Lone Star Ranger
Volume 1
A Ranger to Ride With
James J. Griffin
A Ranger to Ride With by James J. Griffin
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2014 by James J. Griffin
Cover design by Livia J. Washburn
Texas Ranger badge image courtesy of the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum, Waco
Author photo credited to Susanne Onatah
All Rights Reserved
Painted Pony Books
www.paintedponybooks.com
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For everyone, especially the young people, who still want to read about the history of the United States West.
1
Nathaniel Stewart had just left his house and was walking down Linden Street in his hometown of Wilmington, Delaware. In a few moments, he’d arrive at his best friend Hugh Dickinson’s home. He and Hugh would meet up with a few other friends, then either head to the river for a swim, or more likely just laze around in one of the boys’ back yards.
The day was pleasant for late July, the air warm with a gentle breeze blowing, not hot and sticky as it usually was this time of year. Nathaniel whistled as he walked along the tree lined street, fronted with its rows of neat brick houses with their well-kept yards and flower boxes filled with colorful blooms on the windowsills. He was fourteen years old, with unruly brown hair and eyes of the same hue. He’d recently grown a couple of inches, so had the typical thin build of most teenaged boys. He’d also recently realized that girls were beginning to interest him, and that when he walked by some of them smiled at him, then giggled for some reason. Truth be told, he had no idea why he was out of the blue interested in girls. All he knew was that the scrawny, dumb, silly females who’d always made pests of themselves were suddenly pretty and attractive. And one of the prettiest was Becky Palmer, with her pert turned up nose, blonde hair, and blue eyes the color of forget-me-nots. For some reason he felt he’d like to sit next to her on the front porch swing. He’d never admit that to Hugh or any of the other guys, though.
Nathaniel meandered along, not being in any particular hurry. Unexpectedly, Becky appeared at the end of the block. When she spotted Nathaniel, she waved to him and called his name.
“Nathaniel! Nathaniel Stewart!”
Nathaniel raised a hand to wave in response.
“Nathaniel! Get back to hoeing, right this minute. Those weeds aren’t going to pull themselves out of the ground!”
Nathaniel was roused from his daydream by the shouting of his mother, who stood in the door of the three-room dogtrot cabin the Stewart family now occupied. The voice he’d heard calling was not Becky’s, but his ma’s.
“Do you hear me, Nathaniel?”
“Yes, Ma.” Nathaniel sighed and lifted the hoe he’d been leaning against. He again began chopping at the tough weeds between the rows of turnips. He and his family no longer lived in their former pleasant neighborhood in Wilmington, but now on a small ranch several miles west of San Saba, Texas.
“And once you’ve finished weeding it will be time to milk the cow,” Mrs. Stewart added.
“Can’t Pa do that?” Nathaniel asked.
“He could, but he’s chopping wood for me. So you need to handle that chore. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Ma.” Nathaniel sighed again. How he hated Texas, and this ranch in particular! His father, Marcus, an accountant by trade, had inexplicably developed a sense of adventure and determined to join the many others heading to post-Reconstruction Texas. Within a matter of weeks, he’d bought a piece of land complete with cabin and barn, sight unseen. He’d uprooted his family, wife Adele, Nathaniel, and Nathaniel’s older brother, eighteen-year-old Jonathan, and moved them all to Texas.
Nathaniel’s first sight of their new home came as a shock. Instead of the tree-lined streets, neat homes, and green yards he’d grown up with in Delaware, this part of Texas was mainly flat, hot, dry, and dusty. Even the San Saba River, as it was called, was barely more than a trickle compared to the streams back home. It would hardly be a drop in the mighty Delaware River. The vegetation, what there was of it, was mostly brush, and much of it thorny. The only trees of any size grew in scattered spots along the San Saba.
Even more of an unpleasant surprise was the house; or more properly, the cabin. Back home in Wilmington, in their spacious two-story, six-room brick house, Nathaniel had his own bedroom. Here the entire family was crammed into that three room dogtrot cabin, so named because it had two sections with a covered area in the middle called a “dogtrot”, since it resembled nothing so much as a chained dog’s run, connecting the two. One side was a single room used as kitchen and living room, the other was divided into two small bedrooms. Nathaniel and Jonathan shared the smaller of the two rooms. Not only had Nathaniel lost his own room, he also lost his own bed. Now, he and Jonathan had to crowd into one bed— an arrangement which was cramped, to say the least. Nathaniel soon found out that Jonathan was a cover snatcher, pulling the sheets and blankets off Nathaniel and wrapping himself in them. Not that it mattered all that much once the short Texas winter and spring were over and the sweltering heat and humidity of summer set in. Covers were the last thing you needed when trying to sleep. Nathaniel and his brother wore as little as possible when crawling into bed. Actually, given their choice, both boys would have slept buck-naked, but their mother forbade any such thing. What annoyed Nathaniel was not so much Jonathan’s stealing the covers as his trying to hog the whole bed. More than once, he’d been rudely awakened in the middle of the night by his brother’s elbow jabbing into his ribs.
Nathaniel’s friends had all been envious when they’d learned he was moving to Texas. They’d all heard tales of cattle drives, cowboys, gunfighters, and wild Indians. They were convinced Nathaniel would soon be one of their number, riding a horse, chasing cattle across the prairie, and fighting outlaws and desperadoes, downing them in a blaze of gunfire. If only they knew the truth. Nathaniel and his family had been in Texas for just shy of a year now, and he had yet to see any Indians at all, let alone any wild ones. The few cowboys he had seen were not handsome, riding-high-in-the-saddle men, but were usually dusty, dirty, and smelly from trailing cattle. True, they all wore guns, but he’d never seen a cowboy actually use one. As far as Nathaniel himself went, the only varmints he’d ever rounded up were the jackrabbits and rodents which were determined to eat every vegetable his mother planted.
