by Lou Cameron
Stringer said, “I noticed they had a mighty big police force for a town that size. I noticed how convincing Buckskin Jack was as a big, bad gunfighter, too. I reckon that’s what inspired him to fib so much about ferocious felons he’d gone up against.”
She said, “Well, to be fair, he did shoot it out with Mysterious Dave fair and square.”
Stringer grimaced and said, “You mean he gunned a local eccentric called Pete Harlow and said he’d just fought a long-vanished killer from Dodge City. The Rangers will be able to determine just how fair the fight was. Some of the so-called witnesses may change their story with the ‘Eyes of Texas’ being sung to them in a back room.”
She stared at him wide-eyed to exclaim, “Good heavens, you make it sound as if old Pete Harlow was purely murdered! Why would anyone want to murder him if he wasn’t really a crook?”
Stringer answered, easily, “I said I doubted he was Mysterious Dave. I never said he was completely innocent. He’d either killed or knew who killed Wet Willy Wallace. He’d have hardly buried the poor cuss under his own adobe without noticing. I suspect it was his own notion to hide the body in damp clay, knowing it would keep a spell. As I told you before, anyone but a dead man could have told the rascals and they wouldn’t have been working so hard to keep me from finding Wet Willy.”
She absently fingered another button as she marveled, “You’re right, it’s just too complicated for me to follow. Are you saying old Pete Harlow shot that water witch and then went to the law to confess, only he refused to say where the body was and…”
“Hold on, it’s not that silly!” he cut in with a fond chuckle. As she stared at him big-eyed he explained, “Whether it was betrayal of a true friendship for money, or just hired shelter to Wet Willy when he passed through, Harlow killed or allowed the killing of poor Wallace and then buried the corpus delicti mighty eccentric. They must have paid him. He must have thought it was worth more. So, when he made the mistake of raising his voice to Buckskin Jack in front of friendly witnesses, he was paid off in lead slugs.”
She suppressed a shudder and said, “Brrr, remind me not to try and blackmail anyone wearing a badge and gun in his own neighborhood saloon. But why did they say Pete Harlow was Mysterious Dave if he never was?”
Stringer shrugged and opined, “They had to say something. Harlow was known as an odd but longtime resident voting man. Had it been up to me, or likely even old Clem Thornway, the tall talking shrimp might have come up with some less famous outlaw. However, it’s safe to assume a shrimp who names himself Buckskin Jack has a fertile imagination. Lord only knows whatever happened to the real Mysterious Dave. That’s what makes him so mysterious. As for deciding the missing water witch was Curly Bill, well, that was just silly, but there you have it.”
She insisted, “No, I don’t. Why would even a silly shrimp want to say the missing water witch was Curly Bill, and who stole my ponies the other night and …”
“Slow down!” he cut in, putting out his smoke to keep from burning her as she edged closer on her trim rump. He put an arm around her shaking shoulders and said, “Simmer down. Nobody was ever after you, until recently, at least. Bitty Buckskin Jack thought he had to say something to keep others from seeking the missing water witch before his own boys could find him. It was mighty dumb to blurt out he was really Curly Bill and that he’d fled once more to Lord knows where. But, once he’d done it, the Thornways fixed him up with those mysterious notes on store-bought stationery easy enough. The moves smart and not-so-smart were made to divert any suspicion from the obvious suspects, see?”
She relaxed a mite and snuggled closer, saying, “They sell all sorts of paper at the general store. I like brown ink on cream paper better, but what made them the likely suspects?”
He sighed and said, “After the disappearance, or worse, of a water witch and well driller? Good grief, Susan, the only reason they had for harming a hair on his head was that he was messing up their own plans for an irrigation monopoly. If Wet Willy hadn’t been sinking tube wells right and left for settlers new to the country…”
“Gee you’re smart!” she cut in. “It’s all simple, once you spell it out so plain, but what about those other crooks and my missing ponies?”
