The Ghost Riders

by James J. Griffin

  “It is a someone,” Smoky said, “Or, more properly, what’s left of a someone.”

  The dead man was lying face down. He had been stripped naked, and two bullet holes were apparent, in the middle of his back. Chunks of his flesh were missing, where the buzzards had ripped it away.

  “Looks like some cowboy ran across our men,” J.R. said. “Worse luck for him.”

  “Let’s see,” Jim said. “Gimme a hand, Charlie.”

  “All right, pa.”

  Jim and Charlie dismounted, then rolled the corpse onto its back. The dead man still held a piece of white cloth clutched in his hand. Most of his face was gone, blown off by a close range shotgun blast.

  The McIlroy brothers leaned over in their saddles and vomited at the gruesome sight.

  “This hombre wasn’t any cowboy,” Jim said. He picked up a blood-spattered white hat which was lying alongside the corpse. “Appears to me he was one of the outfit. Looks like they must’ve had a fallin’ out.”

  “There’s no way of identifyin’ him. Whoever killed him made certain of it. Not with his face blown away like that,” Smoky said.

  “Well, we know for certain he ain’t Cannon,” Charlie answered.

  “How’s that, Charlie?” J.R. asked.

  “There’s no scar on his belly, or his… genitals. That means he’s still ridin’ with the bunch. And that means he’s still mine.”

  This time, in deference to his father, Charlie caught himself before uttering the word he really wanted to use.

  “Nothin’ more we can learn here,” Jim said. “I’m surprised there’s still this much left of him. The buzzards and coyotes must’ve been workin’ on somethin’ else, before they found this hombre. We’ll leave him for them. Let’s go.”

  He and Charlie remounted. The Rangers resumed their pursuit.

  ● ● ●

  “You reckon we’ve got any chance at all of catchin’ up to those hombres before they disappear into the Caprock, Jim?” Smoky asked, as they neared Quitaque, around one in the afternoon. It was four days after they had ridden out of Olney.

  “I doubt it,” Jim answered. “The canyonlands are only about a half a day’s ride from here. Those renegades are still at least four hours ahead of us. They might already be in there. But it don’t matter none. We’ll flush ’em outta there. Bet a hat on it.”

  “You reckon we should head into town, and see if they came through there?” J.R. asked. “Mebbe we could pick up some fresh horses, too.”

  “I don’t want to take the time,” Jim answered. “I don’t think they’d hit Quitaque. Too many people know about ’em now, and it’s too close to Ike Stonefield’s home territory. They wouldn’t want to rile up folks here. Besides, they’re not even attemptin’ to hide their trail, at this point. They’ve got to realize someone’s comin’ after ’em. They’ve probably known that would happen ever since they hit San Leanna. Whoever’s in charge of this bunch is a right smart hombre. He’d have found out, somehow, that it was a couple of Rangers who killed his men. He’s probably even learned it was me’n Smoke. He’s deliberately tryin’ to lead us right into a trap, is my guess. No, I figure they’ll ride straight for the canyons, hole up there for awhile, hopin’ to either give us the slip, or bushwhack us. After they’re certain we’re taken care of, I believe they’ll attack Stonefield’s family’s place, then make a run for the Territories, or mebbe New Mexico.”

  “My money’d be on the Territories,” Chuck said. “That’s been a cesspool of robbers, killers, and desperadoes of all stripes for years. Seems like almost every bad man in the Southwest ends up there, sooner or later. The Indian police and U.S. Marshals do the best they can, tryin’ to bring in as many of those hombres as they can, but there’s not enough of ’em, and way too many outlaws.”

  “Boy howdy, you’ve got that right,” Charlie agreed.

  Jim pulled Sizzle down to a walk. Even his seemingly tireless paint was showing the effects of the hard pursuit. His flanks were gaunt, his ribs showing, and his sorrel and white coat, which ordinarily shined like a newly minted copper penny, was dull, streaked with dirt, salt, and dried sweat.

  “Ease up, boys,” he ordered. “We can’t make the canyons before dark, in any event. We’ll take it slow for the remainder of today, to give the horses a break, and make camp for the night just inside the Caprock. That’ll give all of us, and the horses, a decent rest. Which we’ll need, because after tonight there’ll be no more rest until we come up with those Ghost Riders.”

