Lone Star Ranger #3

by James J. Griffin

  “I’m makin’ in my affair,” Hoot said. “As far as the odds, they seem about right.”

  “That’s six of you, and two of us,” Nate added, as he, Matt, and Jonathan caught up to Hoot.

  “You need a hand, Hoot?” Matt asked. “Jonathan and me are sure willin’ to help out. One thing neither of us can stand is a man mistreatin’ a female.”

  “Please, don’t start trouble on our account,” the younger woman pleaded. “I don’t want to see anyone get hurt.”

  “It ain’t no trouble at all to teach yella-bellied skunks like these how to treat a lady,” Hoot said.

  “Why, you sorry son of a…” With an oath, the first cowboy swung at Hoot’s jaw. Hoot ducked the blow, shot a quick right to the cowboy’s gut, then was staggered by a punch to his kidneys from one of the man’s companions. He went down in a heap, and two men dove after him. They landed in a tangle of arms, legs, and fists.

  Two of the other men went after Nate, while each of the remaining two turned on Matt and Jonathan. Matt took a blow directly to his mouth, one to his jaw, another to his stomach, then shot a right to his adversary’s nose, crushing it, and bringing forth a stream of blood. He followed that with another punch to the man’s left eye, then a return shot to his belly doubled Matt up.

  He wrapped his arms around the man’s waist and drove him back against a hitch rail. They tumbled over that and onto the boardwalk.

  While Matt had his hands full, Jonathan had already knocked his attacker to the road, with three quick punches to his face. Flat on his back, Jonathan’s opponent grabbed the young cowboy’s ankle and jerked him off his feet. Jonathan landed on top of him, and they rolled over and over in the dirt, flailing away at each other.

  Nate ducked the first punch aimed at him, slammed a fist hard into one cowboy’s belly, and when the man jackknifed drove a knee into his chin. Stunned, the man fell to his face.

  The other cowboy who’d gone after Nate hit him in the jaw with a strong left. When Nate staggered back from the impact, he tried to hit Nate in the belly with a hard right. Nate parried the blow, hit the cowboy in the chest, then his chin.

  The cowboy countered with two punches of his own, to Nate’s left eye and cheek. He tried for Nate’s gut again, only to be hit in his own middle by Nate’s left fist.

  By now, the other man had gotten back up, and he shot a hard right to Nate’s ribs. Nate whirled and kneed him in the groin. Howling with pain, the man dropped to his knees. His partner grabbed Nate’s shoulder, spun him around, and hit him hard in the middle of his chest. The blow knocked Nate backward into Hoot, who had regained his feet, along with the two men fighting him.

  Nate and Hoot fought back to back, trading punches with the four cowboys, blow for blow.

  All of them were bloodied and battered now, straining for breath as the punches took their toll. Hoot knocked one man out with a final, vicious punch to the point of his chin. He turned and grinned at Nate, took a punch to his face, then another to his belly. When he jackknifed, he fell straight into a fierce uppercut to his jaw. The blow straightened him up. He staggered back against Nate once again, and when his attacker closed in for the kill, managed to hit him in the throat before he could throw the finishing punch.

  Gagging, the cowboy dropped. Hoot kicked him in the belly, then brought his fist down, hard, on the top of his head. He pitched to his face, out cold, all the air gone from his lungs.

  Nate had finished off one man with a combination of lefts and rights to the face. He grinned for a minute, as he thought he’d learned his lesson from Jeb, on how to protect his middle, well. Despite the many punches aimed at his belly, not one had landed. He’d managed to block, slide off, or parry them all.

  No sooner had Nate thought this than he relaxed his guard, for just a few seconds. Seeing an opening, the other cowboy still standing drove a ferocious punch to the pit of Nate’s stomach. Nate folded as the blow knocked him halfway across the street. He landed on his back, rolled over twice, and lay staring up at the sky, struggling to breath. His opponent stood over him, fists clenched, with a wicked grin on his face.

  “I’ve got’cha now, sonny boy,” the cowboy sneered. He grabbed Nate’s shirtfront and pulled him upright, then drew back his arm, preparing to drive a killing punch to the point of Nate’s chin.

