Lone Star Ranger #3

by James J. Griffin

  “I’m just waitin’ on you, Hoot,” Nate answered.

  “Where are you two headed first?” Jeb Rollins asked.

  “I don’t rightly know,” Hoot answered, “But it’ll be some place where we can get a good meal. After that, we’ll take things as they come. But we’ve got money to spend, and I plan on doin’ just that.”

  While Nate and Hoot had left most of the reward money they’d earned for capturing the men who held up the San Saba bank on deposit, they had each kept a hundred dollars out to use as needed.

  “Hoot, first we’ve got to find a general store, and mebbe a gunsmith,” Nate said. “I need to buy a new rifle to replace mine. Phil also says I need a pair of leather gloves. And, I need some spare duds to replace the ones ruined by that lightning bolt.”

  “You mind if I come along with you two?” Jeb asked. “I’ve got to pick up some new shirts and socks myself. Nate, there might be a couple of other things you’ll need that I’ll think of, too.”

  “That’d be fine, Jeb,” Nate agreed. “I’d like to have you along to help me pick out a rifle. I still don’t know all that much about ’em.”

  “You know which end is which, and how to hit what you’re aimin’ at,” Hoot said.

  “That was more luck than anythin’ else,” Nate answered. “I still haven’t had the chance to practice with a rifle all that much. Let’s start walkin’.”

  Throughout the existence of the Texas Rangers, men in their ranks had come from all walks of life. Surveyors, lawyers, physicians and surgeons, teachers, merchants and shopkeepers, even clergymen had, over the years, been members of the organization.

  The Rangers had included, at one time or another, Indians, Mexicans and other men of Spanish descent, and men who had immigrated from most of the countries of Europe. There were men of all faiths, Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish. While most Rangers were young, and single, quite a few were married men with families, and ranged in age up into their sixties.

  In Captain Quincy’s company, Dan Morton had been a store clerk prior to joining up, and Ken Demarest a railroad conductor. Joe Duffy had ridden shotgun guard for the Butterfield stagecoach line.

  However, as held true for the Rangers as a whole, the majority of his men had been cowboys and ranch hands before signing on as Rangers. And, like all cowboys, they hated to walk. Even if traveling only a block, a cowboy would prefer to saddle, bridle, and ride his horse, rather than going on foot.

  However, as much as the Rangers hated to walk, they realized a good night’s rest, along with a good feed, was crucial for their horses. For the long trek ahead, the animals would be relying solely on the scant grazing and little water available in arid west Texas, until they reached Fort Stockton. So, walk from the stable to town they did. They grumbled, but they walked.

  Jeb pointed to a large, carved wooden sign of a revolver hanging over a storefront just ahead. Under it was a smaller sign, proclaiming, “Dale Ferguson, Guns Bought, Sold, and Traded. Repairs of all makes and models.”

  “There’s your gunsmith, Nate,” he said. “We might as well stop there first.”

  “About time,” Hoot said. “My feet are killin’ me.”

  “We’ve only gone five blocks,” Nate pointed out.

  “Mebbe so, but Texas sure ain’t like back East, where you probably walked all over the place, Nate,” Hoot answered. “Here, we ride our horses. That’s why God gave ’em four feet, and us only two. It’s the horses that are supposed to walk, not us.”

  Nate laughed as they climbed the stairs and went into the shop. It held an array of weapons, in glass cases, on countertops, and in racks along the walls.

  A man was seated at a table behind the far back counter. He had a green eyeshade on his head, and a jeweler’s loupe fixed over his left eye. On the table was a disassembled pistol.

  “I’ll be with you in just a moment,” he said, putting down the small screwdriver he held. He removed the loupe, shoved back the eyeshade, and stood up.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “I’m Dale Ferguson, the owner of this shop. What can I do for you gents?”

  Ferguson was in his mid-fifties, with graying hair and light blue eyes. He held out his hand.

  “Jeb Rollins.” He and Ferguson shook hands. “My pards are Hoot Harrison and Nate Stewart. Nate’s the one shoppin’ for a weapon.”

  Ferguson shook hands with Nate and Hoot, in turn.

  “Well, I’m certain I can provide what you need,” he said to Nate. “What, in particular, are you searching for?”

