The Ghost Riders

by James J. Griffin

  “Shorten it up, or these here Rangers will die of old age before they even get back on those raiders’ trail. The raiders, too, for that matter.”

  “I’m just now gettin’ to the point,” Luke protested.

  “Shortest way is the direct way,” Chuck retorted. “Just tell the Rangers what they want to know, not one of your infernal, all-fired windies.”

  “All right,” Luke said, frowning. “Far as my horses, they wore my brand. Nothin’ fancy, just a plain ol’ LJ on their left hips. All of mine had several old brands, too. Nothin’ which would stand out, like a paint, or bald-faced palomino, or anythin’ like that in the whole bunch. Only bays, chestnuts, and one sorrel.”

  “Well, at least those LJ brands will help identify ’em, if we happen to come across any of your horses,” J.R. said.

  “Luke, did you happen to hear any of those men say anythin’, mebbe call out a name or somethin’?” Jim asked.

  “Nary a word. They just kept shootin’ and shootin’, then shootin’ some more. Kept me pinned down while they fired the barn and ran off my stock. Now, if you don’t have any more questions, let me start grainin’ your horses.”

  “Sure, Luke, and much obliged,” Jim said.

  “Ranger, two or three folks in town heard those men shout a couple of names,” Eddie said. “Soon as you’re settled in the hotel we’ll round ’em up for you. Tell you what. After you get your room, why don’t you take the time to clean up, have some grub at Grandma Hussey’s place, then meet us at the saloon, say around five thirty?”

  “That sounds like a good plan to me, Jim,” Smoky said. “You agreeable?”

  “Don’t see why not,” Jim said, with a shrug. “I’m about ready for some decent chuck, instead of bacon and beans.”

  “Good,” Eddie said. “Soon as you finish takin’ care of your horses, we’ll bring you to the hotel.”

  ● ● ●

  While their horses ate, the Rangers groomed them thoroughly, removing several days’ worth of trail dust and grime from their coats. As always, Jim left Sizzle with a peppermint, and a promise to check on him later. Satisfied their horses were in good care under Luke’s capable hands, unless of course the hostler talked the animals’ ears off, they shouldered their saddlebags and followed the McIlroy brothers to the newly rebuilt Hotel Dixie. Except for the sign over the front door, the building was still unpainted, and cracks showed between the raw planks which had been used for the outside walls, and which had shrunk under the relentless Texas sun, but at least Jim and his partners wouldn’t be sleeping on the hard ground for this night, and would have a real roof over their heads.

  “Jock, got some lawmen here who need rooms for the night,” Chuck called, when they entered the lobby. “Rangers, this here is Jock MacDougal, owner of the Dixie.”

  “Sure, and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintances, gentlemen. Come in, come in. I apologize the accommodations are a bit Spartan, but the new furnishings I ordered haven’t arrived.” He waved his hand around the lobby, which was sparsely furnished with a few ladder-back chairs, a scorched desk, a linen chest, and a smoke-blackened sideboard, on which sat several pitchers of water. An old door perched on two empty whiskey barrels served as the front desk. There were no pigeonholes for the room keys and guests’ messages. Instead, there were merely nails driven into the wall behind the desk, only one of which had a key hanging from it.

  “We’ll take three rooms if you’ve got them,” Jim said, “Either that, or one with two beds. We’ll share if we have to.”

  “I wish I could grant ye that request, but I’ve only got one room, with one bed. All the others are full up, with folks who haven’t rebuilt yet. However, ye all are welcome to that room, and it’ll only be a dollar for the night.” MacDougal spoke in an unusual accent, a combination of Scots Highland brogue and Deep South, most likely, Jim would guess, from southern Mississippi.

  “We’ve had worse,” Jim answered. “The price is a bit steep, but we’ll take it. It will be a nice change from rollin’ our blankets out on the hard ground.”

  “Fine, fine,” MacDougal said. “If ye will just sign the register.” He turned the book to Jim, dipped a quill pen in an inkwell, and handed that to him. Jim signed in his nearly illegible scrawl, then dug a silver dollar out of his pocket and gave it to the clerk.

  “Well, I can’t read your signature, but as long as I’ve got your money, I guess that will be all right,” MacDougal said. He bit the coin to make certain it was genuine, then gave Jim the key to Room 8.

  “I’d be Jim, and my pardners are Smoky and J.R.,” Jim answered.