He said, “That’s where I come in, I fear. I never stole anyone’s stock. I just let the rascals know I was on my way to write down all the facts and see that they got published in a big-town paper sold all over the west. In all modesty, I’ve a certain rep for turning over wet rocks and so, knowing how much they had to hide from the light of day, they decided it might be best if I never got here. They had that hardcased breed on their payroll. The Rangers can work out where Buckskin Jack recruited him, and when. Suffice it to say, they assigned him the task of stopping me if I got off at Sierra Blanca. We’ll worry later about who they sent down to Van Horn in case I got off there.”
She dimpled at him and said, “You certainly do get around, don’t you?”
He modestly replied, “I just said that. The breed had to have been new in town because not too many people knew him. Needing transportation down to Sierra Blanca but not wanting anyone at the livery to notice, he got them from your wrangler, Chuck Woods, another new boy in town if you’ll think back.”
She gasped and asked, “How many sneaky rascals did old Thornway and his pals send away for?”
He said, “Not as many as they’ll need if we can only make it to the Rangers some damned time this week. How do you feel about moving on a spell?”
She said, “Awful. It’s going on noon, and Lord only knows if we’ll find any more shade as nice as this. You were telling me about that breed and Chuck Woods, the mean thing.”
He said, “They were both mean and, unlike old Pete Harlow and Wet Willy, I suspect they were really wanted in other parts. Lucky for me the breed was recongnized by bounty hunters down in Sierra Blanca, and the both of us got mighty lucky when they closed in on him, stumbled over me instead, and acted mighty confused. I read it all wrong down there. That’s fair, the law did, too. If the breed had had any sense he’d have kept going whilst he was ahead, but they must have put a good price on my head. He tailed me all the way back here, not knowing Buckskin Jack had explained him away to the few who knew him as the notorious Henry Starr.”
She laughed incredulously and asked, “Why do some men do that? I mean it’s not as if we girls think a gent’s any richer or handsomer if he tells us he knows all sorts of famous folk.”
He smiled thinly and asked, “Would it inspire you to walk faster if I assured you I wasn’t rich?”
She seemed to think handsome would do until rich, or at least cooler breezes, came along. So, seeing she was going to take that attitude, he leaned back on the shady sand with her and got to work on some of his own buttons as he said, “If I knew why some men made up such whoppers, and which ones had, I’d no doubt have a much better grasp on history. I mean, we only have George Washington’s word that he never told a lie, and how can we be certain Gaul was divided the way Caesar said, considering all the other odd notions he came up with?”
She said, “Girls make up stories, too, albeit better ones. You were telling me about that sneak they said was Henry Starr. Was he the one that got struck by lightning last night?”
Stringer said, “I know he was packing a .30-30. The Rangers can work on that. Old Thorn way can explain who he might, or might not have, sold fresh ammo to of late. Chuck Woods was offered a price on me too. I thought he was out to backshoot Buckskin Jack, but we live and learn, and my hasty draw seems to have inspired a certain loss of confidence in the boys. Nobody but that one breed seems to have been willing to come after me solo. After failing to nail me in a bunch, up by that dam, they could be scattering from hell to breakfast by now. So, no fooling, Susan, don’t you reckon we ought to get it on up the road?”
She laughed and said she’d rather get it off. But he had to haul her boots off, first, before he could get her split skirts off over her spurs.
He believed her, even before she got on top. In the end, she didn’t let him up until almost three in the afternoon. But that wasn’t all that bad. The sun was glaring a lot less as they finally left their cactus love nest, all loved out for now.
******
The sun shone even lower and their shadows stretched way out to one side as they trudged footsore up a dusty service road they’d come to, following the tracks ever northwest out of the deep dust and stickerbush. A church spire rose salmon pink against the azure of a West Texas evening. Here and there, plumes of wood smoke rose even higher, announcing suppertime. Being taller, Stringer could make out the red tiles of lower landmarks somewhat sooner. When he said so, little Susan sobbed, “Thank God! I don’t think I’ve got me another mile in these poor old bones of mine!”