  “I need to buy a rifle. Mine got blown up when it got hit by lightning.”

  “Shocking,” Ferguson said, with a chuckle. “I hope you didn’t get too big a charge out of that.”

  “Mister, I’d be careful about keepin’ tellin’ awful jokes like that with all these weapons around here,” Jeb advised, also laughing. “Someone’s liable to gut-shoot you one of these days if you do.”

  “Indeed,” Ferguson said. “You probably have a point. Now, down to business. Did you have any particular model in mind, son?”

  “Not really,” Nate said.

  “We’re Texas Rangers, on our way to the Big Bend,” Jeb explained. “Nate’ll need a good, reliable gun. One that can take a beatin’ and keep workin’, without the loadin’ chamber jammin’ or the firin’ pin breakin’.”

  “Ah, then I would recommended the Winchester Model 1866.” Ferguson took a rifle off the rack behind him and handed it to Nate. “That’s a fine weapon, tested over the past few years. It’s a real rugged gun. It’s also called the Yellowboy, due to the color of the metal forming its receiving chamber. The 1866 is a great improvement over its predecessor, the Henry. As you can see, it’s a lever action repeater.

  “Nate, I notice you’re wearing a Smith and Wesson American, chambered for .44 Henry rimfire cartridges. The Model 1866 takes the same ammunition, so you won’t need to purchase two different calibers of bullets if you buy one of those. How does the balance feel?”

  “That’s the same rifle most of us Rangers carry, Nate,” Jeb added.

  “Winchester did come out with an updated version, the Model 1873, some time back,” Ferguson said. “It’s supposed to be even tougher than the Yellowboy. However, the 1873s are still almost impossible to come by. I’ve managed to get my hands on two of them, and they both sold immediately. I don’t know when I’ll be able to get any more.

  “I can tell you that the 1873 costs quite a bit more than the 1866 you’re holding. If I were you, I’d go with that rifle. The design is proven, and I’m certain you’ll get years of reliable service from that weapon.”

  “You don’t need to sell me on this Winchester, Mr. Ferguson,” Nate said. “It’s the same model my brother had, before he got killed. In fact, it was his rifle I was usin’ when I got hit by that lightning bolt. I was about to put a bullet in the back of the man who murdered him, and my parents. He’s still on the loose. I’ll take this rifle, and when I track down that son of Satan, I’ll use it to put a bullet through his guts.”

  “I’m sorry, son,” Ferguson said.

  “That hombre’s gang has killed a lot of other innocent folks, as well as six of our Ranger pards,” Hoot added. “They’ll have a lot to answer for when we finally do catch up with ’em.”

  “I can imagine they will,” Ferguson said. “Nate, that rifle usually sells for fifty dollars. Since you’re a Ranger, I can provide you the twenty per cent discount I offer to all lawmen who purchase a gun from me. That means your cost would be forty dollars. I realize it’s a bit steep, but you’ll have a good, reliable weapon.”

  “I’ll take it, along with a box of cartridges,” Nate answered.

  “We have plenty of shells in our supplies, Nate. Don’t forget, the state provides those. Texas don’t provide anythin’ else, except our grub, but she does pay for our bullets. What you do need is gun cleaning supplies, and some gun oil,” Jeb advised.

  Nate had learned, since being taken on as
a provisional Ranger, exactly how low-paying the job was. Ranger privates received only thirty dollars a month and found; found meaning their food. And out of that thirty dollars, they had to pay for all their supplies, including weapons, clothes, tack, blankets, and provide their own horse, which had to be worth at least a hundred dollars.

  The state would reimburse a man if his horse got killed or crippled, but other than that, all expenses above and beyond food and ammunition were the responsibility of the men. It was no wonder recruits were hard to find, and even harder to keep. Risking their lives for less than a dollar a day, bad food, and spending weeks on end in the saddle hardly seemed worth it, to most men.

  “I know that,” Nate answered, “But I want to make sure I have extra. I will get the other stuff, though. And Mr. Ferguson, I still have the stock from my brother’s ruined gun. Somehow, it survived the lightning strike. If I brought that here, would you be able to switch them out?”