  “Rangers, seein’ as you’re all set for now, me’n Eddie’ll wander on outta here, and start roundin’ up folks,” Chuck said. “The saloon’s across the street, and up a block. We’ll meet you there at five thirty.”

  “We’ll see you then,” Jim answered. “Adios for now.”

  “Adios.”

  “Rangers, I don’t have a saloon or café in my hotel,” MacDougal said, once the brothers had left. “No women, either, although sometimes a man’ll bring a girl from the saloon here to take advantage of the facilities, if you know what I mean. I don’t want the bother. However, I do keep a stock of something extra-special on hand, for those whose throats are dry, and might want a wee drop of spirits. Have any of you ever sampled The Glenlivet?”

  “I sure haven’t,” Smoky answered. “Never even heard of it, for that matter.”

  “Same here,” J.R. said.

  “And I don’t drink anythin’ stronger than sarsaparilla, so I haven’t,” Jim said. “But I appreciate the offer. Just a glass of water would be fine.”

  “How about you other two gentlemen?” MacDougal said. “I’m offering ye a chance to taste the ambrosia of the gods, the finest single malt whiskey ever to come out of bonnie Scotland. Ye all will most likely not taste the like of it again, once you leave Brady.”

  “I’ll try some, sure,” Smoky said.

  “I might,” J.R. said. “First, just how much will this ‘ambrosia of the gods’ cost us?”

  “A mere dollar, for the closest sample to heaven you’ll ever find on this Earth,” MacDougal said. “It’s a miracle my precious hoard survived. I keep it in a special cellar, deep under the building. The heat from the fire dinna shatter the bottles. In fact, the labels dinna even get scorched, and the corks weren’t even singed.”

  “A dollar?” J.R. echoed. “That’s not ‘mere’. I can buy an entire bottle of decent whiskey for that price, in almost any saloon.”

  “Aye, ’tis a bit dear, the cost,” MacDougal answered. “However, I’m offering ye the chance to sample nectar so sweet, t’will make a young lady’s kiss seem bitter by comparison. A drink which will sooth your throat like a woman’s caress, go down smooth as silk, and warm your belly with the passion of a lover. All that, for just one dollar. And ye’ll not find any rotgut whiskey in any saloon which compares to The Glenlivet, at any price.”

  “He’s convinced me, J.R.,” Smoky said. “How about you?”

  “I can’t say no, not after a spiel like that,” J.R. said. “Mr. MacDougal, seems to me you could outtalk a medicine show man.”

  “Aye, that could be. But ye won’t regret your choice. Many men in Scotland say they’d rather have a dram of The Glenlivet than make love to a beautiful woman… or their wives. Which might explain why there are so few babies bein’ born back in my home country.”

  MacDougal laughed at his own joke, one he’d clearly told many times before. He opened the left door of the sideboard, then removed a bottle and four glasses. He set the bottle on top of the sideboard, uncorked it, and poured three glasses half-full of the amber liquid. The fourth he filled three-quarters full with water.

  “That will be a nickel for the water, and a dollar each for the whiskey,” he said.

  “You charge for water?” Jim said, disbelieving.

  “Aye, that I must,” MacDougal answered. “It cost me dearly to dig my well, and of course
I had to buy rope, a pulley, and a bucket so I can draw water. It all adds up to considerable expense.”

  “If you say so. My mouth’s dry as cotton, so I reckon I’ve got no choice,” Jim answered. Reluctantly, he dug in his pocket, pulled out a nickel, and handed it to the hotel owner. Only then did MacDougal pass him the glass of water. Smoky and J.R. each gave MacDougal a silver dollar, then he handed them their drinks.

  “Gentlemen, I propose a toast,” he said, raising his glass. “To your success in finding those men who destroyed Brady.”

  “And to them not puttin’ bullets in our guts when we do,” Smoky added. He took a sip of his drink.

  “Well?” MacDougal asked.

  “You’re right, Mr. MacDougal,” Smoky answered. “This is, without a doubt, the finest red-eye I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Red-eye!” MacDougal was indignant. “Ye can’t call The Glenlivet ‘red-eye’. Ye haven’t sampled anything so sweet since your mother suckled you at her breast. Haven’t ye any appreciation for the finer things in life, mon?”

  “I apologize if I’ve offended you,” Smoky answered. “Force of habit. This is indeed the best liquor that’s ever tickled my taste buds.”

