die than exist another day in captivity.

  * * *

  Katherine Day and her son Johnny were busy in the kitchen. Her father and her two uncles, Harold and Clare, had taken a load of vegetables to market and wouldn't return until late evening. The three brothers owned adjoining farms and worked the land together. Katherine, known as Katy, finished peeling potatoes and put them in the pot of water on the stove. She was making supper, and tonight they would have rabbit stew with carrots and mashed potatoes. Her elders would return hungry, and if she didn't make large portions, the men would complain.

  It was the twenty-ninth of August, 1848, and a hot summer day. A breeze blew in from a southwest window Katy had left open, and the white curtain fluttered. Katy stooped to check the bread in the oven, then rose and went to a kitchen chair to rest for a moment. Despite what her father said, cooking was hard work. It was warm, too warm, the fire in the cook stove further heated the house.

  It was about this time last year the fever epidemic came, Katy reflected. It claimed her mother, her husband Jack, her uncle's wives, and their children. Uncle Harold took it hard when he lost his wife and son and daughter. He started drinking and had been no good to anyone for the past twelve months. He was just now coming out of it.

  Uncle Clare reacted differently. He never really discussed the loss of his wife and two girls. Katy wondered sometimes why Uncle Clare didn't talk. Perhaps the pain was too great. Or maybe that was just how some people coped. Once the funerals were over he went back to working the farm, not saying a word about the epidemic, the loss of family, or of all those other townspeople and farm families who had died.

  For Katy there was guilt which she shared with no one. Her father was in some ways a hard and unsympathetic man. It was he who had forced her to marry Jack—a man she really did not want. A drifter, Jack had come to the farm as a working hand, and it wasn't long before he began courting. Katy's father and uncles pushed her to marry. After a long while she succumbed to the pressure.

  That was nearly six years ago. It turned out that Jack was an abusive man. The cabin her family built for them was on the back forty. It stood empty now, and barren, a thing of the past.

  Katy was unaware of it, but her son Johnny stared at his mother, wondering what made her look so far away. At the moment, Katy sat missing her mother and remembering her warmth and her smiling face. She w
ould give anything to have her back, once again helping with the meal as she had so many times. Her mother had been supportive when her father and uncles had not. Guiltily, Katy thought of her husband Jack, and realized she had no feelings of loss toward the man who had fathered her child.

  "Mommy," said Johnny, who was sitting on the floor playing with a toy wagon, "are you alright?"

  She was so deep in thought it took a moment for Katy to react. When she did, she smiled at her son.

  "I'm okay, Johnny. I was just thinking of the past."

  "You miss Grandma?" asked the child.

  "Why yes, I do."

  "And Daddy?"

  "Him too," lied Katy.

  She returned to her cooking and when the dinner was fully prepared, she set the table and waited. At the time she expected, the front door of the cabin burst open and the first one through the door was her father and he was full of unusual enthusiasm.

  "Guess what, girl?" boomed her father's voice. "Old man Fuller gave us a copy of the New York Herald."

  "Yes?"

  "They discovered gold in Californy! Daughter . . . what do you think of that?"

  "I don't know . . . what am I supposed to think?"

  "Why, they say folks are picking nuggets off the ground. Your uncles and I discussed it and soon as we sell our farms and outfit our wagons, we'll be heading west!"

  "Father, you've been wanting to do that since before Mother died."

  The uncles had come through the door, and when they heard mention of death, their enthusiasm waned. The smiles of the men disappeared.

  "Besides," said Katy, practical as ever, "you can't go to California or over the mountains in the winter."

  "Doggone if she ain't right," said Uncle Harold. "I didn't think of that."

  "Well!" pronounced Katy's father. "I won't let my daughter put a damper on this. First thing in spring, we load our wagons and head out."