  Matt and Jonathan had dispatched their opponents, who were both sprawled in the dust, unconscious. Seeing Nate about to have his face smashed in, they raced to his aid.

  Before the cowboy’s blow could land, Matt hit him in the back, just above his belt. The cowboy arched in pain, his muscles spasming. Matt spun him around and hit him in the gut, folding him into a right to the jaw from Jonathan. The man dropped like a rock.

  The four young men stood, hunched over, blood dripping from their mouths, noses, and chins, as they struggled to draw air into their lungs.

  “You all right, Nate?” Hoot asked.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” Nate answered. He glanced at Matt and Jonathan. “How about you two?”

  “I’m fine,” Jonathan said. “I’ve just gotta take a minute and catch my breath. Matt?”

  “I’ll be okay, pardner,” Matt answered. His lips were split open and swollen. He spit out a mouthful of blood, rubbed his jaw, then waggled it, speculatively. “Everythin’ seems to be workin’. Didn’t break no teeth, either. Good thing. Last thing my pa warned me, before I left home to sign on with the drive, was don’t let anythin’ happen to my teeth. He’d never let me live it down if anythin’ did.”

  “Not to mention he’d have you in his chair and the drill in your mouth soon as he saw you,” Jonathan said, with a slight laugh.

  Nate waved at the six cowboys lying sprawled senseless in the dirt.

  “Well, at least we’re in better shape than they are,” he said, with a chuckle.

  “Yeah, but we might not be for long,” Hoot answered. “Here comes the marshal. We could be in trouble.”

  “We could be in even worse trouble,” Nate said. “I see Cap’n Dan and Lieutenant Bob comin’ right behind him.”

  Menardville’s town marshal, Harry Jones, rushed up. He pushed his way through the crowd which had gathered to watch the brawl. He carried a double-barreled shotgun, which he leveled at the four boys.

  “What the devil happened here?” he demanded.

  “Lemme handle this,” Hoot said. “Marshal, me’n Nate are Texas Rangers. Those hombres lyin’ there were tryin’ to force two women to do somethin’ against their will. When we tried to help the ladies, they started a fight.”

  “That’s right, Marshal,” Nate added. “They didn’t leave us any choice.”

  Captain Quincy and Lieutenant Berkeley had reached Jones’ side. They nodded to him.

  “What seems to be the problem here, Marshal?” Quincy asked.

  “I’m tryin’ to get to the bottom of it, Captain,” Jones answered. “These here boys yours?”

  “Two of ’em are,” Quincy confirmed. “The gangly-looking ones to the left, there.”

  “Well, that confirms part of their story, anyway. They said they were Rangers. They claim those hombres lyin’ all over the place, out cold it seems like, attempted to molest a couple of women, and that the fight started when they tried to step in and help the ladies.”

  “That’s the truth, Marshal,” the older of the two women who had been the target of the cowboys’ unwanted attentions declared. “Those ruffians tried to make us go with them, to dance and…and, well, who knows what else they would have wanted. One of them even forced a kiss on me. Right here in the middle of the street, with everyone watching. It made me feel so dirty.” She screwed up her face in distaste. “Heaven only knows what might have happened to us if these boys hadn’t stepped in to help.”

  “Why didn’t you say so sooner, Bessie Lou Maynard?” Jones asked. “Do your ma and pa know you and your sister are out, all by yourselves? And you and Jeannie know better than to be out and about on the streets when there are trail herders in
town. Cowboys can be mighty rough. Both of you were just askin’ for trouble.”

  “You didn’t give me the chance to get a word in, Marshal,” she answered. “And how dare you tell me my sister and I can’t go to the store, or take a stroll down the street if we like, when there are cowboys in town? Instead of telling us to stay home, as if we were captives, you should do your job, and make the streets safe for decent people to walk. It’s not right we should be kept prisoners in our own homes, just because this town allows men to drink, gamble, and do all sorts of other vices to excess, just for the money their evil habits bring in.”

  “Men have the right to enjoy themselves, Bessie Lou,” Jones answered.

