Ranger Justice

by James J. Griffin

  “What kind of ore’d that geologist find?” he questioned, “Gold, silver? Seems unlikely. There’s never been any big gold or silver strikes in these parts. Mebbe copper? There’s been a little of that discovered here and there in Texas. Still seems someone would have found it before this, though. Well, reckon I’ll have to try and figure that out for myself when I ride out to Gypsum Creek Canyon in the mornin’.” He chuckled softly as he concluded, “Not that I’ve got much chance of findin’ anythin’. I wouldn’t know what raw silver or copper ore looked like even if it fell off a ledge and hit me on the head.”

  A moment later, Jim sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Reckon I shouldn’t have had those last couple of sarsaparillas,” he laughed, “but I sure wasn’t gonna turn ‘em down with Mason Jeffers payin’ the bill. Well, guess I’ll have to make a trip downstairs if I’m ever gonna get some sleep.” He pulled on his boots and shoved his Colt into the waistband of his levis, not bothering with his shirt at this late hour. Quickly he headed down the deserted hallway, descending the stairs to the back exit and the hotel’s outhouse.

  Jim hesitated before pulling open the privy’s door, looking around carefully. “Can’t shake the feelin’ someone’s followin’ me, or that I’m bein’ watched,” he muttered. “You’re just gettin’ jumpy,” he chided himself, shaking his head in disgust. “Heard that happens sometimes to a Ranger who’s been lookin’ over his back too long. There’s not a soul around here, not even an old alley cat.” He ducked into the outhouse.

  A few minutes later, Jim emerged from the half-moon doored building, stumbling slightly as the heel of his boot caught on the edge of the doorsill. As he did a blazing pain shot across the tip of his left shoulder, and a knife thudded into the outhouse door. Jim twisted to the ground, rolling onto his stomach, grunting as the Colt stuck into his jeans dug into his belly. Despite the paralyzing agony shooting through his left shoulder and arm, Jim somehow managed to turn onto his side and yank his gun from his jeans to fire one unaimed shot. He rolled onto his back, gasping for breath as he heard footsteps rapidly hurrying away.

  Jim lay in the dirt for a few moments, until the pain subsided enough to allow him to push himself to his feet. Obviously, the single gunshot he’d fired to scare off his attacker hadn’t disturbed the town’s slumber. “Good thing you were able to get off that shot,” he told himself, “Or that bushwhacker would’ve finished you.” He stepped up to the outhouse and pulled the knife from the wall. “Looks pretty ordinary,” he muttered as he shoved the heavy-bladed Bowie into his waistband along with his Colt, and clamped his hand over his blood-dripping shoulder. “Well, there’s no chance of findin’ whoever threw this tonight. I’d better get back to my room and patch myself up.”

  While the knife wound to Jim’s shoulder bled profusely, it was a shallow cut, so he was able to flush it out with water from the pitcher on his washstand, then coat it with salve and bandage it. “If I hadn’t tripped over that step, that hombre would’ve got me plumb in the chest,” he noted as he finished treating the wound. “Guess I was right after all. Somebody was followin’ me, and whoever it was intended to put a good size hole in my hide. I’m gettin’ too close to comfort for someone. Gotta be Mason Jeffers. He’s still my number one suspect for these killin’s, too.” Jim tentatively flexed his arm, noting to his satisfaction that while it pained somewhat, he would still be able to use his pistol if need be. As Jim once again pulled off his boots and settled back on his bed, he ruefully chuckled. “Guess I’m not gettin’ too old and jumpy to stay in the Rangers after all. Should’ve listened to my gut when it tried to tell me someone else was in that alley.” A few moments later, he was softly snoring.

  CHAPTER 10

  Wanting to leave town without being questioned or having to tell anyone where he was headed, Jim arose well before dawn the next morning. He had Sam saddled and out of the livery stable without even disturbing Jeff Murphy. The sun was still a good half-hour below the eastern horizon when horse and rider reached the edge of Sanderson. Jim allowed his big paint to run for a good mile and a half, then pulled him down to a smooth, ground-covering lope.

  “Reckon it feels good to really work those kinks out, eh Sam?” Jim asked, as the gelding joyously let loose with a few well-timed bucks, then settled back to his steady pace. “Well, you might as well enjoy it while you can. We might be out here for a couple of days or more. I’m strictly workin’ on a hunch.” Not knowing where, or even if, he would find the place he was seeking, Jim had packed several days supplies in his saddlebags.

