Ranger Justice

by James J. Griffin

  “I was headin’ over to the doc’s myself soon as I ate,” Lewis answered. “How’s John and your pardner doin’?”

  “Steve’s gettin’ worse,” Jim replied, “He’s got a real high fever. Looks like blood poisoning’s settin’ in. The doc only gives him a few more days at best.”

  “That’s too bad,” Lewis sympathized, “Especially since now it seems he was shot for no reason. You pretty much proved that yesterday.”

  “Don’t help much,” Jim bitterly responded, “Anyway, there is one bit of good news. Your boss has improved some since Doc dug the bullet out of his chest. He’s got a good chance of pullin’ through.”

  “That is good news,” Lewis agreed. He smiled up at the waitress bringing him a mug of coffee. “Thanks, Maisie.”

  “Your usual, Rick?” the waitress asked.

  “Like always, darlin’,” Lewis answered, as he turned back to the Ranger. “You think you’ll find out somethin’ at Cruz’s place?”

  “Quien sabe?” Jim shrugged. “You never know where the clue that’ll break a case open might turn up. I’ll just keep diggin’ until I find who’s behind all these killin’s. Bet a hat on that.”

  Seeing the Ranger’s eyes turn to glittering chips of blue ice as he spoke, Lewis replied. “Y’know, I bet you will at that.”

  “Count on it,” Jim replied. “I’m glad I ran into you this mornin’, Rick,” he continued, “I wanted to ask you when the next stage is due into town. I’ve got a letter for Headquarters that needs to be on it.”

  “If it’s on schedule, should be tomorrow afternoon sometime around two o’clock,” Lewis answered.

  “Does this run usually have the same driver and guard?”

  “Yeah. Pat Sullivan’ll be drivin’, and Jack Spallone’ll be ridin’ shotgun. Any particular reason for askin’?”

  “There sure is. I’m hopin’ they’ll be able to tell me where they dropped off that saloon gal who gave Steve the note. If they can, I’ll write Austin and have Captain Trumbull send a Ranger to track her down and question her.”

  “Makes sense,” Lewis agreed, “but it’s kind of a long shot, ain’t it? That gal Bess Morton is a real looker, but even when Sully tells you where she left the stage, there’s no guarantee she hung around town.”

  “I hope you’re wrong, but it is a gamble tryin’ to find her,” Jim agreed as he drained the dregs from his mug and pushed back his chair. “But I’ve got to try and track down every lead.” He pulled his watch from his pocket, glanced at it, and noted, “The bank should be openin’ right about now. Rick, I’ll see you this evenin’.”

  “Be careful Jim,” Lewis warned.

  “Always try to be,” Jim laughed. “Otherwise I’d be invitin’ a bullet in my back.”

  Leaving the café, Jim diagonally crossed the street and entered the Sanderson Stockmens and Miners Bank. A young teller glanced up lazily from behind his cage as the Ranger entered.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he politely inquired.

  “I hope so,” Jim replied, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “I’d like to cash this draft. It’s drawn on the First Texas National Bank of Austin.”

  He passed the document to the teller, who studied it for a moment before stating, “I believe it will be all right; however, the bank president will need to give her authorization. If you’ll wait just one moment, I’ll check with her.”

  “Certainly,” Jim agreed. The teller disappeared behind a door marked “Private”. A few moments later, one of the most stunning women Jim had ever seen emerged from the office, the teller following.

  “Lieutenant Blawcyzk,” the woman smiled, taking Jim’s hand in polite greeting. “I was hoping we might get the chance to meet. I’m Leah Collins. My late husband, as you know, was president of this bank. With his death, I have taken on his duties as head of the institution. Am I correct in assuming you’re here to investigate his murder?”

  “I’m mighty glad to meet you also, Mrs. Collins, and yes, I am, as well as the other killings,” Jim replied, his pulse racing despite himself at the nearness of the attractive widow. Leah Collins was young, red-haired and green-eyed, and while as befitting a recent widow she wore a conservative dark purple velvet dress, it hugged every curve of her body, showing off her well-formed figure to perfection. “Please also let me offer my sympathy on your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Leah replied. “And of course the bank will be happy to cash your draft. I assume it’s your monthly pay.”

