Hank let out a huge sigh. “I guess that means you owe me an apology, Officer Kenyon.”
Kenyon paused, searching the room with his eyes. But then he jutted his chin. “Apologize for doing my duty? No, sir. You have to admit, you were the prime suspect.”
Hank stepped away from the table and drilled the officer with an unwavering glare. He approached Kenyon slowly until he stood a foot away. “You’ve got a point, Matt. It’s a point that could have got you shot, but it’s a good point. Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything, Captain.”
“When this Reconstruction government gives us our state back, and the Texas Rangers ride again, promise me you’ll wear the cinco peso. The Rangers could use a hardheaded bulldog like you. You’re just like your ol’ daddy.” He stuck his hand out.
Kenyon shook the captain’s hand, but had no words to speak just then.
Hank turned to Skeeter and gave him a hug a father would give an only son. “Thank God you’re back, Skeeter. That was a gutsy thing you did. You got some cajones, mí hijo. But, you know what we have to do now, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve got to ride over to the Double Horn Ranch and take your long-lost daddy down for murdering Policarpo, Wes James, Jim Kenyon, and two other Rangers. Not to mention all the rustlin’.”
“I know.”
“Are you with me, or against me?”
“I’m with you, Capitán. He ain’t no father of mine. You’ve been more of a daddy to me than he ever could have been.” He turned to look at the younger Tomlinson. “As for you, Jay Blue . . . You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re the only brother I’ve got. I’m sorry I took your gun. I didn’t have a choice.”
“And I’m sorry for the stupid things I said, Skeeter.” Jay Blue stuck his hand out. When Skeeter took it, he pulled his brother’s right shoulder against his own and clamped him there with his left arm. “I’m just glad you’re back.”
“Alright!” Hank announced. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’ll post guards in shifts tonight, and try to get some shut-eye. Tomorrow at dawn we’ll have a big breakfast. Then Officer Kenyon will deputize us all and we’ll ride over to the Double Horn and bring John Rafferty in alive or dead—along with every one of his outlaw cattle rustlers.”
Matt Kenyon nodded. “Sounds like it’s gonna be a good day for law and order in Texas.”
“Hey, Beto,” Skeeter said. “I know it ain’t normal . . . but can we have fried chicken for breakfast?”
38
ALL NIGHT LONG the drums had sounded as the moon, having risen full and round, shone down on the camp. It passed over the war dancers, adding its steady white glow to the flickers of a hundred blazing campfires in the village of tepees. The night was cold, but the dancing and the heat of the fires kept all the Noomah people charged with warmth.
The warriors had donned headdresses made from the horns of bison, the heads of wolves or lions, the antlers of deer. Most wove eagle feathers into their black braids. The feathers, like those affixed to their shields, would flutter with the speed of their horses, spoiling the aim of their enemies’ weapons. They had painted their faces with sacred designs and paraded through camp for all to see. After the parade, they had commenced dancing.
Now the full moon was nearing the western horizon, and the time came for the Original Wolf to silence the drums. The drummers had been watching him, waiting for his signal. He raised his hand, and all the drummers ended the beat together. Warm air burst from the nostrils and mouths of the dancers, the moonlight illuminating the breath clouds that drifted away to the Spirit Land. The warriors and their women, the children and elders who had managed to stay awake, the nearly grown boys who wished they could join the war party—all turned their eyes toward the Original Wolf.
“All night, the moon and the path of stars in the sky have showered us with blessings. We are strong, we are brave, and we are right to defend our country and seek vengeance on enemies who fight like cowards. Take up your lances and shields, your quivers and your guns, and fight today as our elders taught us: with courage, with brotherhood, with the medicine of our spirit guides. On this day, do not ask the spirits for glory. Ask them to lead us to a place where we can take some glory! To your warhorses, my brothers. I have spoken!”
War cries cut through the dry, predawn air and echoed off the bluff over the big river. The Wolf watched as the warriors turned away from the ground packed hard by the moccasins of all-night dancers, but his eyes were searching for Birdsong. He spotted her, standing near her grandfather’s lodge. The old man was there, too. The scowl never left that old shaman’s face, but he nodded once at the raid leader, then ducked into his tepee, leaving his granddaughter outside.