  As they reached the scorched ruins of Pablo Cruz’s shack, Jim allowed Sam a short drink from the stock tank, then ground-hitched him in a patch of tough grama grass, letting him graze while the Ranger once again went through the burned-out adobe.

  “Nothin’ I missed the first time I was here,” Jim said as he finished his examination of the shack, “Reckon I might as well get movin’.” He climbed back into the saddle and turned Sam into the mouth of Gypsum Creek Canyon.

  By noon Jim had worked his way some distance up Gypsum Creek, not having seen another sign of life in the canyon except for a few lizards and an occasional chattering Steller’s jay. With the sun reaching its zenith, its rays reflecting off the jagged rock walls had turned the floor of the canyon into a virtual oven. The only relief from the heat was a fairly strong breeze blowing

  straight down the canyon, directly into Jim’s face. Finding a narrow, clear creek trickling from a spring at the base of a steep slope, he swung stiffly out of the saddle, loosened Sam’s cinches, and let the horse drink freely from the shallow creek. Jim used his bandanna to wipe sweat and dust from his face and neck, then took some jerky and hardtack from his saddlebags, leaning wearily against Sam’s side as the paint fell to cropping at the sparse grass surrounding the spring.

  As he took a bite from a strip of jerky, Jim told his horse, “Dunno if we’re on the right track, pard. Those mineral deposits Thornberg wrote about might be in any of a hundred other canyons. And I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m lookin’ for. I’m no minin’ engineer. Sure wish Jim Hatfield was ridin’ along with us. Mebbe we could’ve finally had that race and seen who’s the faster horse once and for all, you or Jim’s Goldy.” Hatfield was a veteran Ranger who had studied mining in college before settling on a lawman’s career. Sam paused in his grazing for a moment to snort in disgust.

  “All right, I’m sorry,” Jim laughed. “You’re faster’n Hatfield’s golden sorrel. And I reckon you know what you’re lookin’ for. Seems like you’ve already found it. Good grass and sweet water are plenty enough to satisfy your needs. Sometimes I envy you, horse. Well, I guess I’ll let you eat for another half-hour, then we’d best get movin’.”

  By late that afternoon, the Ranger was exploring yet another of the seemingly innumerable side canyons that angled away from Gypsum Creek. As they came to a narrow passageway which led between tumbled boulders, Sam snorted uneasily, prancing sideways.

  “Reckon I’ve gotta agree with you,” Jim told his mount, “This is the ideal spot for an ambush. And with that blasted wind blowin’ in our faces, we’d never hear anybody comin’ up behind us until it was too late. Someone else has been in here before us, too.” Jim’s sharp eyes had spotted several scrapes on the rocky trail which had been made by a horse’s shoes. He pulled his Winchester from its scabbard and laid it across his knees as he urged Sam cautiously forward.

  As they threaded their way through the narrow opening, Jim’s gelding continued to prance nervously, tossing his head and snorting in defiance. At one point, the space between the defile’s walls was so tight the trail disappeared under the muddy water of a small stream gurgling over the rocks. Jim had to put Sam into the almost hock-deep water of the creek, the paint stepping gingerly over the unseen, slippery stones. “Keep movin’, bud,” Jim urged his horse, pressing his bootheels into the gelding’s ribs. “I’d rather be a movin�
�� target than a sittin’ duck. We’ll be out of this spot in a minute.” He could see the rocky corridor widening just ahead.

  As they emerged into a small clearing, Sam shied violently, tossing himself sideways to stand spraddle-legged and trembling. The usually rock-steady horse’s unexpected move nearly unseated his rider.

  “Easy, boy.” Jim soothed his frightened paint with a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Now I see what was botherin’ you.” Scattered around the clearing were the bleached bones of a pack mule, along with the remains of its equipment. The empty eye-sockets of the ill-fated animal’s skull had been staring directly at Sam as he’d stepped into the clearing. “And I reckon we just found out what happened to Kurt Thornberg. That’s gotta be what’s left of his mule.” He slid his rifle back into its scabbard and stepped out of his saddle to gaze around the clearing, as he stroked Sam’s neck to calm the still nervous horse.

  “Sam, I’d bet somewhere in this little valley is the place we’re lookin’ for. I’d stake my life that mineral deposit is right under our noses. I’m certain Thorn-berg was killed here and either buried on the spot, or else his body was carted outta here and tossed over a cliff somewhere. You’re gonna have to stay put while I do some searchin’, so you’d best quiet down.” Jim led his horse away from the mule’s bones to a small grove of stunted pin oaks at the far end of the clearing.

