Buck’s anger burned against Derrick Denning. What kind of man left his wife little more than destitute? But other forces could be at work. Rustlers—be they Mexican, Indian, or someone closer to home—would find rich pickings at the defense-poor D-Bar-D Ranch. Buck was in Mason County to establish peace and find justice for the dead man if possible. Maybe he could make a difference for his family as well. God mandated taking care of widows and orphans; Buck felt obligated.
Mrs. Denning wouldn’t be pleased with his interference; he might have to act in secret. For now, he’d take the long ride back to his uncle’s house to think about his conversation with Mrs. Denning. Surely she wouldn’t try to go after the mob herself. No one, no woman, would be that foolish.
The long August day was turning to twilight by the time he reached Onkel Georg’s spread, the Lazy F Ranch. Brushing down Blaze, he admired the clean organization of the stable. Hard work, careful planning, and family effort—he had learned all of that and more from his mother’s family.
In the bunkhouse next to the barn, he heard the gentle consonants and soft curses of his mother’s native German, as well as a phrase or two in Spanish and Comanche. His fluency in four languages made him invaluable to the Rangers. He could blend into almost any group he joined up with; more than once, he’d fooled them by speaking their language like a native. But the only secrets he heard from the bunkhouse now were the chances of getting rain the next day—the general opinion was not good.
He stopped by the pump to wash up and smelled bratwurst and sauerkraut through the open kitchen window. Tante Ertha was fixing all his favorite German dishes. She didn’t seem to think the Rangers fed him well enough.
“William! We weren’t sure if you were going to make it back tonight.” Onkel Georg clapped him on the back. “Any luck today?”
“It’s Buck.” Buck didn’t like his birth name. It was given in honor of his grandfather who died in the Texas War for Independence from Mexico. He was also named after his aunt Billie, who survived years in Indian captivity. He latched onto the name Buck as soon as he broke his first bronco.
“You may be Buck to the rest of the world, but to us, you’ll always be William.” At least Onkel Georg didn’t call him “Wilhelm,” the way his opa Fleischer tended to do. “And call me George, not Georg.” His uncle Americanized both his names after his move to Mason, transforming Georg into George and Fleischer into Fletcher. His pale skin, which burned before turning brown, and his graying blond hair, gave away his German roots before he spoke with his distinct German accent. “So. Today?”
Buck didn’t care to reveal too much about his activities in Mason County, and not all his reasons stemmed from his taciturn nature. He shrugged his shoulders. “Not much.”
“Come over here and say hello to your cousin.”
Buck studied his cousin, who was his same age, same height, and of similar build. Henry Fletcher. They had spent a lot of time together when they were very young, but they had grown apart in the years since the move. He hoped they could reconnect—if it didn’t interfere with the job.
“I heard you were headed over to the Denning ranch this morning. Did she have anything interesting to say?” Buck could feel both George and his cousin watching him.
“I make my reports to Captain Roberts.” Buck hung his hat by the door. “You’ll hear about it when the rest of the county does.”
Henry opened the door, and they followed the odors of the meal simmering on the stove to the kitchen. A babble of voices greeted them. God had blessed the Fletcher family. Henry had three sisters—two married, one still at home—before he got the brother he wanted—Fred, the baby of the family. Henry had married five years ago and now with their two children, they filled every spot at the kitchen table.
Tante Ertha’s face glistened where she tended the pans on the stove. Buck kissed her on the cheek. “It smells wonderful. Just like home.”
A few minutes later, Onkel Georg said grace and the family tucked into the feast his wife had prepared.
“Your family is doing well.” Buck played a game of peek-a-boo with Henry’s youngest, a girl named Beth. “I always have more cousins to meet when I come to visit.”
Henry’s wife Lisel blushed at the statement, but Henry grinned. “We are expecting another baby early next year.”
“Congratulations, cousin.”
“The family is doing well, but the ranch has had problems. It’s these rustlers.”