The Wolf walked to her. “It is time to ride. Time to fight.”
Her eyes looked as big as moons. “It is my duty to be braver than even you. You leave here to ride and shoot. I must wait. But I am able to do it, and I will reward you with many pleasures when you come home.”
The Wolf smiled. He kissed her, but not tenderly, for his heart was poised for plunder and combat. Then he turned away, and he did not look back.
Jubal sat down to the delicious aroma of eggs, beans, and tortillas that Luz had ready for him. He couldn’t wait to get back down to the pens and put the saddle on El Grulloagain. He had dreamt of it all last night. The silky strides of that proud steed, the fluid trot, the smooth canter—each gait felt the way a great gray crane looked gliding in for a landing at a favored fishing hole. He was indeed El Grullo—the Gray Crane—not just in his gray coloration but through his gift of flight.
He was fortunate to have met those two young cowboys. They had done most of the rough riding. Now it was up to Jubal to finish the training of the stallion who had once tried to stomp him to death.
He wolfed down his breakfast and kissed his beloved Luz, then marched for the door. “I aim to take that gray for quite a romp across the countryside today,” he announced. “Put some miles behind him.”
“I know!” she sang, her eyes rolling. “You love him more than me now. All night, in your sleep, you said, ‘Whoa! . . . Whoa!’” She turned back to her chores.
He stalked up behind her and grabbed her, making her squeal with surprise and delight. “I don’t love him more than I love you. That’s loco talk, woman. I just need somebody I can boss. Lord knows you won’t mind me.” He kissed her on the neck, then turned toward the cave opening and the frosty light of dawn.
He walked down to the pens to find Thirsty, the camel, and the Steel Dust Gray standing nose to nose across the cedar rails from each other as if they were having a conversation. Oddly enough, the two had become fast friends.
He took his time saddling the stallion. Steel Dust was still half-wild, after all, and required all Jubal’s caution and know-how to handle. As he left the home canyon at a trot, heading for the gap in the hills that led toward Fort Jennings, he looked back and noticed that Thirsty was lumbering along behind him.
He had seen and heard of male animals of different types becoming pals in this way before—elk and buffalo bulls who roamed together between mating seasons, male dogs and tomcats playing in the yard—but this had to be the oddest pairing he knew of: a camel and a killer stud.
“Oh, well, everybody needs a friend, I guess,” he had said, watching the gray’s ears swivel back his way when he spoke.
His heart sank a little when he thought about what he’d said. Not only for himself, but for Luz. They were the best of friends to each other, but a woman needed the friendship of other women, and Jubal had to admit that he was missing those two blasted idiot cowboys. That night in town was fun, too, with the music in the saloon and all—right up until the discovery of the old arrow and the news of the lost foreman. Jubal hoped the man had been found alive, but he had a bad feeling about the whole mess.
Steel Dust suddenly made a marvelously agile leap sideways, dodging some terror Jubal had failed to identify. He just ba
rely managed to stay seated, and decided he’d better keep his mind on his task if he didn’t want to watch the mustang go galloping back to favorite haunts, carrying his best saddle.
He arrived at the gap and guided Steel Dust up the steep trail to the lookout point so he could get a view of the country to the east before he went gallivanting blindly around on a green-broke stallion. Thirsty chose to remain at the bottom of the trail to wait at the gap. At the overlook, Jubal sat in the saddle as Steel Dust caught some wind. He watched the country through his telescope awhile, but it wasn’t easy, as Steel Dust was still antsy under the saddle and didn’t like just standing. He was about to ride on when he caught a brief look at a large party of riders streaming over a ridge, heading toward Double Horn Creek, and riding fast. There was too much flash among the horses to be anything but Indian pinto ponies on the move.
“Damn,” he said. This looked like the revenge raid he had dreaded. A party that size might even take on the settlement of Luck, Texas. But before those warriors got to town, they would pass the headquarters of the two biggest ranches in the area. The Double Horn first, then the Broken Arrow, home of those two young cowhands who had talked him into catching the marvelous beast he straddled now.
The least he could do was to gallop over to Fort Jennings and tell the troops which way he had seen the war party turn. After that . . . well, he would make that decision when he came to it. Right now Steel Dust had plenty of bottom left and needed a good training run anyway. Even Thirsty was still game.
