BOWDRIE, TEXAS RANGER
SPURRING THE ROAN into a run, Bowdrie charged out of the branch canyon to see four riders circling the house and heard a shrill cry from the stable. Lifting a hand high, he rode into the yard.
One of the men rode toward him. “Get movin’, stranger! This is a private fight.”
“Not ‘stranger,’ ” Bowdrie said. “Ranger! Now, shove that gun back in the boot and call off your dogs or I’ll blow you out of the saddle!”
The rider laughed contemptuously. “Why, I could—!”
Suddenly he was looking into a Colt. “Back off!” Bowdrie said. “Back off an’ get out!”
Bowdrie is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1983 by Louis & Katherine L’Amour Trust
Postscript by Beau L’Amour © 2018 by Beau L’Amour
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
BANTAM and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Originally published in the United States by E.P. Dutton, a division of Penguin Group (USA), in 1979.
ISBN 9780525486251
Ebook ISBN 9780525486336
randomhousebooks.com
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Foreword
Bowdrie Rides a Coyote Trail
Historical Note
A Job for a Ranger
Historical Note
Bowdrie Follows a Cold Trail
Historical Note
Bowdrie Passes Through
Historical Note
A Trail to the West
Historical Note
More Brains Than Bullets
Historical Note
Too Tough to Brand
The Killer from the Pecos
What Is Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures?
Postscript
Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour
About Louis L’Amour
Foreword
FOLLOWING THE CIVIL War, conditions in Texas were chaotic. Many communities lived through this period in relative peace and quiet, but elsewhere there were bitter feuds between factions or families, raids over the border, attacks by Comanches and lawless acts by individuals. To keep the peace, Texas reactivated the Rangers, an organization active during and to some extent before the war with Mexico.
The Rangers, working in concert or alone, fought Indians, bandits, horse and cattle thieves, highwaymen, bank robbers, and lawbreakers of every kind. Mostly young, each Ranger was required to furnish his own horse, rifle, and a pair of pistols. There was no Ranger uniform as such. In many cases local officers, if they existed at all, were partisan. In such cases the Ranger had to act with judgment and discrimination, and to use force when and if it became essential.
Basically the Rangers were divided into two groups, the Frontier Battalion under Major John B. Jones, and the Special Force, under the command of Captain L. H. McNelly. This latter group consisted usually of about thirty men, and within a very few years the Rangers became noted for swift and dynamic action, bringing peace to a wide and hitherto lawless area.
Chick Bowdrie, who appears in all of the stories in this collection, is a fictional character, growing up, as did many young men of the time, working hard during his boyhood years, familiar with firearms, horses and cattle, and aware of the possibility of attacks by Indians or outlaws. Comanche raids were frequent, sometimes striking as far east as the Gulf Coast. The skill with weapons that belonged to many such boys and men was the natural result of the necessity of hunting meat for the table, defending the herds against wild animals and simply protecting their homes and themselves.
Boys of twelve and thirteen years old often rode many miles alone on one mission or another, growing up accustomed to doing the work of men and accepting the responsibilities of adults.
The citizens of Texas were of many nationalities. A fact not generally understood is that there were Mexicans defending the Alamo as well as attacking it, and many Texans of Spanish ancestry elected to join in the fight for independence. Colonies from Switzerland, Germany, and France were settled in Texas and in some areas were a major part of the population. It was not at all unusual for children growing up in the vicinities of Castroville, D’Hanis, or Fredericksburg to have a smattering of German or French as well as their own language, for the children they played with and the men they worked with were often of those nationalities.
These stories were written long ago and appeared first in what were referred to as “pulp” magazines due to the fact that they were published on paper made from wood pulp.
The magazines referred to as the pulps published a wide variety of stories in many categories such as western, mystery, science fiction, love, air, sports, horror, etc. In their pages a number of American writers learned their trade. Jack London, Sinclair Lewis, Theodore Dreiser, Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, and many others had stories in pulp magazines under their own names or pseudonyms. It was a valuable training ground, for one had to know how to tell a story, and the story had to move.
Some of these magazines acquired a special status, such as Adventure, Blue Book, Amazing Stories, and Black Mask. Adventure was in many respects a unique case, for the magazine maintained a department in which adventurers could communicate with one another, exchange advice or information, or locate long-lost companions. Often much offbeat historical or anthropological information appeared in those columns. There is nothing quite like it today.
Often it is asked whether I have written anything other than stories of the West. As a matter of fact, I have written detective, mystery, sports, air, and adventure stories. I have never written science fiction but always had it in mind. A number of my first stories were of adventures in what is now Indonesia, stories taking place in Borneo, Celebes, New Guinea, Java, Sumatra, etc. Some of these non-Western stories appear in the book Yondering.
