The Avenging Angels

by Michael Dukes

  Hubbard had informed Stringer and Leduc that they couldn’t have come more highly recommended. Their names had been touted by Major John B. Jones himself, who was ten years younger than Stringer but a trusted friend, and, coming from such a source, Hubbard said he felt as sure as the Second Coming that no one else could handle the job better than they.

  A telegram had come in that very morning from Allan Pinkerton, the renowned founder of the detective agency that bore his name. They had been in communication for some time, these two important men, and the telegram informed the governor that Pinkerton was sending two of his best agents “out West” to lend a hand in the operation, an offer that was only too welcome.

  The telegram stated that the Pinkertons would be arriving in Austin tomorrow, on the noon stage. They were to meet Stringer and Leduc at Smith’s Hotel at the corner of Sixth and Congress, and from Austin, they would head out. The guns of the outlaws had been silent since their last big haul, and the word from Refuge, Texas, was that they stopped there for a short time before riding southwest, presumably to their headquarters somewhere in the broken ridges of the Big Bend.

  That, then, was the path the lawmen would trace.

  Marshal Liddell of Refuge had wired Austin with this information. Apparently, Kings and his men had kept hands in pockets and guns in holsters for the majority of their stay and would likely have passed through unnoticed had it not been for a brief and bloody shooting scrape on their way out. Liddell’s details were sketchy, but the gist of it was that a local saloon owner had fired upon one of the gang with a double-barreled shotgun. Liddell had not informed them of any motive, but the saloon man had been wounded, shot twice by none other than Kings himself.

  Leduc was presently shoveling potatoes, steak, and black beans past his teeth with exuberance. He did not once look up at the captain, knowing the time to talk would come. That’s how it was with Stringer—if he wanted to discuss something, he would open his mouth and start. If he didn’t, then a team of oxen couldn’t pull the words from him. The sergeant was happy to let Stringer mull for the time being and hailed the waitress for a refill.

  Dishes clattered in the kitchen, and a man at a nearby table roared with laughter.

  “Paul?”

  There it was. “Sir?”

  The waitress appeared, and Stringer kept his thoughts corralled until they had the table to themselves again.

  “The governor’s askin’ us to corner seven of the meanest, fightin’est, unreconstructed criminals there is. We’re only two Texas Rangers, and our ranks are stretched thin enough from here to the border. Two Pinkerton men straight off the train from Chicago, Paul, makes four, to tackle this assignment.”

  Stringer wagged his head as he drew the cigar from his vest pocket.

  “Four guns . . . ridin’ against seven,” he repeated. He popped a match head off his thumbnail and lit up. “We could mebbe look around and muster some extra hands, get a posse goin’. I guess the governor’s offer’d cover it, but, all things considered, I’d say the Spartans had better odds at Thermopylae.”

  Leduc took a minute to chew on that. “Well,” he said slowly, “I don’t know much about the Spartans at Thermopylae, but hell, Cap, ever since I’ve been a ranger under you, we’ve always bucked a stacked deck. I don’t see these odds as much better, but they ain’t much worse.”

  Stringer considered the glowing tip of his cigar. “Well, then,” he said with a shrug of sober resignation, “what are you gonna do with your half of that state reward?”

  The Pinkerton men stepped off the stage onto the streets of Austin a half hour late, the only passengers to have their bags tossed down from above by a bellhop who rushed from the lobby before the dust had a chance to settle.

  The rangers—well-rested after a rare night on feather beds—were reclining on the long, whitewashed bench on the hotel veranda, arguing as they had a dozen times about the pros and cons of the newer, lightweight, rimfire model of six-gun that Leduc preferred, versus those of the older, heavier, cap-and-ball model once favored by Stringer. Out of practicality, the captain had been forced to give up the Dragoon and now carried an unassuming 1875 Model Remington, blued and walnut-handled, which again put him at odds with Leduc, who wore a pearl-handled Colt with a nickel finish. Some arguments are never to be won, and Stringer decided this was one of them.