He chuckled fondly and said, “They might not feel so old if you hadn’t rattled ’em so much back yonder, bless you just the same. Just stick with me a little longer and you’ll be able to stretch your sweet self out on fresh linen aboard a hotel bed. Yonder lies the seat of Reeves County, and they’ll surely have at least one hotel.”
She said there’d been more than one, last time she’d been this far east of the Lazy B, and added in a tone of desperation, “Needless to say I got to ride all the way and I still wound up feeling mighty weary. Honest to God, Stuart, I’ve just got to rest a minute!”
He swore under his breath and insisted, “We’re almost there. Look ahead, just this side of that clump of cottonwood, and tell me that’s not a chicken crossing the road!”
She groaned, “I don’t want to eat any scrawny Mex chicken. I want to soak my poor feet in ice water for a week! These boots were never made for walking, and we’ve walked way more than you promised!”
Stringer had promised no such thing. He knew she didn’t want to hear this. As many a man before him had observed, men were expected to blame their aches and pains on fate whilst women got to blame the nearest man for anything that ailed them.
As they spied the Mexican adobe beyond the cottonwoods that the chicken doubtless went with, Susan started walking faster, announcing her intent to seek medical attention, or at least a place to sit down and never dammit budge again on foot.
As they got to the dooryard of the humble adobe, Stringer told her to let him do the talking. However, as an elderly Mex woman and her four kids, or grandkids, came out to stare shyly at them, Susan’s tone as well as her Spanish were polite as he might have managed. So, it was quickly established la señorita was welcome to stay as long as she liked in the casa they’d just bestowed on her, por nada, por favor. Stringer took his hand out of his jeans, empty, and told them all he’d be back directly with a buggy or buckboard for Susan, and at least a sack of sweets for the kids if la señora would permit them to have any.
He was glad they’d come upon the place as he strode on a heap faster. He’d never figured out why gals always bought footwear a size too small for themselves. It wasn’t as if men looked inside a lady’s damned shoe, or even asked what size it might be.
He passed other adobes, closer together, and when he encountered a couple of Mexicans headed home for supper, they assured him the county courthouse and, better yet, the Ranger station was just around the next bend, beyond that cluster of brick warehouses he could see from there.
They didn’t warn him about the three gents lurking in the shadows of the same, dressed Anglo, but by sheer good fortune, one chose to strike a light for his smoke just in time. As one of them shouted, “There he is!” Stringer wasn’t there anymore. He’d crabbed sideways through a cactus hedge and to hell with the thorns as someone yelled, “Get him!” and a less excited voice yelled back, “Don’t fire on damn shadows, damn it! This is the damned county seat and it ain’t our county!”
Stringer noticed he was missing his old Stetson just about the time one of them yelled, “There he is! Hunkered down ahint that pear hedge! Slim, you head him off to the west. Me and Mike’ll make sure he don’t run for town, hear?”
Stringer knew they’re ranged on the hat he’d left hung up in the pear. A heap of pear thorns were hung up in him right now, but that wouldn’t damage a man’s hide half as much as bullets. So, he moved east, fast, and when he came to more cactus looming that way, he just raised his left elbow to shield his eyes and gun hand as he simply bulled his way through. As he did so, he was as surprised to find himself facing two dark figures on the road as they must have been to see him explode out of the cactus hedge. Stringer got off the first shot, and as the one called Mike spun around and down with a slug in one lung, Buckskin Jack threw his own six-gun and both hands high in the sky, sobbing, “No! Don’t! I was only funning and I’ll never do it again!”
As Stringer moved closer, plucking a cactus pad from his left thigh with his free hand they both heard Slim, somewhere off in the distance, call out, “Did you get him, boys?”
Stringer growled, “Guess how I want you to answer.” So, Buckskin Jack called out, “Down this end, Slim. We’ve got to get outta here poco tiempo!”