  “Or until they put bullets in us,” Ty muttered.

  “That could happen,” Jim admitted. “We’ll just have to make certain it doesn’t.”

  ● ● ●

  The Rangers reached the Caprock canyonlands, an expanse of vividly colored buttes, arroyos, eroded hills, and deep canyons, an hour before sundown. They stopped at a mound of fresh horse droppings. Jim dismounted, picked up one of the “road apples”, and crumbled it between his fingers.

  “They’re still about three hours ahead of us,” he said. “They’ve probably already holed up for the night. And I’ve got a hunch they aren’t goin’ much farther, not until they make sure we aren’t still after ’em.”

  “Which means they’ll either try’n hide their tracks, and bush up in one of these canyons until we give up searchin’ for ’em, or they’re gonna arrange a nice drygulchin’ for us,” J.R. said. “My money’s on the drygulchin’. They’re a bloodthirsty bunch, worse’n any Comanches or Kiowas I’ve ever fought. Stonefield undoubtedly knows these rocks like the back of his hand, and we don’t. They could be waitin’ for us just about anywhere in this maze, and would put bullets in us before we even knew what hit us.”

  “So we’ll need to be extra cautious, from here on in,” Jim said. “We’ll ride a bit more, until we find a good spot to stop for the night.”

  He lifted his reins, clucked to Sizzle, and put him into a walk once again. A few minutes later, they spied a lone rider. He was mounted on a palomino gelding and led a gray burro, which was laden with packs, an easel with stand, and canvasses. He had stopped next to a small spring, and was preparing to dismount. He looked up at the Rangers’ approach.

  “Howdy, men,” he called out. “I was just fixin’ to spend the night here. You plannin’ on doin’ the same? You’re welcome, if you’d like. I could use some company. It’s been quite a spell since I’ve had another human to talk with.”

  “Yeah, we are,” Jim answered. “Long as you don’t mind sharin’, since you got here first.”

  “Not at all,” the rider answered. “The name’s Andy Thomas, out of Carthage, Missouri.” He swung out of his saddle.

  Thomas was a tall, dark haired man, who smiled readily. A flop-brimmed hat covered his thick hair. He wore a Remington .44 on his right hip.

  “Jim Blawcyzk, Texas Rangers, and my pardners. Smoky McCue, J.R. Huggins, my son Charlie, Ty Tremblay, and these last two hombres are brothers, Chuck and Eddie McIlroy. Appreciate you’re sharin’ the camp. Let’s get outta these saddles, men.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintances,” Thomas said, as the Rangers nodded to him. He waved at the burro. “In case you haven’t already figured it out, I’m an artist. At the moment, I’m on an extended journey through Texas, trying to capture her on canvas.”

  “Speakin’ of capture, we’re after a real bad bunch,” Jim said. “You happen to see anythin’ of a band of about a dozen and a half men, most of ’em probably mounted on light-colored broncs, all of ’em wearin’ white hats?”

  “I did see those men, at least it sounds like them,” Thomas answered. “About three hours ago. I was up on a rimrock, workin’ on a painting of the canyon below, when they rode through.”

  “You’re lucky they didn’t spot you,” Smoky said. “You’d most likely be dead if they had. Those were the Ghost Riders you saw.”

  “I’ve heard about them. When I saw them, I had a gut feelin’ they weren’t men to tangle with,” Thomas answered. “So I faded b
ack into the scrub before they saw me, and made certain they were well past before I showed myself again. I sure didn’t want to be skylined, and get myself shot fulla holes.”

  “Which way were they headed?” Jim asked.

  “I can’t be certain,” Thomas answered. “These canyons are a real maze, twistin’ and turnin’ back on each other. I think they were headed toward the northwest, but that’s just a guess on my part.”

  “Jim, I’ve ridden after men in here a time or two,” J.R. said. “A man could hide in these canyons for weeks. Water’s real scarce, though. I’d wager they’re headed for Gyp Springs. That’s one of the few reliable sources of water in here. I’m bettin’ they rode there, stocked up on water, then rode back into the canyons, figurin’ we’d have to show up at Gyp Springs, sooner or later, for water. They’ll be lyin’ in wait for us, ready to drygulch us the minute we get there.”

