Ranger Justice

by James J. Griffin

“You’re right, Jim,” the railroader replied, “The T-P’s lookin’ into buildin’ a spur line to Sanderson. I’ve been promoted to assistant surveyor and right of way planner since the last time we ran into each other.”

  “That’s great news. You certainly deserve it. But why’s the Texas Pacific lookin’ to build a line down here?” Jim questioned.

  Rick Lewis walked over to the trio to break in on their conversation. “Jim, Sully and Jack are ready to talk with you now. They’re on a tight schedule.”

  “Sure,” Jim answered, “Sorry. Forgot all about ‘em when I spotted Andre. Be right with them.” He continued to the railroaders, “Look, I need to talk with you, but I’ve got to ask the driver some questions. I’m sure you both want to clean up and rest a bit anyway. Why don’t we meet and have supper, then a drink or two at the saloon? Mebbe we can even play a couple hands of poker.”

  “That sounds just fine,” Miller readily agreed.

  “Then we’re set. The Bon Ton Café’s right across the street from here. I’ll meet you around seven.”

  “We’ll see you then,” Miller replied, as he picked up his warbag from the boardwalk.

  “I’m sorry if I kept you waitin’, men,” Jim apologized as he joined Lewis, Sullivan the driver, and Spallone the shotgun guard. “I won’t take up a lot of your time.”

  “Good, because we’ve got to get these horses fed and watered, let ‘em rest a bit, then be on our way,” the driver retorted.

  “Only got one or two questions for you,” Jim assured him. “A woman took your stage out of town a few weeks back, the same woman who handed another Ranger a note that led him into a frame-up.”

  “Yeah. Bess Morton, one of the gals from the Blue Tail Fly,” Spallone recollected, “A real looker, that one.”

  “That’s the lady,” Jim agreed. “I need to know where she left the stage, and where she was headed after that if she mentioned it.”

  “Dunno as I’d call Bess a lady,” Sullivan harshly laughed, letting loose another gob of tobacco. “But I can tell you she got off in Fort Stockton.”

  “She plan on stayin’ there?”

  “Nope, Lieutenant. Bess said she was gonna catch the stage to El Paso, then go on to Santa Fe. You got any other questions?”

  “No. That’s all. And thanks for your help.”

  “Anytime,” Sullivan replied, “Always glad to help the Rangers. Good luck.”

  “Adios,” Jim answered.

  As Jim and Lewis headed back to the sheriff’s office, Jim harshly questioned the deputy.

  “Rick, did you know the Texas Pacific is thinkin’ of buildin’ a line to Sanderson?”

  “Sure, Jim,” Lewis replied.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  “I didn’t think it was that important. Everyone knows about it. It’s not like it’s some big secret.”

  “Not that important?” Jim echoed. “If someone knew where the railroad was plannin’ to lay their tracks, and bought the land up cheap before anyone else knew, he’d stand to make a fortune. And that’s a powerful motive for murder.”

  “But Jim, everyone in town’s known all along the T-P wants to build down this way,” Lewis protested. “There’d be no reason for someone to commit murder to get his hands on the right of way. First of all, no one yet knows where that’ll be. And if anyone tried to get control of wherever the railroad decided to build, everyone’d be real suspicious about that. No, I don’t think the railroad comin’s got anythin’ to do with these killin’s.”

  “Mebbe you’re right,” Jim conceded, “but it’s sure somethin’ to think about. And it could be a vital piece of evidence. I sure wish you hadn’t kept it from me.”

  Uncomfortable under the Ranger’s questioning, Lewis attempted to change the subject. “Don’t look like you’ll have much luck tryin’ to track down Bess Morton,” he noted.

  “Mebbe, mebbe not,” Blawcyzk answered. “I’ll get a letter to Austin off on the next stage. She’s probably in Santa Fe by now, but just in case she decided to stay in El Paso I’ll ask Captain Trumbull to have one of our men search for her. It’s a long shot for sure, but I can’t chance leavin’ any stone unturned.”

  They had arrived at the stairs to the office. “What’re you gonna do for the rest of the afternoon?” Lewis asked.

  “Gonna head over to Doc Sweeney’s and stay with Steve for awhile. Dunno how much longer he’s gonna hang on. And hopefully I’ll be able to talk with your boss for a few minutes. You want to come along?”