“I thought the Indian problem had gotten better.” Buck smiled to hide any of his thoughts from showing. “The Rangers have been hard at work protecting the good citizens of Texas.”
“It’s not the Indians who are causing the problem. It’s these mavericks who steal the yearlings before they’re branded, and the nonresident stockmen who don’t even live here but try to run their cattle out of our county.” Henry dug his fork into his plate.
Buck could see Henry looking at him from underneath his lowered eyelids, gauging his reaction. “But I thought that’s how Onkel Georg built up his herd. He was a maverick too. It’s not illegal.” Fred scowled openly. Henry’s face was impassive.
“Things were different then,” Onkel Georg said. “I took some of their yearlings, they took some of mine. It all worked out.” Buck wouldn’t argue the point. “The new stock law is meant to make things more fair, but it sounds like it’s been impossible to keep. Even for people who have no intention of breaking any laws.” He cut off a chunk of bratwurst and chewed. “People like those two men accused of cattle rustling last fall, Thomas and Roberts, from what I hear.” Henry’s eyes were cold. “I’d be careful who you say that to, Cousin Buck. Any impartial jury would have found those two Anglos guilty of cattle rustling last year, not to mention the people who were helping them. It is all right to say it here, among family. But some of our neighbors would disagree with you.”
Buck nodded. “That’s what the Rangers are here to sort out.”
CHAPTER THREE
News came this morning that someone fired into a camp near Tom Gamel’s and killed a Mr. Doell and wounded a young Mr. Keller in the foot.
Lucia Holmes’s diary, July 21, 1875
When’s Uncle Andy coming back?” Ricky pushed the beans around on his plate. “I don’t want beans. I’m tired of beans.”
Leta sighed. She was tired of beans too, but they filled the stomach. She stood and reached for the shelf where she kept her scant cooking supplies. A beehive on their property provided them sweet honey. She didn’t use it often, but tonight was one of those times.
“Here, soak up the beans with your cornbread. And you can have a second piece of cornbread with honey.”
His eyes widening, Ricky poured the honey on thick. “When is Uncle Andy coming home?” He repeated his question around a mouthful of food.
Leta was hoping he’d forget the question; she didn’t know the answer. Andy disappeared from time to time. No wonder she couldn’t keep up with the ranch. “He’ll be back in a day or two, you’ll see. He promised he’d take you fishing before you start school, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, he did.” Ricky wolfed down the rest of the beans, his concern about his uncle forgotten. Leta wished she could let it go as easily as her son. In spite of her desire for Andy to stay clear away from the blood feud erupting across the county, she suspected he sought out Cooley or his cronies.
The Ranger. Leta’s thoughts strayed to Buck Morgan. Her heart had smiled at the sight of a man at the table, putting away a healthy portion of her special beans until he sat back, appetite satisfied. The man said he wanted to bring Derrick’s killers to justice. She was inclined to believe him.
She needed to find out what had happened in town in recent days. As far as she knew, the last killing happened a little more than two weeks ago, when Henry Doell was shot. People didn’t seem convinced his death had anything to do with the feud sparked by the trial for cattle rustling last fall, however. Come Saturday, she’d head to town for a few supplies and some
contact with her neighbors. She hoped no gunfire would erupt while she went about her business.
Ricky didn’t speak again until he finished his cornbread and took a second piece. “Do you think Mr. Morgan will come back?”
I hope so. Leta’s reaction surprised her. After Derrick’s death, with no one she could trust, she had stayed clear of all the men in town for fear of making new enemies. When she lost a few head of cattle, as happened from time to time, she swallowed the loss. Sheriff Clark wouldn’t have acted on her complaint, even if she’d made one. She just trusted God to help them make it through another season. Sometimes it took everything she had to trust God for another day.
“I suspect he will,” Leta said.
“Good.” Ricky grinned. “I liked him.”