  “That’s right, they do, Marshal,” Jeannie spoke up. “I don’t have any objection to men having some drinks, doing some gambling, or even…well, as a decent woman I can’t say what else, but we all know what goes on at Sonora Sadie’s so-called boarding house. Neither does my sister, nor our parents. However, that doesn’t give them the right to terrorize decent citizens, who are minding their own business.”

  “Fine, fine. You ladies have made your point,” Jones said. “Captain, since the Maynard sisters confirmed your men’s version of what happened, they’re free to go. However, I’d advise you to take ’em back to your camp, and keep ’em there until you leave town. That goes for their friends, too. I don’t want to see any of ’em in my town again. Reckon we’d better try to rouse these other fellers. Somebody get a bucket of water. Anybody know who they are?”

  “They were in my place drinkin’, Harry,” Burt Hawkins, owner of the Tired Drover Saloon, spoke up. “Said they were with the Double T outfit.”

  “That’s the one which has their herd bedded down just south of town,” Jones said. He turned to one of the bystanders. “Jack, see if the Double T’s head honcho is in town anywhere. If not, ride down to where they’re camped, and let him know I’ll be holdin’ six of his men overnight. I’ll turn them loose first thing in the mornin’, that is, unless you or your sister want to press charges, Bessie Lou.”

  “No, we don’t want to go through all that,” Bessie Lou answered. “As long as those men are out of town by morning, that will be sufficient. Jeannie and I would just like to forget this whole unfortunate incident.” She turned to the four young men. “And we thank you boys for coming to our rescue. I shudder to think what dreadful things might have happened to us if you hadn’t.”

  “We were just doin’ our jobs, ma’am,” Hoot said.

  “Nonetheless, you were all very gallant, and we’re most grateful.”

  “Hoot, Nate, let’s get goin’,” Quincy ordered. He turned to Jones.

  “Marshal, I’m doing as you requested, for tonight. However, let me point out to you that Hoot and Nate are sworn members of the Texas Rangers. The Rangers’ authority, and therefore Hoot and Nate’s, supersedes all local and county peace officers’ authority. If they decide they need, or want, to return, you will allow them to do so. Understood?”

  “Clear as crystal, Captain,” Jones answered. The tone of his voice and set of his jaw clearly indicated he wasn’t happy with the Captain’s statement.

  “Good. We’ll take our leave now,” Quincy said.

  “Just one minute, Cap’n,” Nate said. “Gotta retrieve our packages.” He hurried over to where they had left the sacks of doughnuts, along with Nate’s other purchases—including his new rifle—picked them up, and rejoined the others. They began their walk to the edge of town.

  “Can’t leave these behind,” he said. “Hoot and I bought doughnuts for all the men. And I’m sure not gonna forget my new duds and Winchester.”

  “Fresh doughnuts?” Bob said. “Heck, you could raise all sorts of Cain and not get in trouble, long as you brought back fresh doughnuts.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t quite go that far, but I’m certain the rest of the boys will appreciate those doughnuts,” Quincy said. “By the way, who are your two friends?”

  “I’m Matt Geyda, and my pard’s Jonathan Mulero. We’re with the Box QL spread, drivin’ a herd north to Kansas,” Matt answered.

  “Well, I thank you for givin’ my men some assistance,” Quincy said. “It’s appreciated.”

  “Por nada,” Jonathan answered. “Like Hoot explained to the marshal, we couldn’t let those hombres manhandle those ladies, without tryin’ to stop ’em. It’s gonna be kinda hard to explain to the rest of the men where we got all these cuts and bruises, though.” He rubbed a huge lump rising on his jaw.

  “At least I kept all my teeth,” Matt repeated.

  “Matt’s pa’s a dentist,” Nate explained. “He’s afraid if he busts any teeth his dad will bust his butt to go along with ’em.”

  “Well, once you boys are a bit older, if you’d consider joining up with the Rangers, we’d be glad to have you,” Quincy said.

  “I dunno. Once I settle down, my pa expects me to follow in his footsteps, become a dentist like him, and help with the business. But chasin’ outlaws sure seems a lot more excitin’,” Matt said.

  Quincy nodded at Hoot and Nate. “Reckon y’all did exactly what Rangers are supposed to do. Matt, Jonathan, if you come back to camp with us I’ll have Jim, our company’s medico, fix up your hurts before you head back to your outfit.”