  “I’d like to,” the deputy replied, “But I’ve got a whole pile of reports that are stacked on my desk. I’d better get at ‘em. I’ll catch up to you later.”

  “All right. Later, Rick,” Jim replied, as Lewis paused at the office door. “If you get a few minutes, meet me for supper. We can palaver awhile.”

  “Not tonight,” Lewis explained, clearly looking for a reason to get shut of Blawcyzk. “I shot a mule deer the other day, so Annette’s makin’ her famous venison stew. Besides, with John laid up, I’ve hardly seen my kids the past few days. Naomi and Kim’ll be forgettin’ what I look like.”

  “I know what you mean,” Jim sympathized, “I miss Julia and my boy Charlie somethin’ fierce when I’m on the trail…which is most of the time. Dunno what I ever did to deserve ‘em. I’ll see you in the mornin’.”

  “Fair enough,” Lewis agreed, as he opened the door and stepped into his office.

  A few minutes later, Jim was at Sheriff John Crowe’s bedside. The local lawman was propped up in bed, with a clean white bandage taped to his upper chest. He still looked wan and drawn, but his eyes were clear, with no sign of fever.

  “Howdy, Sheriff. Good to see you’re comin’ along,” Jim greeted Crowe. “How you feelin’?”

  “Not bad for a man who took a slug in his chest, Jim. In fact, I’d sure like to get outta this bed, but the doc says I can’t get even think about that for a couple more weeks.” Crowe ruefully grinned as he took a long drag on his cigarette. “Sorry about your young pardner, though. I understand he’s not gonna make it. That’s a real shame.”

  “Thanks,” Jim answered. “He’s still alive, and I’ve been prayin’ for him. There’s still hope, although not much, I’ll admit. John, the doc tells me I can’t take too much time with you yet. I’ve got a few questions I need to ask you.”

  “Sure,” Crowe readily agreed, “Go ahead.”

  “First, Rick told me Thor Lundgren found the lawyer’s body, then went straight to you to report it.”

  “That’s right,” Crowe confirmed.

  “And Sloane was definitely hung in his office?”

  “That’s correct. Thor cut the body down before he came to me. Said he couldn’t stand seein’ Sloane hangin’ from that rafter.”

  “So you didn’t actually see Sloane’s body danglin’ from the end of a rope?”

  “No,” Crowe admitted, taking another drag on his quirly. “Why’re you askin’?”

  “Because I went through Sloane’s office today, and there were no signs of a rope bein’ tied to the rafter,” Jim explained. “There should’ve been some fibers stuck in that wood, or some rub marks.”

  “I can explain that,” Crowe replied, “Sloane’s killer didn’t use a rope. He’d pulled Sloane’s shirt offa him and used that to kill him. My guess is whoever

  killed the lawyer strangled him first, then hung the body to try and make Sloane’s death look like a suicide. The shirt wouldn’t have left sign like a rope might. And the piece of shirt Thor left when he cut Sloane down was still wrapped around that beam when I got to the office. I cut it off later.”

  “Reckon that makes sense,” Jim conceded. “Don’t matter that much anyway, since we already know Sloane was murdered.”

  Doctor Sweeney poked his head in the door.

  “Ranger, I can only l
et you have a few more minutes,” he warned.

  “Almost done,” Jim replied. “John, just one more question. How long has it been common knowledge that the railroad’s comin’ to town?”

  “Several months at least,” Crowe replied. “You think that’s got somethin’ to do with all these killin’s?”

  “It’d be a logical thought,” Jim replied, “But with everyone knowin’ about it that takes away the most likely explanation, that somebody was attemptin’ to make a killin’, if you’ll pardon the expression, by tryin’ to buy up land the T-P might want quiet-like. I’d still bet a hat there’s some connection, though.”

  “Likely you’re right,” Crowe agreed, “Now all we’ve got to do is figure out what it is.”

  “And you’ve also got to finish recoverin’,” Jim grinned, as he pushed himself up from his chair. “You just keep takin’ it easy for a while, and let me puzzle this out.”

  “Sure thing,” Crowe chuckled. “Least in here no one’ll be takin’ aim at my back, which they’re likely to be doin’ at yours, Ranger. You be careful.”

  “Count on it. Adios, John.”

  “Thanks, Jim. If you need me, I’m not goin’ anywhere. G’night.”