Jubal carefully urged the stallion down the slope. “Like I said earlier, ol’ hoss, everybody needs a friend, I reckon. Let’s git.”
39
HANK TOMLINSON peered through the brush to take in a clear view of the Double Horn Ranch headquarters. Officer Matt Kenyon pulled rein to his right, Skeeter and Jay Blue to his left. The rest of the men waited behind.
“Skeeter,” Hank said in a low voice, “when you infiltrated the Double Horn gang, how many men did they have there on hand?”
“There were three or four I never saw before in my life,” Skeeter recalled. “Then the usual hands: Eddie Milliken, Joe Butts, Ham Franklin, Bill Waterford, and Johnny Webb.”
“Nine or ten,” Kenyon said. “We have nine.”
Hank watched a few more seconds. “There’s smoke comin’ from the old adobe, but I don’t see anybody movin’ around. Did they post guards, Skeeter?”
“No, sir. Everybody just pretty much stayed drunk and ornery.”
Through the brush, Hank saw a side door to the adobe fly open. “Shh!” he warned.
They watched as Eddie Milliken stepped out with a bottle of whiskey in one hand. With his other hand, he slipped a stack of poker cards into his pocket. He tipped the bottom of the whiskey bottle up, drained what little there was in it, and then commenced to piss on the dirt.
Jack Brennan’s voice came from the adobe: “Milliken! You in or out?”
Milliken pulled the cards back out of his pocket and looked at them. “I fold!” he moaned, finished his business, and stepped back into the ranch house.
“That place looks pretty well fortified,” Kenyon said.
“The walls are a foot thick,” Skeeter assured him.
“And that dog on the porch is gonna raise all kinds of hell when he sees us ride in,” Hank added.
“Let me go first and I’ll whistle at the dog,” Skeeter said. “That dog likes me.”
“Alright,” Hank agreed.
“Then we’ll need to draw them out of there somehow.” Kenyon looked at Hank. “You got any ideas?”
Hank nodded. “After Skeeter calls off the dog, you and the boys get the horses into the barn and stay out of sight. Dismount and be ready. I’ll talk ’em out of that adobe.”
Minutes later, Hank stood alone in the mixed mud, gravel, and dirt between the adobe ranch house and the wooden barn. Through the barn door to his right, he could see his men waiting in reserve, out of sight of the door to the adobe. Skeeter was petting the dog. He turned left, toward the adobe stronghold, and began shouting.
“Jack Brennan! Come out here, Jack! I want a word with you!” He waited. The door creaked open.
“Git your sorry ass out here, Jack!” For once in his life, he didn’t have to hold his temper. He used it. “I want to talk to you about Skeeter! And about you bustin’ my nose, you son of a bitch!”
Now the crack in the doorway widened, and John Rafferty, alias Jack Brennan, stepped out, buckling his gun belt on. He smiled as he eased farther out, seeing no one but Hank in the yard. “I figured you’d break out of your own jail quick enough.”
“Jack, what’s this nonsense you’ve been fillin’ Skeeter’s head with?” He waited and watched as Rafferty moved out into the open, followed by eight armed men, the last one staggering and rubbing his eyes as if he had just woken up.
“Why, Hank, I have no idea what the hell you’re talkin’ about. But I’ll guarantee you one thing. You made a big mistake showin’ up here a-hollerin’ at my door. No man speaks to me in that tone of voice.”
Hank smiled. “Sorry, Jack. I mean, John. It is John Rafferty, isn’t it?” He glanced into the barn just long enough to signal Kenyon with a toss of his head. The men came out of the barn as a group, facing off at fifteen paces with the Double Horn outlaws.
The smile slipped from Rafferty’s face. “You sons of bitches ain’t got nothin’ on me.”
“To the contrary,” Kenyon said, “we have plenty of evidence to convict you of numerous crimes. Including the murders of Wes James and Policarpo Losoya. And that of Jim Kenyon, my father.”
Rafferty scoffed.
“It’s true,” Hank added. “We can link you with the Rafter T brand. That proves you’re John Rafferty, and we all know that John Rafferty has done a mess of killin’ over the years.” He paused to watch the reality register on Rafferty’s face. “Now, if you’ll come with us peacefully, and plead guilty to your crimes, I give you my word that I’ll ask the judge to sentence you to life instead of the gallows. It wasn’t your fault you were captured by Comanches all those years ago.”