His enthusiasm brought a smile to Leta’s face. Ever since Derrick’s death, Ricky hung back around strangers. She worried he would have trouble adjusting when he started school next month.
“He promised to give me a ride on his horse.”
He had? Leta had missed that exchange. “That’s good. You’ll need to ride a horse when you start school.”
Ricky blinked his eyes rapidly, a sure sign her words had upset him. “I don’t want to go to school, Ma.”
Leta suppressed a sigh. She had guessed at his hesitation before, but this was the first time he had put it into words. “You have to go to school. To learn how to read and do your sums. And so much more.”
“But I already know my letters. You can teach me at home. Besides, Andy hasn’t gone to school for forever. He says school is for girls.”
He does, does he? For Andy, the statement represented a defense as much as a statement of opinion. Their family’s frequent moves put him so far behind in school that he had to sit with the little kids when they moved to Mason County. He refused this humiliation, and Leta didn’t have the heart to make him go. Instead, she tried to teach him at home, but Andy would escape outside more often than not.
But that didn’t mean Ricky had to suffer the same fate. “Your daddy went to school, and he was a brave man.”
Ricky pushed the now-empty plate away. Eyes fixed on the table, he said, “But what if those bad men are in town?”
“Those bad men aren’t looking for boys in school who are learning their ABCs.” She prayed it was so. “You did such a good job with supper. Do you want to go out and play with Big Red?”
The one living creature that could bring Ricky out of his fear spells was Big Red—named because he was in fact so very tiny when they got him as a puppy a few weeks after Derrick’s death. Still a half-gangly puppy, the dog now stood as high as Ricky’s shoulders and was still growing. He had all the makings of a good watchdog.
Ricky should his head. “I want to stay inside.”
Oh, dear. Leta knew they were in for a bad night. Make that a very bad night. Thunderclouds were rolling in.
Ricky lay down peaceably enough, but with the first crash of thunder, he cried out. “Mama!”
“Coming.” Leta stood from the table where she was reading her Bible. Soft claws scratched at the door, and she let Big Red in. The dog was dusty but not wet, and when he dashed for Ricky’s bed, she didn’t stop him. She sat on Ricky’s other side. Lightning zigzagged through the sky and thunder rolled.
Ricky shuddered against her, and Big Red barked at the noise. She resigned herself to waiting out the storm. Words of reason and faith did little to calm Ricky at times like this.
Thunder stopped clashing for a good thirty minutes before Leta laid Ricky against the pillow, certain he had relaxed enough to sleep. Big Red scooted against his side, his gentle brown eyes promising her he would take care of her boy, no matter what.
“I know you will.” She scratched his head and then put away her Bible before retiring to her own bed.
Back home in Victoria, on the flat land near the Gulf, thunder like this would send a band of Pa’s prized horses into a stampede. Here in a small valley in the hill country of central Texas, the booms bounced off one hill and echoed from another, so that the first round of thunder didn’t end before the next began. Thunder didn’t scare Buck, but he didn’t know how a deaf mule could sleep through the racket.
At least Buck wanted to blame his sleeplessness on the thunderstorm, and not on his troubling visit to the Denning ranch that afternoon. Leta Denning was some woman. It took gumption to run a ranch in the best of circumstances, let alone after a murdering mob had killed her husband in front of her entire family. And over what? A neighbor helping his friends found innocent of a confusing law?
Leta wasn’t the only woman widowed by recent events. Lord, use me and the other Rangers to restore peace and order to this troubled patch of Texas. Thunder crashed, an exclamation point to his prayer. “Thanks for the answer.” Buck’s pa said he sometimes did his best praying on horseback. Buck substituted a thunderstorm for a horse. If he had to be awake, he couldn’t think of any better way to pass the time.
Sometime past the dead of night the storm passed, and Buck lay on the bed his uncle provided for him, dead asleep. He woke up at the time he needed to, glad it was a Sunday morning without pressing Ranger business to take him away from worship of the Lord. Donning his cleanest clothes, he headed down to the kitchen, Bible in hand.