  “That’s correct,” Jim replied.

  “Fifty dollars,” Leah observed as she studied the draft, “More than the usual Ranger’s pay of thirty a month.”

  “Lieutenant’s pay,” Jim explained.

  “Of course. My error,” the banker answered. “Toby, please cash this draft for the lieutenant,” she ordered the teller.

  “Right away, Mrs. Collins,” the young man answered.

  “Mrs. Collins.” Jim began.

  “Please. Leah. And might I call you Jim?”

  “All right…Leah. And of course you may.”

  “That’s much better,” the widowed banker answered. “You had a question?”

  “Yes. A few, actually. But I would rather we spoke in private.”

  “Certainly,” Leah agreed. “Toby, the Lieutenant and I will be in my office. Please bring his cash to him there. Other than that, we aren’t to be disturbed.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Toby responded.

  Once they were in her office with the door closed, Leah Collins poured a cup of tea from a bone china pot into a delicate china cup decorated with pale images of violets.

  “Jim, I rarely drink coffee, so I’m afraid I don’t have any prepared. Would you care for a cup of tea?” she invited, as she gazed momentarily at his bandaged face, “And if I’m not being impolite, may I ask what happened to you?”

  “Thank you, but I’ve already had breakfast,” Jim replied, “And you’re not impolite at all. I had a run-in with a few cowboys from the Rafter Q.” He chuckled ruefully as he added. “They won. Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a lot of territory to cover today, so if we could proceed.”

  “Of course,” Leah agreed, “Go ahead.”

  “Thanks. Some of these questions may be difficult for you, but I hope you realize I have to ask them. First, I understand you discovered your husband’s body.”

  “That is correct,” Leah answered, taking a lace handkerchief from inside her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes as they watered slightly. “Please forgive me. I still miss John horribly, of course.”

  “I understand. Take as long as you need.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I found John inside the vault. It was awful, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “I’m certain it was,” Jim sympathized. “Please, think carefully back to that night. You didn’t see or hear anyone near or in the bank?”

  “Not a soul. There was only my poor John.”

  “How about any horses tied outside the building, or perhaps nearby?”

  Leah shook her head. “No, not any. Our home is just down the street, so John always walked to and from work. There were no horses around, I’m positive of that.”

  “Fine. Now, Sheriff Crowe told me no one was certain whether or not the bank had been robbed the night your husband was killed. He stated you may have interrupted a holdup in progress.”

  “That is true, I wasn’t sure, and I’m still not, absolutely that is. But I have gone over the bank’s books, and it appears there is approximately five hundred dollars missing. Once the state bank examiners arrive from Austin and audit the books I’ll know for certain.”

  “So you might very well may have broken in on a robbery,” Jim mused, “It’s fortunate you weren’t also murdered.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” Leah answered, with a slight shudd
er. “Jim, if it would be helpful, you certainly have my permission to look over the bank’s records.”

  “That might help,” Jim admitted, “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “If it will help you find John’s killer, then it’s no trouble at all. Would you like to see them now?”

  “Perhaps tonight, if that’s possible. I’ve got other plans for today. Would that be too much trouble?”

  “Not at all,” Leah replied, “We can go over them here at the bank if you’d like.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, perhaps it would be best if I studied them alone in my room,” Jim answered. “That way no one could accuse you of trying to influence my conclusions. I’ll pick them up just before closing if that’s convenient.”

  “Of course you’re right,” Leah agreed. Jim couldn’t be sure, but her voice seemed to contain a hint of disappointment. As a quiet knock came at the door Leah observed, “That must be Toby with your money.” She raised her voice slightly to call, “Come in.”

  “Mrs. Collins, I have the Lieutenant’s cash for him,” Toby said as he came into the room.

  “Thanks, Toby,” Jim said, as the teller handed him two twenty dollar gold coins, along with a ten dollar gold piece.

  “It was my pleasure, Lieutenant,” Toby replied, then turned to his employer. “Mrs. Collins, Frank Nodosz is here about the loan for remodeling his shop. Will you be much longer?”

  “You’ll have to ask the lieutenant,” Leah answered.