Rafferty’s men kept their eyes darting between their outlaw boss and the posse come to collect him. Rafferty himself hadn’t budged. He just glared at Hank Tomlinson.
“You chickenshit,” he finally growled. “You could have saved me, and you quit.”
Hank shook his head. He knew exactly where Rafferty’s mind was: on a sunny summer day, some three decades past. “I never quit, John. None of us did. Our horses just gave out. We couldn’t keep up.”
Rafferty shook his head. “You left me with the same murderin’ savages who killed my whole family in front of my eyes. I had no choice but join ’em, so I did. And I dreamed of killin’ you and those other three for givin’ up on me. Three out of four ain’t bad, but I’ve been waitin’ for years to finish the job.”
“Waitin’ for me to raise Skeeter?”
Rafferty nodded. “My mistake, I guess. Looks like he abandoned me quicker than you did.”
“One thing I don’t get,” Hank said. “The Comanches adopted you. You were a Comanche. What happened? When did you become an Indian hater?”
“It was after that shoot-out that you and me had. I hit you with an arrow, and you gut-shot me. I got back to my Indian camp alive, but it took me a long time to heal. I wasn’t right for a year or more. Then, one day, I came down with the smallpox of all the damned things, and those Indians abandoned me. Left me to die of the fever. Some Mexican goat herders found me, and saved my life.”
“That’s it? That’s why you risked stirrin’ up an Indian war along the whole frontier?”
“You haven’t heard it all. I took up with a Mexican girl from that family that nursed me back to health. She didn’t seem to care that I’d lived like a wild, murderin’ savage, and I guess I loved that little ol’ gal for that. But one day while I was out stalkin’ game, the Comanches raided and carried her off. I went hunting for her—and huntin’ Indians. I kil
led some Indians, but I never found her.”
“So, you figured you could get even with everybody who wronged you. You figured you could steal my cattle, kill anybody that got in your way, pin the blame on me for the murders, and get the Comanches run out of Texas once and for all in the process.”
Rafferty shrugged. “Seemed like a fine plan to me. Except, I didn’t want you to hang. I wanted to fill you full of arrows and scalp you myself.”
“Well, I’ve got to hand it to you, John, it almost worked. But it’s over now. The best thing for you to do is lay your guns down, and tell your men to do the same. Let’s not get any of these boys hurt. No need to shoot it out over a lost cause.”
“Oh, we’re gonna shoot it out, Hank. That long hair of yours will make a dandy addition to my collection.” An expression of bemused surprise—one that seemed to have no explanation—appeared on Rafferty’s face. “But, right now, I’m afraid all that is gonna have to wait.”
“Wait?” Hank said, almost out of patience. “For what?”
“Look over your shoulder.” Rafferty began laughing. “Go ahead, look.”
Something had come over Rafferty’s men. Their eyes were no longer focused on the posse, but looking beyond. If they were playing along with their boss, they were doing a damn fine job.
Still, Hank wasn’t about to take his eyes off of Rafferty. “Matt?” he said.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Kenyon turn.
“Glory be to God,” Matt Kenyon said in a tone of voice a man might use but once in a lifetime.
An arrow flew by Hank’s ear and stuck in the dirt between the posse and the outlaw gang, followed by the war cries of a hundred Comanches. Still, Hank did not take his eyes from Rafferty’s smiling face.
“Get in the barn!” Hank said, backing away, watching Rafferty.
“To the house, boys!” ordered Rafferty, though four men had already run there for cover. He, too, had his eyes glued to his rival. Just before he backed into the door, Rafferty drew his Colt. Hank mirrored the move and splinters leapt into both men from shattered barn wood and door framing. Hank stayed at the door just long enough to look west at the attackers. He almost smiled. A line of horses thundered toward the ranch buildings—horses of all colors, ridden by warriors bedecked in all manner of nature’s finery. Lance points jutted skyward, arrows arched with speed almost too fast to follow, white puffs of smoke preceded reports that followed. And all along the line, as if the warriors carried the charm of eagle spirits, feathers fluttered in such a way that they made a man dizzy.
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