The art of storytelling has always been circumscribed by patterns imposed by various publications and their attempts to appeal to public taste or what they assumed to be so. All of us, in all periods of time, have had to write stories editors thought would appeal to a specific group of readers, and all sorts of nonsense has been written by those who comment on such things.
As I have said elsewhere, we have no idea what Edgar Allan Poe might have written had he lived in any other period. At that time the stories in demand were those of haunted houses, ghosts, the weird and the strange. Many such stories were written of which we have little or no record. Poe’s have lasted because of their quality. Had he lived in any other time, his stories might have been completely different. He was without doubt one of the most innovative and successful of American editors. His misfortune was to appear at a time when his profession not only did not pay well, but when European writers were preferred.
The profession of literature has many facets, not the least of which is the necessity to make a living.
BOWDRIE RIDES A COYOTE TRAIL
ONLY A MOMENT before, Chick Bowdrie had been dozing in the saddle, weary from the long miles behind; then a sudden tens
ing of muscles of the hammerheaded roan brought him out of it.
Pulling the black flat-crowned hat lower over his eyes, he studied the terrain with the eyes of a man who looked that he might live. His legs, sensitive to every reaction of the horse he rode, had warned him. If he needed more, he had only to look at the roan’s ears, tipped forward now, and the flaring nostrils. Whatever it was, the roan did not like it.
Soft-footing it along the dusty trail, he approached the grove of trees with wary attention. He let his right hand drop back to loosen the thong that held his six-gun in place on the long rides. There was no change in expression on the dark, Apache-like face except that the scar under his right cheekbone seemed to deepen and his eyes grew more intent.
The trail he followed led along the base of a rocky ridge scattered with trees and boulders broken off from the crest of the ridge and toppled down the slope. The strawberry roan, stepping daintily, walked into the trees.
“Hold it, boy.” He spoke gently as he brought the horse to a stand. A few yards away lay the sprawled figure of a man.
He sat his horse, his eyes sweeping the area with the attention of one who knows he may have to testify in court and would certainly have to file an account of his discovery.
The man beside the trail was dead. No examination was required to demonstrate that. No man could take a bullet where he had taken this one without dying. Also, he was lying on his back with the sun in his eyes.
No tracks showed near the body except those of the dead man’s horse, which stood nearby. From the size of the hole in the dead man’s chest, the bullet had gone in from behind. Bowdrie turned in the saddle, measuring the distance, and his eyes found a large brush-covered boulder some fifty yards away.
The killer had not taken any chances. Chick still sat his horse. The killer had been smart to take no risks, as the man on the ground was no pilgrim. His was a good-looking face but one showing grim strength and the seasoning of many suns and the winds from long trails. He also wore two guns, and there were not many who did.
Bowdrie walked his horse closer, careful to disturb no tracks. He noted the chain loops hanging from the strap button of the dead man’s spurs, looking from them to the horse, taking in the ornate Santa Barbara bit and the elaborate hand-tooled tapaderos that hooded his stirrups.
“California,” Bowdrie said aloud. “He came a long way to get killed.”
Dismounting, he walked over to the horse. It shied a bit, but when he spoke it hesitated, then reached for him with its nose, cautious but friendly.
“Your rider,” Chick told himself, “must have been all right. You certainly haven’t been abused.”
He scratched the horse on the neck, his eyes taking in all the details. The rawhide riata suspended from a loop near the pommel attracted his attention.
“Eighty or eighty-five feet, I’ll bet! I’ve heard of ropes like that. California, you were a hand!”
Texas riders stuck to hair ropes thirty-five to forty feet long and they worked close to a steer before making a toss. It needed an artist to handle such a rope, but he had heard talk of the California vaqueros who used ropes this long.
Walking over to the dead man, he went through his pockets. Dust was heavy on the man’s clothing. He showed evidence, as did his horse, of riding far and fast. The horse was a tall black, heavier than most Texas cow horses, and was obviously well-bred and carefully trained. He was a horse who could stand long miles of hard riding, and by the looks of him he had done just that.
“Riding to see somebody,” Chick guessed, “because from the look of you, you never ran from anything.”
Making a neat pack of the man’s pocket belongings, Chick tucked them into a hip pocket. Then he took the dead man’s guns and hung them from his saddle horn.
The nearest town was too far away to carry a body, and there would be coyotes.
“I mean the four-legged kind.” Bowdrie, like many a long riding man, often talked to himself. “You’ve already run into the two-legged kind.”
He found a shallow place where the ground was not too hard, dug it out a little with a stick, and laid the body neatly in the trough he hollowed. Covering the rider’s face with his vest, Chick scraped dirt over him, caved more from the bank above, then piled on juniper boughs and rocks.
When he swung to the saddle again he was leading the black horse. Starting away, he took a route that led past the brush-covered boulder.