  “I’m just about finished,” Jim replied, “If I think of anythin’ else, I’ll ask you when I return this afternoon. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to take a look in the vault before I leave, although after all this time I’m sure any evidence it might have contained has been ruined. And thank you for allowing me to take up your time. You’ve been a great help.”

  “Toby, please let the Lieutenant look inside the vault for as long as he wishes,” Leah ordered the teller, then told Blawcyzk, “I just hope you can find whoever killed my husband.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Jim promised, “Especially since I’m positive that same person is behind all the killings, including Rebecca Jeffers’ murder.” He stood up and touched the brim of his Stetson in a farewell salute. “Ma’am.”

  “Reckon it’s gonna feel good to stretch your legs again, eh Sam?” Jim asked his mount, as he rode out of Sanderson at a gentle walk. When the big paint snorted his agreement, bucking slightly, Jim chided him, “Whoa, pard. We’ve got a ways to go. You’ll get your chance to run.” As they rounded a curve in the road, Jim unpinned the badge from his vest and slid it into his shirt pocket. “Just about all of the folks in town know who we are,” he told his horse, “but

  most of the ranchers out here don’t, at least not yet. Besides, you never know who we might run across, and there’s no point in givin’ some renegade a nice shiny target to shoot at.”

  Once Sam had warmed up, Jim nudged spurless bootheels into his horse’s flanks, pushing him to a ground-covering lope. The powerful gelding’s long strides ate up the miles, and in a short time Blawcyzk was riding into Gypsum Creek Canyon.

  As he heeled Sam down the slope into the canyon, Jim thought, “Sure don’t look like a hospitable place.” Gypsum Creek Canyon was rocky and arid, with only a few stunted mesquite bushes and junipers clinging to its walls and struggling for life. A narrow strip of greenery bounded the shallow creek which trickled out of the narrow, high-walled canyon. The creek’s water was milky white with suspended microscopic mineral particles. Sam lowered his muzzle to drink, then snorted his displeasure at the creek’s bitter, alkali contents. “Reckon it don’t taste that good, huh buddy?” Jim chuckled. “Mebbe there’s a well with sweet water at Cruz’s homestead. Let’s keep movin’.”

  Less than a quarter mile into the canyon, Jim came across the burned out remains of an adobe hut, its roof, door and windows gone, the walls streaked with smoke and soot stains. “This must be Cruz’s homestead,” he muttered, as he reined Sam to a halt in front of the shack and swung out of the saddle. He loosened his cinches and removed the gelding’s bridle, hanging it over the sad-dlehorn. “Now don’t you go ramblin’ off, horse,” he needlessly warned the big paint. Partners since Jim had rescued him from an abusive owner, Sam would not wander far, and would instantly answer his rider’s beckoning whistle. The horse trotted to a half-empty stock tank to drink his fill, then began tugging at the tough bunch grass along the creek.

  Always cautious, Jim lifted his Colt from its holster before ducking through the low doorway and into the hut. Once inside, he glanced around the room, then with a grunt of relief slid the pistol back into its holster.

  “Not gonna be much to find in here,” he muttered, as he shoved aside the twisted remains of a bed frame. “The fire got just about everythin’.” Except for the frame, a small stove, and a few unrecognizable metal fragments, the flames had consumed the contents of Cruz’s small home.

  Jim poked through the ashes for some time, the only solid piece of evidence he could find the fire-blackened and warped barrel, breech, and other surviving metal parts of an old Henry rifle. “Mebbe Cruz managed to wing one of the hombres before they nailed him,” he thought, as inspected the gun’s remains. “The magazine didn’t explode, so that means his gun was empty.” As Jim continued to explore the shack, Sam twice whinnied piercingly from alongside the creek. “Just keep still, bud,” Jim shouted back. “I’m still lookin’ around in here.” He spent a few more minutes digging through the ruins of the shack before he decided, “I’m not gonna learn anythin’ much here. Might as well take a look around this canyon, then head back to town.” As he neared the doorway, Sam suddenly whinnied again, more urgently this time. Just in front of Jim’s feet, a bullet tore a furrow in the adobe’s dirt floor, followed by the crack of a rifle.