  “I’ve gotta go along with J.R.,” Smoky said. “That makes sense. They have to be figurin’ they can gun down all of use real easy there, then ride away, with no one left to keep after ’em. By the time our bodies are discovered, if they ever are, those hombres’ll be long gone from Texas.”

  “I’m not gonna argue that point, no, sir,” Jim agreed. “We’ll spend the night here, then start out for Gyp Springs first thing in the mornin’. Thanks, Andy. You might just have given us the lead we needed to find that outfit… and just mebbe, you saved our lives.”

  “Glad to be able to help, Ranger,” Thomas answered. “I’d sure like to be able to come along with you, but I’m afraid I’m not very good with a gun. I wear this pistol for protection from varmints; however, I’m not much of a fighter. The only fast drawin’ I’ve ever done is with a paintbrush, not a six-gun. I’ve also got a wife waitin’ for me, back home in Missouri. Dina would get some upset if I came back to her full of holes, or in a pine box. She’d never let me hear the end of it.”

  “That’s all right, Andy,” Jim assured him, laughing. “Me, Smoky, J.R., and Charlie have wives of our own, so we know exactly what you mean. And please, call us by our names. You try’n call each of us ‘Ranger’ and it’ll get mighty confusin’.”

  “Sure, Jim.”

  “There, that’s better. And we’re the ones paid to take chances runnin’ down renegades, not folks like yourself. Now, soon as we get the horses cared for, we’ll make supper.”

  “We gonna have a campfire, Jim?” Ty asked. “It might give us away to those outlaws.”

  “I’d ordinarily agree with you, Ty,” Jim answered. “But from what Andy here’s told us, those hombres are quite a few miles away. Even if they did double back, they probably have a good idea exactly where we are. I don’t think a fire will make any difference. We’ll post a guard tonight, just to be safe, but I don’t reckon we’ll have any trouble.”

  The horses were allowed to drink, then untacked, groomed, and picketed to graze on the tough grama grass surrounding the spring. Sizzle, as usual, was just turned loose. The big paint would not stray far from Jim’s side. Andy’s burro was also unloaded and curried. Once the mounts were settled, the men turned their attention to their own needs. Shortly, bacon was frying in the pan, beans heating, biscuits rising and coffee boiling.

  “Jim,” Andy said, as he turned the bacon, “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d be plumb pleased to draw you and your men.”

  “I’d be glad to let you do just that, Andy. I’m sure the rest of the men would too,” Jim said. “If we had the time. But, we’ve gotta be on our way at first light. We’ve come too far to let the men we’re after slip away now. I’m not gonna tell you everythin’ they’ve done, but they’re responsible for wholesale murder, robbery, and more. We’ll be leavin’ at sunup.”

  “You misunderstood me, Jim,” Andy replied. “I haven’t had the chance to do a paintin’ of cowboys around the campfire at night. I want to paint you men while you’re havin’ your supper. Besides, this painting will be even better than that. It’s probably the only opportunity I’ll have to capture a company of Texas Rangers on canvas. If you’ll pardon my usin’ the word ‘capture’.”

  “In that case, of course,” Jim said. “You go ahead and ask the rest of the men. I doubt any of ’em’ll turn you down.”

  “Much obliged, Jim.”

  ● ● ●

  All the men were ravenously hungry after their long, hard ride. With the knowledge that, hopefully, their desperate pursuit of the Ghost Riders would soon be over, they downed heaping helpings of their meal. Andy worked on his painting in between bites of his supper. He explained that he would get the basics down that night, then, as the oils dried, fill in the details later.

  “That bright yella shirt you’re wearin’, along with that blue bandanna, is sure gonna stick out in this paintin’, Jim,” he noted, with a chuckle.

  “My pa loves his bright shirts,” Charlie said. “He’s always bein’ kidded about ’em by the rest of us.”

  “Yeah, Jim sure don’t have much fashion sense,” Smoky added, laughing.

  “That’s true enough,” J.R. said. “But don’t forget, many’s the time we’ve been plumb grateful Jim likes those gaudy shirts. They make a nice, bright target for anyone tryin’ to plug us. The bad guys just naturally aim for Jim first.”

  “Y’all are just jealous, because you can’t wear shirts like these, and look good in ’em,” Jim said.

  “Nor would we want to, pa,” Charlie answered. “Besides, you ain’t the only good target this time. Eddie, that white shirt and bright red neckerchief you’re wearin’ are gonna shine like a beacon against these red rocks. You’n my pa are gonna catch the first bullets.”