  “That sounds fine, Captain. Muchas gracias,” Matt answered.

  “Good. We’ll be there in a few minutes. Nate, Hoot, once Jim patches you two up I suggest the both of you hit your blankets. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us tomorrow, and you’re both gonna be real stiff and sore. Some extra rest will help; at least, a bit.”

  “That sounds good to me, Cap’n,” Nate said.

  “Same here,” Hoot added.

  “Excellent. I think you’ve both done enough for one night. Bob and I are pretty tired, too. In fact, we were headed back to camp until we heard of the little ruckus you two stirred up,” Quincy said. “It’s high time we all turned in.”

  3

  Over the past few weeks, Nate had learned about the dangers of being a Texas Ranger, albeit a probationary one, and the excitement of a Ranger’s life. What he hadn’t yet experienced was the drudgery of a long, hard trail ride.

  He was certainly learning that now. It had been three days since the Rangers had left Menardville, three excruciatingly boring days of their horses trudging over the mainly flat and featureless west Texas plains, and they were still more than three days out of Fort Stockton.

  Once the San Saba River, which at this point had shrunk to little more than a good sized creek, veered away from the trail, the trek became truly monotonous. True, there were the occasional arroyos, draws, and washes cut into the landscape, and every so often a distant low hill, or flat-topped mesa would pierce the horizon, but for the most part the land was almost table-top level.

  The vegetation was also changing the further West the Rangers progressed. Since they’d left the river behind, trees, which had been few enough in number as it were, virtually disappeared. There were infrequent stands of redberry junipers, some clusters of mesquite grown the size of small trees, and the rare cottonwood, stunted cypress, or pin oak, struggling for life where it had sunk its roots deep, searching for water.

  But for the most part, the land’s covering was tough grasses, now burned to straw by the heat of summer, and thorny scrub and cactus.

  The Rangers’ routine was the same each day. Awaken an hour before the sun rose, take care of necessary business and wash up, as best they could, then have a quick breakfast of bacon, beans, and biscuits.

  As soon as the meal was finished, camp would be broken, the supplies loaded on the pack mules and in George’s wagon. The horses and mules would be brushed and checked for injury or lameness, their feet cleaned out. Then, the horses would be saddled and bridled, two of the mules harnessed to the chuck wagon.

  Before the sun was twenty minutes over the eastern horizon, still gilding the morning mist in soft shades of pink, yellow, orange, and rose, the men would be in the
saddle and on the move once again.

  There would be one or two brief stops to rest the animals; then, around noon, a slightly longer one, when the men would gulp down a quick midday dinner of jerky and hardtack, washed down with tepid water from their canteens. After that short rest, they would head out once again.

  There would be one more final, brief stop at mid-afternoon, and then the journey would be resumed. The Rangers would keep traveling until the sun almost touched the western horizon as it set.

  At that point, they would find a likely spot to camp for the night. Horses and mules would be cared for before the men saw to their own needs, since their very lives might depend on those animals. A schedule would be set for the sentries, and for the nighthawks who would watch the remuda.

  After supper, again consisting of bacon, beans, and biscuits, the men would either relax for a short while over cigarettes and final cups of coffee, or would roll out their blankets, pull off their boots and gunbelts, and crawl under the covers, the inky black night sky, stars, and moon for their ceiling, with their saddles for their pillows, and soon fall asleep.

  Unless it threatened rain, the tents would remain rolled up, the cots packed away, until the Rangers reached their final destination. The next morning, an hour before sunup, the routine would begin all over again.

  Nate was more tired than he had ever been in his life, and had aches in muscles he had never even realized existed. Nonetheless, he never let on how much he was hurting. He’d die before he showed any hint he couldn’t keep up with the other Rangers.

  This third night out of Menardville, they had come across a small cienga, a seep which issued from the base of a low hill. Although it was still an hour before sundown, with a source of sweet water, small though it was, Captain Quincy decided to call an early halt for the night.

  After sending Percy Leaping Buck and Hank Glynn to make sure no outlaws or renegade Indians were lying in ambush, they made camp.

  Phil Knight wandered up to where Nate was grooming Big Red.