That sounded all right to Stringer. Whether Slim knew Blair’s shouted encouragements better, or just liked to take his damn time, he sure seemed to be moving slowly as Stringer moved his prisoner over against the cactus with a silent wave of his six-gun’s muzzle and kept it trained up the way they’d last heard from the remaining member of the trio. Nightfall came on fast once the sun had left a clear, cloudless sky to fend for itself. It was that in-between time when dark blurs flitting through the branches above could be birds or bats, and it was tough to tell whether other dark blurs were really moving or not. Stringer could hear and smell Buckskin Jack pissing down one pants leg, but couldn’t see which one it was as he hissed, “Call out to him again, damn you!”
The tiny town tamer did. They got no answer. Stringer told Blair to hunker down and hunkered down himself, as he tried to decide which way to aim in a twilight world so filled with equally ominous shadowy shapes.
Then what had to be a .45-70 thundered in about the last direction Stringer might have picked and, as if he didn’t have enough on his plate, the son of a bitch he’d dropped further out in the road rolled up on one elbow to sass him with a wild round of .44-40.
So, Stringer shot him again and whirled to cover the source of that louder shot. Then he saw another cuss down in the dust on his stomach with the back of his sateen rodeo shirt on fire. By the faint light of burning artificial silk, he could make out Susan Bancroft beyond, the big Colt Dragoon still smoking in her two dainty hands.
By the time she’d rejoined him, Slim’s shirt had flickered out. She said, “You’d no sooner left than I got tired of waiting for you. So I guess I just needed a few minutes’ rest after all.”
He hauled her in for a kiss and said he was sure glad she had so little patience, though he still found it odd she’d joined the party from the far side. So, she explained she’d almost caught up when the fun and games started, spotted Slim sneaking around the acre or so fenced in by all that cactus, and just snuck after him.
She was saved from having to explain that much more for now, when they both heard a more distant male voice calling out. “All right, who’s been shooting off all them guns so close to town, and how come?”
Stringer called back, “It’s about over, but we need us a heap of Rangers over here right now!”
The voice cam
e closer, calling back, “You got one. One Texas Ranger is all it takes, short of a full-scale Comanche rising.”
Suiting actions to his brag, the laconic cuss rode a mite closer, reined in just outside easy pistol range, and dismounted to join them afoot, a sawed-off twelve-gauge pump cradled casually by one elbow of his fresh white shirt.
As the older and even taller man stopped by the facedown cadaver of the still smouldering Slim, he sniffed suspiciously and said, “I sure wish you two would put them sixguns away and tell me which one of you shot this cuss, and why. Is that another body I see yonder, in the shadows of that cottonwood across the road?”
Stringer holstered his gun, saying, “It is. We managed to take this other one alive.”
The ranger regarded Buckskin Jack with a smile and decided, “I generally throw ’em back when I reel ’em in that small. Though let’s start with whether you have a proper fishing license afore we worry about your catch.”
Stringer nodded and said, “I’m sure you’ll agree we did right, once you hear our whole tale. I’m MacKail of the San Francisco Sun, sent to your state with proper press credentials and no harm meant to any decent citizen. This decent female citizen of Texas would be Miss Susan Bancroft of the Lazy B, Culberson County.”
The old Ranger ticked his hat brim to Susan with his free hand and soberly said, “Your servant, ma’am. I know your people, so you got to be all right.”
When he turned to the last survivor with a curious expression, Stringer said, “He’s not all right. He’s tried to kill the two of us more than once and I’m sure he’d like to tell us about all the other mean things he’s done, once we get him over to your Ranger station.”
Blair whimpered, “I never meant to hurt nobody. It was all Clem Thornway’s notion. I was only doing what I was told.”
The Ranger turned to Stringer to observe, “You was right, it talks. What do you call the little critter?”
Stringer said, “Oh, this here’s the one and original Buckskin Jack Blair, the famous town tamer and bane of all badmen.”