  “Not right away, I’m afraid. I’m already several days behind on my repair orders. That’s why I’m still here so late, trying to catch up.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Nate,” Jeb said. “All of us know how to take apart a gun and put it back together. That’s one of the lessons you still have to learn, how to clean your weapons. I’ll help you change stocks the first chance we get.”

  “Thanks, Jeb.” Nate reached into his pocket and took out several yellowbacks. Ferguson placed a box of cartridges on the counter. He also took a gun cleaning kit and small vial of gun oil from a shelf, and added these to Nate’s purchases.

  Ferguson took the money from Nate. “Sixty dollars, here. With your discount, it’s forty dollars for the rifle. Unfortunately, I can’t extend the discount to ammunition or supplies, so it will be another fifty cents for the bullets. The cleaning kit is a dollar, and the oil is forty cents. That makes the total forty-one dollars and ninety cents. Your change comes to eighteen dollars and ten cents. It’s been a real pleasure doing business with you.”

  Ferguson handed Nate the rifle, bullets, supplies, and his change.

  “You also, Mr. Ferguson. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And good luck to all of you. Vaya con Dios.”

  “Adios.”

  “Where to next, fellers?” Hoot asked, once they were back on the street.

  “There’s the store, right over there,” Jeb said. He pointed to a block-long structure, with a sign that read “Menardville Mercantile” stretching the length of the building. “I’d imagine they’ll have everything we need.”

  ****

  The threesome spent over an hour in the mercantile. By the time they were finished shopping, Nate had a complete new spare set of clothes, including a bright blue silk neckerchief, as well as two pairs of heavy, leather gloves.

  Remembering what Phil had told him, advice Jeb agreed with, he had also purchased chaps to protect his legs from the thorns and needles of the brush and cactus, along with an oilcloth slicker, which would provide protection from the infrequent, but heavy, Texas downpours.

  In addition to those that he had also bought a wax-coated bundle of lucifers, matches which were broken off, one at a time, for use. He also got several flints, which Jeb would show him how to use to start a fire without matches. The final items he purchased were a sketch pad, along with several charcoal pencils.

  They paused on the boardwalk in front of the store while pondering where to head next. Hoot and Jeb rolled and lit cigarettes.

  “Jeb, back at the bank in San Saba, you told Mr. Funston you didn’t smoke. So why are you smokin’ now?” Nate questioned.

  “I don’t smoke cigars. Can’t stand the smell of ’em,” Jeb explained. “But I didn’t want to hurt Funston’s feelin’s by refusin’ one of his. It was just easier to tell him I didn’t smoke at all. Listen, if you boys don’t need me any longer, I see Joe and Ken goin’ into the Rooster Tail Saloon down there. I’m gonna join them, long as it’s all right with you.”

  “No, that’ll be okay, Jeb,” Hoot said.

  “It’s fine with me. Thanks for all your help,” Nate added.

  “Don’t mention it,” Jeb said. “See you back in camp.”

  “Where do you want to go, Nate?” Hoot asked, as they watched Jeb saunter his way down the road.

  “The closest place we can find some food,” Nate answered. “We’ve put off eatin’ long enough. I’m plumb starved.”

  “Boy howdy, I’ve gotta go along with you there, pardner,” Hoot said. “It’s been so long since I ate my gut’s sunk in so much my belly button is pushin’ up against my backbone. Looks like there’s a couple restaurants just up the street. We’ll pick the one which seems most likely. All right?”

  “As long as the food’s good and hot, and there’s plenty of it, it doesn’t matter to me where we eat,” Nate replied. “Let’s just find a place.”

  He and Hoot started toward the town’s main plaza, which was fronted by the Menardville Hotel and the newly constructed, two-story Menard County Courthouse.

  “Boy, somethin’ sure smells good, Hoot,” Nate said. “Makes my mouth water.”

  “It must be comin’ from that place across the street, just ahead,” Hoot answered. He indicated a small building, marked by a sign which read “Chuck’s Chuck” in huge red letters. “Let’s try it.”

  He and Nate headed for the little café. They paused to read the lettering painted on its two plate glass windows:

  “You’ll have good luck if you try Chuck’s chuck.”

  “Spend a buck for real good chuck.”

  “Tuck into Chuck’s Chuck’s famous roast duck.”