Tante Ertha smiled when he entered the kitchen. “Good. You are still here. Did the storm bother you last night?” Gray flecks appeared in his aunt’s once-red hair, but enough original color remained to look like a cloud of fire around her round face.
Buck shook his head. Onkel Georg came in, scraping his feet at the door from the muck accumulated in morning chores. That was one aspect of ranch life Buck didn’t miss at all. “I thought you might be gone this morning, but I saw Blaze in his stall. Do you have Ranger business today?” His uncle’s steady blue eyes challenged him.
“No business today except the Lord’s.”
Tante Ertha clapped her hands. “So you are coming with us to church, then. I am so pleased.” She winked. “There are several young frauleins who would love to meet you.”
Buck laughed. “You sound like my mother.”
“Now, Ertha. Leave him be.” Onkel Georg grabbed a biscuit and popped it in his mouth. “Although by the time I was your age, I was married with three young ones already.”
Later, during the service, Buck relaxed in familiar ebb and flow of the largely German congregation. The spoken Word washed over him like the refreshing rain of the night before. Reading the Bible gave a man the strength he needed day by day. But he cherished the times he got to listen to a preacher man, few and far between as they had been over the past few years. God always found a way to poke a needle in a sore spot that needed attention during the sermon.
“If you see someone in need and don’t stop to help, how are you any better than the Levite who passed the man by?”
Leta Denning’s image flashed behind Buck’s eyelids. God, I’m willing to help, but how?
During prayer, the pastor led in a plea for peace and protection. The concern sounded immediate, more than the unrest hovering over the county. It’s the Lord’s Day. Come back tomorrow, he thought. But Buck’s conscience wouldn’t let him wait. If the pastor knew of a threat to the peace of the county, Buck had to find out. He waited until the church emptied before approaching him. “Preacher?”
The pastor stopped. “I saw you in the service today sitting with the Fletchers. Welcome to our church. My name is Johann Stricker.” He extended his hand in welcome.
Buck nodded. “George Fletcher is my mother’s brother. I’m Buck Morgan.” He paused but he might as well say the rest. “I’m a Texas Ranger.”
“Ah. A Ranger. Would your Tante Ertha be willing for us to borrow you for the afternoon? Please say you’ll join my wife and me for dinner.”
After everything was settled with Buck’s family, Reverend Stricker took him to the parsonage for a hearty Sunday dinner, plenteous portions of plain food. Not one word about the feud came up during the
conversation around the table. Instead, the pastor prodded Buck about his journey of faith.
Touched that this man of God found the destiny of his soul more important than peace in the present, Buck slipped the Bible out of his coat and handed it over to the pastor. “My parents gave me that Bible right after I asked Jesus to be my Savior. It goes with me everywhere I go.”
“The English version authorized by King James.” He turned to the gospel of John and found the third chapter. “Read this verse to me, please.” He pointed to verse sixteen.
Buck cleared his throat. “For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.”
“‘Also hat Gott die Welt geliebt.’ God’s love is beautiful, whatever language we speak it in, is it not?”
Buck chewed a chunk of bratwurst. “Sometimes hate drowns out the message of God’s love for a while.”
Stricker waved his hands in a circular motion that took in the children gathered around the table. “We will talk of that later. For now we will rejoice in the goodness of the Lord.” Buck nodded his acceptance.
CHAPTER FOUR
GALVESTON NEWS
August 4, 1875
Our grand jury, composed of a fine and intelligent body of men, seemed to make pretty thorough investigations of offenses against the public peace and good order, but found no more than eight or ten indictments after five days inquest.
After the meal, Stricker led him into a room with a bookcase filled floor to ceiling with well-worn books. Buck took a seat in a Biedermeier chair, sturdy workmanship he recognized as the same style favored by German furniture makers in Victoria.
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