  “Jim, that was the best supper I’ve had since we left Abilene,” Paul Doherty told Blawcyzk as they tarried over last cups of coffee at the Bon Ton. “Never would’ve guessed I’d find such a delicious meal in a backwater town like this.”

  “One thing I’ve learned traipsin’ all over Texas,” Blawcyzk smiled, “Is you never know when or where a good feedin’ house’ll turn up. And speakin’ of backwaters,” he continued, “Either of you gents willin’ to tell me why the Texas Pacific is considerin’ a line down this way?”

  “We don’t rightly know ourselves,” Miller answered. “We got word about three or four months back that we’d be surveyin’ a possible route to Sanderson.

  The plans must be comin’ along, because a couple of weeks ago we were told to head down here and look for a decent route for a right of way.”

  “But the railroad sure ain’t gonna go to all the expense of buildin’ a spur through miles of badlands and mountains without a good reason,” Jim protested.

  “That’s right,” Doherty agreed.

  “You know the Texas Pacific, Jim,” Miller laughed. “They’ve got to be virtually certain they’ll make money before they even consider a new line. Sure, there’s got to be a good profit in it for the railroad if we can find a decent route down here. But the powers that be haven’t told us how they expect to make that profit.”

  “OK, then how about the route itself? You got anythin’ particular in mind yet?”

  “Nothing except some general sketches on a topographic map,” Doherty answered.

  “How about takin’ options on any land?”

  “We’re nowhere near there yet,” Miller responded. “Haven’t even started considering that.”

  “So no one’d have any reason to try and buy up land,” Jim mused.

  “Not right yet,” Doherty confirmed. “Why?”

  “’Cause there’ve been several murders in the vicinity, and I’m tryin’ to figure out what’s the connection between ‘em,” Jim explained, “but so far I’m comin’ up blank.”

  “Well, if anyone can figure it out, you can,” Miller chuckled, “Meanwhile, I believe you mentioned something about drinks and a poker game?”

  “Right you are,” Jim grinned, “Let’s pay our tab and get on over to the Blue Tail Fly.”

  The Blue Tail Fly was the largest saloon in Sanderson, located diagonally across the street from the Terrell House. Josh Hemingway, the owner and chief bartender, called a greeting to Blawcyzk as the Ranger entered the barroom, trailed by the two railroaders.

  “You gonna drink anythin’ stronger than sarsaparilla this time, Lieutenant?” he grinned.

  “Only if you’ve come up with more information for me about the night Bess handed that note to Steve Masters,” Jim retorted. “Josh, I’d like you to meet a couple friends of mine, Andre Miller and Paul Doherty of the Texas Pacific Railroad.”

  “Welcome to the Blue Tail Fly,” Hemingway cordially smiled, shaking both men’s hands and making no objection to a black man being in his establishment, “I hope you’ve got stronger taste in drink than the lieutenant does.”

  “I sure do,” Miller replied. “I’ll have a beer.”

  “And rye for me,” Doherty added.

  “Comin’ right up,” Hemingway answered. As the saloonkeeper filled the railroaders’ glasses, Doherty turned a curious eye on Blawcyzk. “Sarsaparilla, Jim?” he asked.

  “That’s right, Paul.”

  “Lemme explain that for you, Jim,” Miller broke in. “Y’see Paul, our Ranger friend here doesn’t drink red-eye, not even beer. Doesn’t smoke either,” he added, as he rolled a quirly and laughed, “But he does enjoy a good game of poker, and he’s never backed off from a fight.”

  “Speakin’ of fights.” Jim became alert as he glanced up at the back bar mirror to see several Rafter Q cowhands enter the saloon. “We might be in for one. I’ve got a score to settle with these boys.” As Miller and Doherty turned to look at the objects of the Ranger’s attention, Jasper Wylie, the Rafter Q’s new foreman, stalked up to the bar, looked Miller up and down, and loudly stated, “Josh, since when do you allow stinkin’ niggers in this saloon?”

  “I’ll handle this, Andre,” Jim quietly told the railroad man, seeing Miller tensing, his fists tightening. “That way it’ll be all nice and legal, and you’ll stay outta trouble.” His eyes now glittering chips of blue ice, the Ranger turned to Wylie and softly said, “Mister, that’s a real ugly word you just called my friend. Now, are you gonna apologize to Mr. Miller here nice and polite-like, or do I have to shove that word back down your lousy throat?”