A minute and painstaking examination told him little. He was about to leave when he saw the place where the killer’s horse had been tethered. Something caught his eye and he studied the rough side of the rock, scowling thoughtfully.
The horse had waited for some time, judging by the hoof marks, and evidently had tried to scratch himself on the rock.
Bowdrie gathered several tiny fragments of wood from the rough surface. Dry and hard on one side, they were fresh and unweathered on the other. Carefully he picked off several of the bits of wood, scarcely more than shreds, and put them in a cigarette paper.
Hours later, when the shadows reached out over the little town of Hacker, Chick Bowdrie ambled the roan down the town’s dusty main street to the livery stable. The black trotted behind.
Sitting in a chair tipped back against the outer wall of a saloon was a man who watched his arrival with some attention. As Bowdrie pulled up at the livery stable the man turned his head and apparently spoke to someone inside. A moment later the doors pushed wide and a man in a white hat stepped out and looked to where Bowdrie was stepping down from his horse.
Stabling the horses, Chick rubbed them down with care, fed and watered them himself. A stable-hand, chewing methodically, strolled over and watched without comment.
“Come far?” he asked, finally.
“Quite a piece. What’s doin’ around town?”
“Nothin’ much.” The hostler looked at Chick’s lean, hard face and the two guns. “Huntin’ a job?”
“Could be.”
“Herman an’ Howells are hirin’. If a man’s handy with a six-shooter it won’t hurt none.”
“There’s two sides to a fight. What about the other?”
“Jack Darcy. Pitchfork outfit. Young sprout, but he ain’t hirin’ gunhands. He’s got no money.”
The stable-hand’s eyes went to the black. “You usually carry two horses?”
“It’s handy sometimes.” Chick straightened and his black eyes looked into the stable-hand’s blue eyes. “You askin’ for yourself or gettin’ news for somebody?”
“Just askin’.” He indicated the black horse. “You look to be a Texas man but that ain’t no Texas outfit.”
Chick smiled. “That’ll give you something to keep you from sleepin’ too sound. Somethin’ to think about, Rainy.”
Astonished, the stable-hand stared at him. “How’d you know my name?”
“Pays a man to keep his eyes open, Rainy,” Chick replied. “When I rode up, you were diggin’ tobacco out of your pouch. Your name’s burned on it.”
The stable-hand was embarrassed. “Why, sure! I forget sometimes it’s there.”
Bowdrie walked up the street, estimating the town. Quiet, weather-beaten, and wind-blasted, a few horses at the hitching rails, a stray dog or two, and a half-dozen saloons, a few stores. Only the saloons, a café, and the hotel showed lights in a town deceptively dead. He had seen many such towns before. A wrong word and they could explode into action.
The killing on the trail and the fact that at least one outfit was hiring gunhands meant there was more than was easily visible.
After booking a room at the two-story frame hotel, he went to the café. Ordering, he sat at a long wooden table and ate in silence. The slatternly woman who served him manifested no interest in the silent, leather-faced young man with the twin guns. She had seen them come and go and helped prepare a few for burial afte
r they were gone.
He ate thoughtfully, turning over in his mind the problem that brought him here. Somewhere in the town of Hacker was a cow-stealing killer known as Carl Dyson. He was wanted in Texas for murder. Chick Bowdrie had been working out the man’s carefully concealed trail for nearly a month.
He was sitting over his coffee when Rainy came in, slumping into a seat across the table. He had no more expression than Bowdrie. Picking up the pot, he poured a cup of coffee, black and strong.
“Couple of gents lookin’ your gear over,” he said without looking up. “Figured you might like to know. One of them is Russ Peters, a gunhand for the H&H outfit. The other was Murray Roberts, who ramrods for the H&H.”
“Thanks.” Chick pushed back from the table. “Where do they hang out?”
“Wagon Wheel Saloon, mostly. A couple of sidewinders, mister. Better watch yourself.” Rainy’s range-wise eyes dropped to the guns in their worn holsters as the stranger went out the door. “Or,” he added, “maybe they’d better watch out!”
Several poker games were in progress in the Wagon Wheel, a few punchers were casually bucking a faro layout, and four men stood at the bar. One was a tall, fine-looking man in a white hat and neat range clothes. The other was shorter, heavier, and roughly dressed, with a brutal, unshaved face and a mustache. He wore a low-crowned sombrero with a crease through the middle.
He muttered something to his companion as Bowdrie came to the bar, but the bigger man merely shot a glance at Chick and went on talking.
“Darcy better sell while the sellin’ is possible. At this rate he won’t have anything left.”
The man with the creased sombrero stared at Chick. “Right nice horse you led into town,” he commented, “and a good many of us are wondering what became of its rider.”
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