  It was he who first noticed the two new arrivals disembarking from the four-horse coach. The first was a somber-featured man of about forty years, just under six feet tall and stoutly built, with turkey-tracked blue eyes and a close-cropped beard. He was dressed like a dude, his checkered coat, waistcoat, and trousers rumpled and dusty from the long trip. To all appearances, here was a fish that had swum too far downriver, but the formality of his suit concealed two service wounds, and his coat was unbuttoned at the bottom for faster access to his side-arm.

  By contrast, his partner was short and slender with a dark coat-hanger mustache and a much younger face. Though his expression was vacant, his eyes carried a faint light of amusement as he took in his surroundings, as though he found it amazing that places like this still existed. He was dressed almost identically to the first man, though in pinstripes, and he did not appear to be heeled.

  Stringer stood to meet the pair as they started up the steps. The newcomers halted as their eyes came to rest on the ranger badge, and, though there was no need for him to ask, the captain did. “You the Pinkertons?”

  “That’s right,” the older of the two replied in an authoritative but strangely high voice. “You the rangers?”

  “That’s right.”

  “My name’s Mincey. This is my partner—”

  “Patrick Delaney,” the dark-haired Pinkerton offered, shedding his straight face for a disarming smile. “Pat, better known. How d’you do?”

  “Howdy. I’m Captain Stringer; this is Sergeant Leduc.”

  “Glad to meetcha both,” Mincey said. “Pat and I need to see to our rooms, but maybe you’d wanna wait for us in the lobby. We should be down directly, then we can get to work.”

  Stringer nodded and a short while later found himself and the others gathered around a table at the chili joint wherein he and Paul had taken supper the night before.

  Walter Mincey was an Illinois man, formerly a cooper, and had served briefly in a short-lived organization known as the Union Intelligence Service. After learning the tricks of the investigative trade from Pinkerton himself, Mincey assumed various roles, ranging from barroom Confederate sympathizer to uniformed soldier, collecting intelligence deep behind enemy lines. Following the surrender, he joined the newly formed agency of his now close friend, the aforementioned Pinkerton. Many years and some dozen assignments later, Mincey held the rank of senior agent.

  Delaney, the son of Irish immigrants, had been too young to serve in any military capacity but was, fortunately for him, born in the same city that served as Pinkerton headquarters. He had been in their employ for the last seven of his thirty years, seeing investigative action abroad in Missouri and Kansas. By nature, he was affable, the last one anybody would expect to wear the badge of a Pinkerton detective or carry a pistol in a shoulder holster. He knew how to wield the respect that came with both.

  Once their lunch had been set aside, the four lawmen talked through the day and into the evening, the rangers informing the Pinkertons as to whom they had been charged with apprehending. Each man realized that the fugitives were essentially the ultimate outlaw band—war veterans, hardened by years of living and fighting with cannons booming and bullets whizzing in their ears. They knew every canyon, arroyo, ravine, holler, nook, and cranny in which to hide, from the Mason-Dixon all the way to the Rocky Mountains. They were known to ride some of the best horses ever foaled, these so-called Avenging Angels, better than the average posseman could afford. Dozens had tried and dozens had failed to apprehend them. Tough lawmen went pale at the idea of pursuing the gang into the Big Bend, and even the small details of soldiers that patrolled the nei
ghboring area fought shy of the Chisos foothills.

  They were the very best at their trade, having stolen an estimated half-million dollars from the pocket of the U.S. government. It was an amount to rival any sum stolen by their peers, the now defunct James-Younger gang.

  Stringer was looked upon to assume command of the small bunch of lawmen, as he was not only an officer in the rangers, but a man who knew best what Kings was inclined to do, where he would be inclined to go. He suggested they ride west to Refuge, have a word with the local law, round up all the facts they could, and see if a posse could be rousted into saddling up with them.

  The four parted company around seven o’clock that night, the rangers bound for the general store, where they stocked up on supplies—not too light but not too heavy, either. They would be traveling hard and fast, and a pack mule or horse would only slow them down. Only the bare essentials were procured and added to the state tab.