  “Ah, that’s what I wanted to hear,” MacDougal said. “J.R.?”

  “I have to agree with my pardner. This is the smoothest, mellowest drink I’ve ever had the pleasure to sip,” J.R. answered.

  “And your water, Jim?” MacDougal asked.

  “It cut the dust from my throat,” Jim said.

  “Splendid. Will ye be liking another?”

  Jim shook his head. “I can’t afford it. Reckon I’ll just go back to the stable for my canteen, after a bit.”

  “How about you two gentlemen? Will ye be liking another drop?”

  “Uh-uh,” Smoky said. “I’d like to savor just this one glass.”

  “And I never take more’n one or two drinks at a time,” J.R. added. “Besides, we’ve got to clean up and get supper before we meet the McIlroy boys over at the saloon. Reckon we’d best get a move on.”

  “You’re lookin’ to wash up? Then ye’ll be needin’ towels, soap, and water,” MacDougal said. “I’ll get ye some.”

  “Wait,” Jim said. “First, how much?”

  “Jim, ye cut my heart to the quick,” MacDougal replied. “I’ll not take advantage of poor wayfarers, in need of lodging for the night.”

  “How much?” Jim repeated.

  “Fifteen cents for a pitcher of water. A quarter for the soap, and ten cents each for the towels,” MacDougal answered.

  “Any chance of gettin’ that water heated?”

  “Certainly, for another twenty-five cents.”

  “Never mind. I’ll use it cold. Far as the soap I’ve got my own, right here in my saddlebags,” Jim said. “Got a towel, too, but I’ll pay the ten cents so I won’t have to use mine, then hope it dries before we leave, and I have to stuff it back in my saddlebags. The three of us’ll share the one towel, and the water. And I’m sure glad you don’t ‘take advantage’ of folks. I’d hate to think what it would cost us if you did.”

  “I assure you, I barely get by,” MacDougal said.

  “Of course you do,” Jim answered. “Before we head upstairs, we just need to know if you saw any of those raiders, or heard a name. Anythin’ which might help us.”

  “No, I did not,” MacDougal answered. “As soon as the shooting started, I dove behind the front counter. I’m afraid I’m not a very brave man. I dinna emerge from hiding until those men were gone, and the entire town was ablaze. I’m sorry I can’t help ye.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jim said. “So far, it appears no one has seen any of those men’s faces, nor anythin’ they might recognize about ’em.” He handed MacDougal a quarter. “I’ll take that water and towel now.”

  MacDougal bit the coin, then shoved it in his pocket. He opened the linen chest, rummaged around in it, and came up with a tattered, once white but now dingy gray, towel. He handed that and one of the pitchers off the sideboard to Jim.

  “Here ye go. Room 8 is up the stairs and down the hall to the right. I hope ye’all will be comfortable.”

  “I’m certain we will be,” Jim said. “C’mon, Smoke, J.R. Let’s go.”

  The three lawmen tromped up the bare-wood stairs, then down an uncarpeted, dimly lit corridor to their room. Jim turned the key in the lock, opened the door, and stepped inside, with Smoky and J.R. close behind.

  “What the…?” Smoky exclaimed. “Even by out here in the middle of nowhere west Texas standards, this has got to be one of the worst furnished, and built, places I’ve ever seen.”

  The room’s furnishings were one double bed, with only one sheet and a thin blanket for covers, one chair, three hooks for clothes, and a wash stand with basin. There wasn’t even a chamber pot under the bed. Thin curtains fluttered at a partially open window. The walls were plank, and unpainted or papered. As had the wood used on the exterior of the hotel, those planks had shrunk, leaving large cracks between them, so that you could hear everything from the adjoining rooms, and even spy on your neighbors, were you so inclined.

  “Boy howdy, you said a mouthful, Smoke,” J.R. agreed. He slung his saddlebags over the chair, pulled off his gunbelt and hung it from a hook, then stretched out on the bed.

  “How’s the mattress?” Smoky asked, as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Think it’s stuffed with nails, if it’s stuffed with anythin’ at all,” J.R. answered. “I know the McIlroys said MacDougal rebuilt this place in a hurry, but he sure didn’t spend a whole lotta cash on it.”