  “You in the shack!” a voice ordered, “Come out with your hands up…slow and easy.”

  “I’m a dang fool,” Jim muttered to himself, “I really messed up this time, so busy lookin’ around I let that hombre sneak up on me. And I didn’t pay any attention when Sam tried to warn me. If I get drilled it’ll serve me right.” For a moment, Jim considered taking cover and firing back, then realized that would be almost sure suicide. Since he’d heard the rifle shot at almost the same moment the bullet plowed into the floor, the shooter must have gotten well within range of the shack’s windows. “Least he didn’t put a bullet through me without warnin’ me first,” Jim ruefully thought. Aloud he shouted, “Hold your fire! I’m comin’ out.” He raised his hands shoulder high and stepped through the doorway.

  “Don’t try anythin’ funny, or my next slug’ll be right in your belly,” the rifleman ordered as Jim walked out of the shack. “Andy, get his gun.” Blinded by the bright sunshine after the relative darkness of the adobe’s interior, the Ranger was helpless as another man stepped from his horse to lift Jim’s Peacemaker from its holster.

  “Now, you mind tellin’ us what in blazes you’re up to, snoopin’ through Pablo’s house?” The speaker sat his blocky grulla easily, his rifle steadily aimed at Jim’s belt buckle despite the nervous prancing of his mettlesome horse. The second gunman had his .44 Remington revolver pointed straight at Jim’s ribs. Beyond them, Sam snorted anxiously as he eyed the two strangers with their guns pointed at his rider.

  “Not at all,” Jim easily replied, “I’m a Texas Ranger. Jim Blawcyzk’s the name. I’m tryin’ to get to the bottom of all the killin’s around here.”

  “You got any proof of that?”

  “My badge is in my shirt pocket, and I’ve got my papers in my billfold.”

  “All right, dig ‘em out. Nice and easy. One false move and we’ll blow you to Kingdom Come.”

  Carefully, being sure his actions weren’t misconstrued, Jim reached into his pocket and produced the silver star on silver circle badge, the unofficial emblem of the Texas Rangers,
and handed it to Andy.

  “Sure appears to be a Ranger’s badge,” Andy noted, as he studied the insignia. “How about those papers?”

  “Sure,” Jim easily agreed, producing his documents from Austin and handing them to the cowboy, who passed them to his mounted partner.

  “All right, Ranger. I guess you’re who you claim you are,” the rider stated, as he studied Jim’s papers, then passed them back to the Ranger. “You can put your hands down. I’m Luke Evans, and my pard there is Andy Nelson. Andy, give him back his gun and badge.”

  “Thanks, Mister,” Jim gratefully replied, taking his Colt and sliding it back in its holster, replacing the badge and papers in his shirt pocket. He whistled to Sam, who trotted up and nuzzled Jim’s neck, then dropped his nose to the Ranger’s hip pocket. As Jim gave Sam a peppermint he asked Evans “Now, you mind tellin’ me what you two are doin’ here?”

  “Nope,” Evans answered, as he swung out of his saddle. “We work for the Triangle T. Lots of our stray cows seem to end up in Gypsum Creek Canyon. Whenever we headed over this way to look for ‘em, we’d stop in and visit Pablo. He always had a pot of coffee on the stove.”

  “And a bottle of mescal in the cabinet,” Nelson added.

  “That’s right,” Evans laughed. “Anyway, we were huntin’ strays as usual awhile back when we saw smoke comin’ from this way. Hurried on over and found Pablo’s shack on fire. We managed to pull him out, but it was too late.”

  “Not because of the fire, but because he’d been shot,” Jim finished.

  “That’s right. How’d you know that, Ranger?”

  “Sheriff Crowe over to Sanderson told me. I’m surprised you didn’t figure that.”

  “We don’t get to town all that often,” Evans explained. “Hey, what happened with that other Ranger, the one who was supposed to have killed Rebecca Jef-fers? We did hear about that.”

  “Mob led by a couple of Rafter Q punchers tried to lynch him,” Jim explained, “I stopped ‘em. Didn’t do any good though, because someone back-shot him through his cell window. He’s dyin’, and the worst of it is he didn’t kill that woman, and I can prove it.”