  Simultaneously, the Chicago lawmen secured for themselves a pair of horses—a lineback dun for Mincey and a seal-brown mare for Delaney. They also purchased two cast-off saddles, paid the hostler with a check, then took a trip to the local armory. From a rack on the back wall Delaney and Mincey hefted Winchester carbines and signed over what was asked for them. And so, cradling these weapons, the detectives retired to the hotel for the last good night’s sleep they would have in a while.

  Before the morning sun broke, the rangers were met at the city limits by the Pinkertons, astride their new mounts. Wordlessly, the four horsemen strung out in a single file line—Stringer riding point, followed by Mincey, who was in turn followed by Delaney. Leduc brought up the rear.

  They rode west.

  Four men trooped through the front doors of a certain Refuge saloon, dusty from travel and with an air about them that narrowed their line of work to a handful of seedy options. Ned Spivey watched them head to the bar from a corner table. His bandaged left leg protruded to the side, propped on a chair and causing him no end of grief. His left hand was filled with a tall glass of local, and his right arm hung in a sling.

  The men—two whites, one who could have been a breed, and a john henry—leaned their rifles muzzle-up below the counter and ordered four drinks. The bartender poured three, hesitating when it came to the john henry. One quick look and a nod from Spivey filled the glass.

  He waited until the barkeep served them once more and until the last of them swallowed before clearing his throat. Raising his good arm, glass still in hand, Spivey called out, “Could I have a word, gents?”

  As one, the four turned to see who had hailed them. Only after they’d taken his measure, seeing he was virtually half a man, did they begin their approach.

  The first one was just below average in height and slight of build, but, even so, he gave the distinct impression of being the head man. Flanking him was the half-breed and the big, scar-faced tough-nut who looked like he could bring steers down by the horns. The john henry was positioned a little ways apart from his companions, hinting at a certain intolerance, that the only reason he put up with them was to have three extra guns on his side. Not that he looked like he needed them.

  They would do, he decided. They sure as hell would.

  “You Spivey?” the head man asked in a gravelly voice.

  “That’s right. You Wingate?”

  “That’s right.” He drew himself up, nodding to each of his men in turn. “These are my associates—Carver, Lightfoot, and Coleman.”

  “Telegram took long enough to find you fellas.”

  “Well, it found us.”

  “Uh-huh.Y’all come highly recommended.”

  “And who done the recommendin’?”

  “Friend of mine. Pete Hooker.”

  Wingate thought a moment. “Cardsharp outta Jacksboro?”

  “Fort Griffin.”

  Wingate grunted. “What can we do fer ye, Mr. Spivey?”

  The saloon man left Wingate’s question hanging for a moment. He took a drink, set the glass down, then flicked an ant from the tabletop. He stared up at them.

  “You can set down and tell me what you know of Gabriel Kings.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “Texas Rangers, eh?”

  Asa Liddell sat up and reached for the piece of paper held out by the big, gray-haired man who said his name was Stringer.

  It was late afternoon in Refuge, and Liddell had just returned from the Rancho Grande Saloon on A Street, where the monotony of the day had been shattered by the blast of a double-barreled shotgun. Warned he would be shot if he again spat tobacco juice on the gambling hall’s well-kept floors, a local nuisance and grifter had defied the bartender’s challenge and was cut down just as he was gathering spit.

  Liddell had dismissed the matter, viewing the act as a service to the community. As far as the marshal was concerned, the deceased had been deserving of such a disposal. He wondered, though, what had caused the rate of shootings to spike so drastically within the last month. First Ned Spivey’s scrape with the Kings gang, and now this.

  He had returned to his office and newspaper only a short while ago. Walked in at around four o’clock, and the men standing before him now had walked in at around four fifteen.

  “Texas Rangers, eh,” he repeated, but this time it was less of a question.

  “Yessir,” Stringer replied, “and these two fellas in the city hats are Pinkerton agents. The four of us’ve been given the authority to hunt the Kings gang to the ends of creation. We answer only to Governor Hubbard, and him to President Hayes, as that paper there says, and it’ll hold up in any court of law.”

  Liddell nodded. “It would seem so,” he said and handed back the commission that declared Stringer and his party, quite literally, all-powerful. The other ranger was leaning a shoulder against the north wall and staring at the marshal with expectant eyes. The Pinkertons stood by the door, somber-faced and silent, wearing rough and weathered frontiersmen’s coats and patterned trousers. The contrast was interesting, not just between their own mismatched wardrobes, but between the agents and their indigenous companions.