  And finally, “Don’t get stuck. Eat Chuck’s chuck.”

  “Well, this hombre has a sense of humor, at least,” Hoot said.

  “Yeah, but not much of one, and he’s a real lousy poet,” Nate answered. “Let’s hope his food is better’n his rhymes.”

  “Well, the grub does smell real good,” Hoot said. “Let’s take a chance.” He pushed open the door and stepped inside, Nate following.

  With so many cowboys in town, the place was crowded, but there were still a few seats left. Hoot chose a table in the far back corner. The café was neatly decorated, the tables covered with blue-checked cloths and matching napkins. Flowers in clear glass vases were placed in the center of each table, as well as along the counter. Blue willow patterned plates and various knick-knacks were arranged on shelves. Currier and Ives prints hung on the walls.

  “Be right with you fellers,” the man behind the counter said.

  “We’re in no hurry,” Hoot called back, as he settled into a chair. Nate took the one opposite.

  “Another lesson for you here, Nate,” he said. “There was another empty table, and a couple of empty stools at the counter. Why do you suppose I chose this one?”

  “I dunno,” Nate admitted. “It’s closer to the kitchen, so we can get our grub faster?”

  “That’s a good guess, but not exactly,” Hoot answered. “You ain’t been a Ranger long enough to know this yet, but we make a lot of enemies.”

  “Tell me somethin’ I don’t already know,” Nate said. “I figured that out when we got ambushed.”

  “All right. You never know when a man you had sent to jail for a long time might’ve gotten out, and is lookin’ for revenge. Or, some renegade who’s on the Ranger Fugitive List spots you before you spot him.”

  “The Ranger Fugitive List? What’s that?” Nate asked.

  “It’s a small leather bound book, which contains pages with names and descriptions of men wanted by the Rangers. Every man is supposed to carry one, but right now, Cap’n Dave and Lieutenant Bob have the only copies in our company. If you get a chance to look at one of their copies it’d be a good idea.

  “You should try to memorize as much information from the book as you can. We always like to see a page removed from the Fugitive List. It means that man’s either been captured, or is dead.

  “But, you’ve got to worry about mor
e than just the men on that list, Nate. There’s always some hombre who just plain don’t like lawmen, or wants to make a name for himself by killin’ a Ranger. Say he sees you through the window. He’d put a bullet in your back before you even knew what hit you. So, you always want to choose a table against the back wall, with no doors or windows behind you. And you always take a chair that’s facin’ out. That way, you can see anyone who comes in, and they can’t take you by surprise. And with no door or window at your back, you won’t catch a bushwhack bullet.

  “In fact, you might want to switch chairs right now, pard. Where you’re sittin’, your back makes a nice, big target for any renegade who comes through that door.”

  “I see what you’re gettin’ at, Hoot.” Nate shifted his chair to the left side of the table, where he had a good view of the entire room.

  “Just don’t forget it,” Hoot said. “Of course, sometimes you’ve got no choice but to take another place; but whenever you can, sit where you can see everythin’ that’s goin’ on, and where nobody can get behind you.

  “And if you’re standin’ at the bar in a saloon, make certain to check the back bar mirror every time someone comes through the batwings. You’ll stay alive a lot longer that way.”

  The man from behind the counter approached, brandishing a full pot of coffee, along with two cups and saucers.

  “Howdy, fellers,” he said. “I’m Chuck. I figured you might want to start off with coffee. Most folks do. And I’m sorry if service is a bit slow. Martha, my waitress, twisted her ankle and had to go home early, to rest it. So I’m both cookin’ and servin’ tonight.”

  “The coffee sounds good,” Hoot answered. “And we’re in no hurry. I’m Hoot, and my pard, here’s, Nate. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Same here. Don’t mind all the geegaws and frillery around the place,” Chuck said, as he filled the cups to the brim, then placed the pot on the table. “That’s my wife’s doin’. I told her all you need to do is serve good grub, and plenty of it, at a fair price, and you don’t need to fancy up a place to bring in the customers. But, she insisted I pretty things up to try and get some of the females in town to eat here, also. I get a few, but mostly my trade’s with cowboys, ranchers, and farmers. Now, are you ready to try your luck with Chuck’s chuck?”