  “He’s definitely Scotch, all right,” Jim said, glancing at one of the spaces in the wall, catching a bit of movement from the next room’s occupant. “Given the chance, MacDougal would probably bleed this town just as dry as those outlaws we’re after. Well, we’re only gonna be here for one night, so let’s make the best of it.” He placed the pitcher and towel on the washstand, then took off his Stetson, bandanna, shirt, and gunbelt, and hung those on a hook. He dug in his saddlebags and came up with a washcloth, and a half-used bar of Pears’ Soap. He had discovered that brand some months back. Unlike the harsh soaps so prevalent, Pears’ was a much milder product, of a translucent amber color. With the beating a man’s skin took from the harsh, unforgiving Texas sun and wind, he didn’t need the additional punishment of a harsh, alkaline soap. Jim poured some water from the pitcher into the basin, ducked his head into it, then wet the washcloth and soap and worked up a lather. He scrubbed his face and upper torso, then took the towel to dry off. He winced as he ran the towel over his face, then his chest and belly.

  “How’s that towel, Jim? A mite scratchy?” Smoky asked.

  “A mite?” I’d’ve been better off towelin’ myself dry with prickly pear pads,” Jim answered. “I’ve taken Comanche arrows that didn’t leave scratches as deep as this towel has.”

  “Well, mebbe at least you softened it up a bit for me’n Smoke,” J.R. said. “You gonna shave, Jim, or are you just about done?”

  “Nah, I’m not gonna bother with shavin’,” Jim answered. “Soap and water are yours, whenever you want it.”

  “Great,” J.R. said. He got off the bed. “Dunno about you two boys, but I’m plumb starved. Let’s hope the chuck in this town is better’n the hotel.”

  J.R. quickly washed and redressed, followed by Smoky. They once again belted their guns and holsters around their waists, then headed for supper.

  ● ● ●

  Unlike the Hotel Dixie, Grandma Hussey’s Café had been rebuilt to look almost exactly as it had appeared before the raid on Brady. And its proprietor, “Grandma”, resembled anything but her name. The Rangers were taken aback by the petite woman who boomed a greeting when they walked into the café. At this hour, before the usual suppertime, they were the only customers.

  “Howdy, boys,” she shouted. “Been expectin’ you. I’m Grandma. Chuck and Eddie McIlroy told me you’d be stoppin’ by for some vittles.
Plop yourselves down at that back corner table while I bring the coffee. I’ll only be a minute.” She disappeared into the kitchen, while Jim and his partners took their seats.

  “She don’t look like any grandma I’ve ever seen,” Smoky said, as he pulled the makings from his vest pocket and began to roll a cigarette.

  “Yeah, and this place don’t look like any restaurant I’ve ever been in, either,” J.R. added. Indeed, the café had red velvet curtains at the windows, red cloth napkins on the tables, and risqué paintings of scantily clad women hanging on the walls. In one corner, discreetly half-hidden by white lace curtains, trimmed with red velvet bows, were an oak table and four chairs. Above that table hung several paintings of open shirted or bare-chested, Stetson hatted, gun-toting young cowboys.

  “Long as the food’s good, and there’s plenty of it, I don’t care what the place looks like,” Jim said. “I’m about ready to eat an entire steer, hooves, horns, and all.”

  “I heard that. And you Rangers won’t go away from my place hungry, you can bet your hat on that.” Grandma had returned, brandishing a steaming hot pot of coffee and three mugs.

  “Jim. You’ve been here before,” J.R. said.

  “Nope.” Jim shook his head. “This is my first time in Brady. Never before been here in my life.”

  “Then where’d this nice lady pick up ‘bet a hat’?” You’re the only hombre I’ve ever heard use that expression,” J.R. retorted.

  “I started sayin’ it after a cowboy wearin’ that nice, fancy sombrero nailed to the wall over the counter bet me that hat against my dress he could eat six of my steak dinners in an hour,” Grandma said, as she started pouring their coffee. “He lost. I don’t suppose any of you would care to bet one of those silver star in silver circle badges y’all are wearin’? I’d be plumb tickled to have one of those.”

  “No, we sure ain’t interested in doin’ any gamblin’,” Smoky said. “Just want some supper, even if it is a mite early. We’ve got a lot to do before we pull out in the mornin’.”

  “What’ll you boys have?” Grandma asked. “I’ve got a special on pork chops today. Three of ’em in an order, nice and juicy. Those come with plenty of fried spuds, pork gravy, black-eyed peas, biscuits with butter and honey, and all the coffee you can drink. Got a nice, homemade apple crisp for dessert, if you ain’t filled up by then.”