  As Jim looped the reins over the saddlehorn, he asked the paint, “You gonna be OK here, pard? I sure don’t wanna tie you in case I need you in a hurry.” Sam nuzzled the Ranger’s shoulder and nickered reassuringly, then dropped his head to Jim’s hip pocket to beg for a peppermint.

  “All right,” Jim chuckled, as he gave the horse a candy and Sam crunched happily on the treat “You haven’t let me down yet, pal. You stay right here, and I’ll be back quick as I can. I’ll whistle if I want you.” Sam whickered once again as he began nibbling contentedly on an oak branch.

  “Looks like I might be spendin’ the night here,” Jim noted as he glanced up at the westering sun. “Got three, mebbe four hours of good light at the most. Well, I’d better get at it. Let’s see.” He studied his surroundings for a few moments before heading toward the west wall of the canyon.

  An hour later, Jim paused in frustration. “I don’t have a clue what to look for,” he admitted to himself. “Mebbe I’m searchin’ completely in the wrong places.” He’d spent the past hour tramping over the canyon floor. “Probably be better if I try lookin’ over some of the ledges, mebbe where some of those rocks have broken loose.” After taking a drink from a spring that fed the creek, he walked toward a jumble of boulders.

  “Well, I’ll be.” Jim exclaimed, as he reached the shattered rocks, and noted a patch of earth that had been disturbed in the recent past. The soil’s surface had still not quite settled and no vegetation, except for a few scraggly clumps of grass and weeds, had regrown in the loose, sandy soil. “Not exactly what I’m lookin’ for, but I’ll bet this’s Kurt Thornberg’s grave. Looks like I’m on the right track after all.”

  With renewed energy after this discovery, Jim followed the wall of the canyon until he came to an upward slanting ledge. Hunkering on his heels, he studied the ledge carefully, spotting several barely visible scrape marks on a narrow trail. “Those sure look like they were made by hob-nailed boots, like would be used for clamberin’ over rocks,” he noted. As he glanced down at his own footwear, Jim ruefully chuckled, “Well, cowboots ain’t exactly made for climbin’, but I figure I’ve got no choice.” He pushed himself to his feet and began the steep climb.

  Nearly half an hour later, Jim was on a narrow shelf close to fifty or sixty feet above the little valley’s floor. “This is where Thornberg was diggin’, sure enough,” he exclaimed, observing several gouges in the wall where the geologist had taken samples from the rock. As he scraped away dirt that had obviously been slathered over the scars to hide them from any casual observer, Jim observed, “Looks like either Thornberg, or more likely whoever killed him, wanted to keep whatever he found hidden until they had control of the land. Pretty unlikely anyone’d just stumble into this valley without good reason, so they weren’t worried about bein’ found out.”

  As Jim brushed more of the dirt away, a distinctively reddish colored rock layer was revealed. “Cinnabar!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I’ve seen some of this stuff awhile back, down along the Mexican border. So this is what Thornberg discovered. Quicksilver ore. No wonder he was tryin’ to keep it a secret. If these veins run at all deep and the cinnabar’s good quality, there’s a fortune in mercury in this canyon. Reckon I’ve got my motive. Now all I need to do is find the killer who wanted all of this for himself…or the killers,” he added.

  Wanting to take a few pieces of the ore back as evidence, Jim took his Bowie from its sheath to pry a few chunks of the cinnabar loose. He pried several chunks away and slipped them into his pocket. As he inserted the knife into a chink in the rocks for one last sample, a bullet smacked into the wall just alongside his head, followed by the sharp crack of a rifle. Jim dove to his belly, pinned behind the inadequate cover of the ledge’s slight lip as the hidden rifleman swept the rocks with an almost impossibly rapid fire. Pieces of rock show-

  ered down on the prone Ranger as bullets slammed into the canyon wall and ricocheted into space.

  As the barrage of lead stopped for a brief instant, Jim chanced lifting his head ever so slightly, scanning the canyon in an attempt to locate the bushwhacker. “Got him spotted, on the rim over to the other side of the canyon,” he said, as a glint of sunlight reflected off the gunman’s rifle barrel for an instant. “Not that it’ll do me much good,” he muttered, ducking back as his assailant finished reloading and again swept the ledge with a rapid-fire volley. “My Winchester’s still on my saddle, and he’s way outta range for a sixgun, even tryin’ a lucky shot. He can keep me pinned down here long as he wants. And sooner or later he’s gonna nail me.”