  At length, Liddell asked, “And what can I do for you, Captain?”

  The man’s reply was brusque. “Just answer a question or two, I reckon. The governor told us you sent him a telegram not too long ago, reporting a shootin’ here in town. Guess somebody got wounded pretty bad, and you think it might’ve been Kings started the trouble.”

  “Can’t say that he started it, but he sure as hell ended it. I believe there was some sort of quarrel existing between him and the man he shot. Man name of Ned Spivey. Now, Spivey’s not exactly a good Christian—or a good man, for that matter—but he said he’d swear on a Bible it was Kings. On top of his testimony, I had a talk earlier that same day with a fella who bore a striking resemblance to Andy Yeager, a known associate of Kings, so to surmise it was the aforesaid miscreant would be . . . more than reasonable.”

  “Any idea where they might’ve gone?” Leduc asked.

  “Well, I wasn’t present at the time of the shooting, but witnesses said they rode southwest. We all know what lies to the southwest, but I hear there’s no way to be certain about anything with this bunch.”

  Stringer took a deep breath and glanced around the room. Paul, he knew, was itching for a concrete plan, to be pointed in one direction. The man was like a coonhound in that way. He would sleep little, ride a lot, but Stringer wouldn’t hear so much as a single groan or complaint from him. Neither would he hear any pleasantries—not until the task was completed. The man was a soldier, a stayer if there ever was one.

  Those Pinkerton agents, now—he had to give credit where credit was due. For a couple of city boys, they’d proven themselves to be made of the same stuff as the hardiest Texan. First day out, Mincey had informed Stringer that he and Delaney both were already acquainted with the trail and its hardships but went on to admit that this current assignment would, in all likelihood, challenge them more than any of their previous jobs. Comforts wer
e few and far between on the hardpan through which they were trekking, but these eastern men grumbled less and rode with more determination than half the ranger recruits Stringer had known over the years.

  The previous night, the four of them had revisited the subject of forming a posse here in Refuge but were uncertain as to what they could promise any potential volunteers to compensate for the risk. Uncertainties aside, the lawmen knew they had to add a few extra guns to their small arsenal if they wanted to swing this assignment in their favor.

  Stringer offered his hand, and the marshal got up to shake. Every minute spent here was a minute that could have been spent looking for men, and every minute spent looking for men was a minute lost in their search for Kings.

  It was almost as if Liddell had read the captain’s mind. “You’re gonna need a few more bodies in the saddle if you plan to ride on the Big Bend,” he said.

  Stringer kept a straight face. “Now that you mention it, it had crossed my mind to see if I couldn’t put a posse together here.”

  “There’s some might could be persuaded,” Liddell allowed. “Only this bein’ the Kings gang, I don’t know how many you’re likely to get. I’ve had to wrangle a posse or two in my time here, and the men were eager enough, so you might have some luck. Most of our boys can ride, and there’s a decent amount of good shots among ’em.”

  “Couldn’t say for certain how much we could pay ’em,” Stringer warned. “The state’ll only put up so much on the barrelhead.”

  The marshal nodded, knowing how that sort of thing went.

  “I’d like a chance to talk to that saloon owner, too,” Stringer said.

  “Spivey and I’ve never been on what you’d call good terms, but if it means gettin’ back at Kings, I’m sure he’d be willing. I was you, I’d hide those badges for the time being and head on down to the red-light district. See if you can glean anything from that crowd.”

  There were four men at the center table in the Bull’s Eye Saloon, and half that number was comprised of Avenging Angels. Dave Zeller sat with his chair squared to the wall, his expression stony and shrouded by wispy plumes from the cigar in his teeth. His right-hand pistol was out and on the green felt, within reach. To his left sat Tom Seward, dapper as ever in a red brocade vest, tipping back a stirrup cup two fingers full of Old Eagle whiskey. His chips were neatly arranged in separate columns, segregated by color—white twenty-five-cent pieces, blue one-dollars, red tens, and yellow fifties.