  “Eddie, don’t let ’em get to you,” Jim said. “They’ll all be lyin’ stretched out in the grass, full of lead and dead as doornails, while me’n you are still fightin’. Those outlaws ain’t gonna want to put holes in our nice shirts.”

  “I’d just as soon none of us catch any bullets,” Ty said.

  “I think we can all agree on that,” Chuck answered.

  While they ate, Jim set a schedule for the night guards. After supper, the men lingered over final cups of coffee. Smoky, Eddie, and Chuck had last cigarettes. The horses were checked one last time. J.R. had the first watch, so he took up a position just below the spring. The others rolled out their bedrolls, pulled off their boots, removed their hats and gunbelts, and slid under their blankets. Charlie and Ty, being close in age to the McIlroys, had formed a quick friendship with the two young brothers. They had made their beds on one side of the fire, Jim and Smoky on the other. Andy was still working on his painting when everyone, except for J.R., had drifted off to sleep.

  ● ● ●

  The next morning dawned as did almost every summer morning in Texas, already hot and humid, with no hint of a breeze to provide relief from the oppressive heat. The Rangers took care of necessary business, washed up, and ate a quick breakfast. They bade farewell to Andy, who would remain at the camp for a few more hours, putting the finishing touches on his painting of the Rangers and allowing it to dry, before moving on.

  “Good luck to all of you,” Andy said, “And thank you again for allowing me to paint you.”

  “Thanks, Andy,” Jim answered. “It’s a fine picture. I hope you’ll get a good price for it.”

  “It’s a fine picture, except for your ugly mug right smack in the middle of it, Jim,” Smoky said. “Well, that and those shirts of yours and Eddie’s.”

  “Those shirts provide just the color this painting needs,” Andy said. “Since it’s a nighttime portrait and all.”

  “So there, Smoke,” Jim added. “That’s why it’ll fetch a whole heap of dinero.”

  “I may not sell this one,” Andy said. “I just might keep this one for myself. It’ll hang in my studio.”

  “With luck, mebbe we’ll run into you again, once all this is over,” J.R. said. He tugged on his cinch, then gave a yell of pain.

  “J.R. What happened?” Jim asked.

  “Monte. T
his doggone cayuse twisted and caught my hand in the cinch, right behind the buckle,” J.R. answered. “Boy howdy, that hurts.”

  “You gonna be able to use that hand?” Jim asked.

  “I’ll manage,” J.R. said. “And I can shoot with my left, if I have to. Let’s just get.”

  “All right. Andy, we’ve got to be goin’,” Jim said. “You keep a sharp eye out, just in case those men get past us, and ride back this way. If you do see ’em, I’d appreciate it if you got to the nearest town, and wired Ranger Headquarters in Austin, since that’ll most likely mean we’re dead.”

  “I’ll do that,” Andy assured him.

  “Bueno. Let’s go, men.”

  The Rangers mounted up and rode away from the campsite, leaving Andy staring at their backs, and silently praying the painting he had just completed would not be the last picture ever done of them, still alive.

  ● ● ●

  Late that morning, the Rangers were nearing Gyp Springs. They were riding between the towering red rock walls of one of the innumerable canyons in this section of the Caprock. The tracks left by the Ghost Riders’ horses were still plain to see. More and more, it was becoming apparent they were hoping to lure Jim and his partners into a deadly trap.

  “We're still on their trail, all right. There's the prints of that horse which throws out his left front hoof, like Jorgenson, the blacksmith back in Brady, told us. How much longer do you figure it is until we reach Gyp Springs, J.R.?” Jim asked.

  “About three more miles,” J.R. answered. “We should be there in an hour or so.”

  “Bueno. Let’s stop, and give the horses a chance to blow. We’ll take ten minutes.”

  Jim waved the men to a stop. Smoky pulled the makings from his pocket and began rolling a quirly. The others all lifted their canteens from their saddlehorns, to take a short drink. Cooper, Chuck’s borrowed mount, reversed direction when Chuck loosened his grip on the reins. Just as he did, a rifle shot cracked. Chuck screamed in pain and toppled from his horse. He landed on his back, then rolled onto his side, his hands clamped to his gut. He curled up and lay writhing in agony, moaning softly.