  As bullets whined over his precarious perch, Jim glanced downward, then, settling on a desperate chance, whistled sharply. When an answering whinny drifted back to him, he threw himself over the edge of the shelf, rolling and sliding down the steep slope. Sharp rocks slammed into his head, ribs and hips, tearing his skin as he plunged downward.

  Reaching the bottom of the slope, half-stunned from the wild tumble, Jim lay where he stopped rolling as Sam raced out of the trees, zigzagging toward his fallen rider. The paint screamed in pain and anger as a bullet stung his hide. When he reached Jim’s side, the Ranger leapt to his feet and grabbed his Winchester, sending his horse streaking back to safety with a slap on the rump. As a slug tore along his ribs, Jim spun and stumbled, dropping his rifle as he landed face-down and unmoving in the shallow creek.

  Silence hung over the canyon for a moment, then, as the drygulcher rose from his perch to put a finishing slug into the Ranger, Jim rolled out of the creek, grabbed his rifle, aimed, and quickly fired. The gunman staggered back, his rifle falling from his hands as he doubled over and clutched his side. For a moment he was lost from Jim’s view, then Jim glimpsed the rifleman again, hunched over in the saddle of a blaze-faced buckskin. Jim’s second shot went harmlessly over the man’s back as he galloped the horse away from the rim.

  “That’s Rick Lewis’ horse!” Jim exclaimed in disbelief as he came to his feet, gasping for breath. “I’d know that buckskin anywhere. Never would’ve guessed Rick might be the one behind all of this.” He whistled, and Sam trotted up to him to nuzzle his shoulder.

  “Yeah, I’m all right bud. Slug along my ribs just burned my hide a little. How about you?” The paint was bleeding from a bullet slash along his rump. “Lemme patch you up, then we’ll get on that hombre’s trail. It’ll be dark soon, and I’d like to catch up with him before then.”

  After cleaning and dressing Sam’s wound and reloading his Winchester, Jim attempted to climb into his saddle, only to fall back nauseous, his head spinning. “Re
ckon those rocks did more damage than I realized,” he muttered, “And there’ll be no comments from you about the rocks in my head, horse,” he warned, as Sam nickered. “Well, mebbe I’d better rest a half hour or so. We know where that hombre’s headed anyway, if he is Rick Lewis. And he’s hard hit from the way he jackknifed when I drilled him. He can’t travel too far or fast. I’ll eat a mite and take some water. Reckon I’ll feel better after that.” Jim dug some hardtack out of his saddlebags, lifted his canteen from the saddle-horn, and settled against the trunk of a pin oak. “That was too close for comfort, pard,” he told Sam, who merely looked up from his grazing for a moment, then went back to cropping the sparse grass.

  Half an hour later, the rawhide-tough Blawcyzk pulled himself painfully into his saddle. “This is gonna be a tough ride back, Sam, so stay outta that rough fast trot of yours,” he warned his horse. Every muscle Jim owned seemed to be bruised or torn, his hide scraped and raw. “Let’s head for town, but first I wanna see if I can spot a way up to the rim and find that rifle our drygulchin’ friend dropped.” He heeled the horse into a slow walk.

  As they exited the narrows, Jim spotted a barely visible path climbing the canyon wall to the left. “That’s how he got up there,” he observed. “Sam, looks like you’ve got some climbin’ to do.” He turned the paint up the steep trail, Sam’s breathing becoming labored as he clambered up the rocks. It took only a few minutes to reach the bushwhacker’s hiding place. Lying on the ground where the gunman had dropped it was a pump-action Colt Lightning rifle with a fresh bullet gouge along its stock.

  Jim swung from his saddle, picking up the gun and examining it closely. “This is Rick’s gun all right,” he muttered, as he spotted the initials “RL” neatly carved into both sides of the gun’s stock. “This explains how he was able to shoot so many rounds so quick.” In the hands of a gunman proficient in its use, the Lightning could spit out its .44-40 slugs even faster than a lever-action Winchester. “Looks like I’m gonna have to haul him in,” Jim thought sadly. In the short time he’d known the deputy, the Ranger had come to consider him a friend and ally. “Never would have thought Rick was the type to shoot a man in the back. Goes to show how wrong you can be about an hombre.” He tied the Lightning across the back of his saddle, then once again climbed onto Sam’s back. “C’mon, bud. Let’s get movin’.”