  “I might add you don’t wanna insult these gentlemen,” Hemingway added from behind the bar, “They’re from the Texas Pacific Railroad, and if they agree Sanderson should have a line run down here, it’ll mean a lot of money to this town, not to mention make it a lot easier for your boss to ship his cattle. And I’ve made them welcome in the Blue Tail Fly.”

  “I’m not gonna apologize to no stinkin’ colored boy,” Wylie sneered, “Don’t matter to me who he works for. And I’m sure gonna enjoy tearin’ you limb from limb, Ranger. Guess you didn’t learn your lesson the other day.” Wylie’s fist shot out, missing Blawcyzk’s chin as Jim ducked and jerked his head sideways, then sank his fist deep into Wylie’s belly. The Rafter Q foreman grunted in agony as he folded over Jim’s fist. Jim’s following punch took Wylie square on the point of his chin, straightening him up. The Ranger’s next blow

  knocked Wylie stumbling backwards into a card table. The table splintered under Wylie’s weight, sending him sprawling to the floor.

  Jim arched in pain as another of the Rafter Q cowboys sent a vicious punch into his back, just over his kidney. A third man buried his fist in Jim’s gut, jack-knifing him. As the cowboy attempted to kick the Ranger in his jaw, Andre Miller wrapped his arms around the waddy, tackling him and slamming him against the bar. All air driven from his lungs, the cowboy sagged, and Miller’s following punch broke his jaw. The Rafter Q puncher uttered a muffled scream, then collapsed unmoving to the sawdust.

  As Wylie staggered to his feet, another Rafter Q hand drove a knee into Miller’s groin. Miller groaned in agony, but shook off the pain to grab his assailant by his shirtfront and belt, lift him high over his head, and toss him over the bar. Bottles shattered as the cowboy smashed into the back bar shelves. He landed face-down amidst a shower of glass shards and spilled liquor, tried futilely to push himself up, then collapsed.

  The three Rafter Q hands still remaining in the fight along with Jasper Wylie had backed Jim into a corner, but were quickly finding out they had more than met their match in the infuriated Ranger. Paul Doher
ty had leapt into the fray and pummeled one of the men in the ribs until, with an audible crack, two ribs broke under the surveyor’s assault. Coming to Blawcyzk’s aid, Miller grabbed one of the cowboys and spun him around. His huge fist connected solidly with the man’s nose, flattening it and bringing forth a fountain of blood. As the cowboy clamped his hands to his nose and screeched in agony, Miller muttered disgustedly, “Oh, shut up,” and slammed his fist into the man’s ear. The waddy crumpled silently to the floor.

  Jim, meanwhile, had taken one of his assailants out of the fight with two quick rights to the face. Then Jasper Wylie caught the Ranger on the side of his face with a brutal punch, twisting him completely around and slamming him face-first into a wall. Stunned, Jim shook his head to clear his vision as he spit out a mouthful of blood and several pieces of teeth. He whirled to meet Wylie’s rush, ducking under a punch that would have nearly ripped his head off and planting his left fist solidly into the foreman’s belly, smashing his right into Wylie’s ribs. As Wylie doubled over, Jim hooked a punch to his jaw, staggering him. Jim pummeled the bigger Wylie mercilessly, finally slamming a powerful right to Wylie’s chin. The blow spun Wylie around so that he smashed head first into the bar as he toppled. Wylie’s neck snapped and he crumpled, his head at an awkward angle.

  Jim yanked his Colt from its holster. “Anyone else want a part of this?” he challenged, chest heaving and blood dripping from his chin.

  “Reckon I speak for everyone here when I say it’s your play, Ranger,” one of the bystanders softly answered. “We’re not gonna interfere.”

  Rick Lewis burst through the batwings, his Lightning rifle at the ready. His steady gaze settled on the Ranger.

  “What the devil happened here, Jim?” he asked.

  “Some Rafter Q hombres were spoilin’ for a fight, deputy,” Josh Hemingway answered before Blawcyzk could respond. “They bit off more’n they could chew.”

  “I reckon they did,” Lewis dryly replied. “Lieutenant, you and your friends all right?”

  “Seem to be in one piece,” Jim ruefully answered. “Can’t say the same for these Rafter Q boys, though. Wylie’s dead, and the rest of ‘em aren’t in much better shape.”