No, the longer Nathaniel had been in Texas, the more he’d grown to despise his new life. It was dull and boring, mainly working in the daily struggle to keep the small vegetable garden him mother insisted on planting surviving. While the seventy head of long-horned cattle his father had purchased along with the ranch seemed to thrive on the tough vegetation and sparse grass, and cactus and mesquite grew in abundance, most plants wilted in the unforgiving Texas sun. Heck, Nathaniel even missed school. With their home being so far from town, the only book learning he now received was taught by his mother. The same thing went for church. Instead of going to church every Sunday, where Nathaniel could see his friends once services were over, the only clergyman the Stewarts ever saw was a ci
rcuit-riding Methodist preacher who stopped by once every few weeks. Even Reverend Pierce’s long and boring sermons would be welcome right now. In fact, Nathaniel even missed his Aunt Ida, a woman he’d never looked forward to visiting. She was one of those ladies who wore far too much perfume and smothered a kid with unwanted kisses. Right now, he’d welcome some of those kisses, perfume and all. Isolated here in the middle of nowhere, he missed having companions to pal around with. And he’d certainly never meet a girl like Becky Palmer way out here.
As the afternoon wore on, Nathaniel kept hoeing half-heartedly at the weeds choking the garden. He looked up at the sound of an approaching horse and rider.
“Howdy, little brother,” Jonathan shouted as he rode up and dismounted. “You keepin’ the weeds from takin’ over the place?”
“I’m doin’ my best.”
“Well, you keep at it.” Jonathan pulled Nathaniel’s straw hat off his head, tousled his brother’s hair and laughed. “Wrangle those pests right outta the ground. I’ve gotta take care of my horse.”
“He’s gotta take care of his horse,” Nathaniel muttered under his breath once Jonathan headed for the barn. He felt a twinge of jealousy. Unlike Nathaniel, his brother had taken to Texas life like a merganser took to water in the Delaware Bay. Jonathan had easily learned to rope and ride and was on his way to becoming a top hand. He had bought a horse, a sorrel gelding he named Big Red, and sat in the saddle as if he’d been born there. He’d laughed himself silly when he came home with the horse and Nathaniel asked if a gelding was a boy or girl horse. He’d also bought a six-gun, one of the new and still rare Smith and Wesson American cartridge pistols. He’d explained to Nathaniel a cartridge gun was a lot more efficient than the old-fashioned cap and ball pistols, such as the Navy Colt, that most men still carried. It didn’t take long for Jonathan to become a crack shot with that pistol, as well as the Winchester rifle he bought. Jonathan had a natural ability with firearms. Besides taking charge of the Stewarts’ herd, he also found work on a neighboring ranch, helping with branding and doctoring their cattle.
Nathaniel finally gave up on yanking more weeds out of the hard, sun-baked ground. He went into the barn, got a bucket and the milking stool, and started for the small pen which held the milk cow. By the time he finished milking Bess, Jonathan had groomed, fed, and watered Big Red, along with Buck, the plow and wagon horse. He tossed some hay to the cow.
“Figured I’d save you a bit of work, Nathaniel,” he said.
“I appreciate that, big brother. Man, I’m sure sick of weedin’ that garden. Nothin’ grows good in it anyway.”
“Don’t let Ma hear you say that. She’s determined to have a garden just like back in Delaware.”
“Wish we were back in Delaware.”
“You just gotta learn to be a cowboy like me, that’s all.” Jonathan gave Nathaniel a playful backhanded slap to his stomach. Nathaniel responded with a shove to his brother’s ribs.
“You just asked for it,” Jonathan said, with a grin. “And you’re sure gonna get it.” He shoved Nathaniel in the chest, pushing him to the ground.
Jonathan being four years older was more heavily muscled, but Nathaniel was quicker. When Jonathan dove at him, Nathaniel easily rolled out of the way. Jonathan hit the ground with a thud. Before he could recover, Nathaniel jumped on his back, pinning him. The stronger Jonathan tossed Nathaniel off, then wrapped his arms around him. The brothers rolled over and over, raising a cloud of dust as they struggled.
Marcus stepped out of the cabin.
“Jonathan! Nathaniel! Both of you stop that fighting, right now!” When the boys failed to respond, he grabbed a pail of old dishwater from where it sat next to the door, walked up to the brothers, and dumped it over them.
“Pa! What’d you do that for?” Jonathan exclaimed. He and Nathaniel rolled onto their backs, chests heaving as they gasped for breath.
“You two weren’t listening. How many times have your mother and I told you not to fight?”
“We were just havin’ some fun, Pa,” Nathaniel answered.
“That’s right. We were just wrestlin’ is all,” Jonathan added.
“Well, you can burn off some of that energy by cutting some more firewood after supper. Your mother’s certainly not going to be happy I used the water for her garden to stop you two,” Marcus said. “Meantime, our meal’s just about on the table. You both wash up and get inside.”
“All right, Pa,” Jonathan said. He and Nathaniel pulled themselves to their feet and headed for the pump and wash bench behind the cabin.
Cleaning up was another thing Nathaniel despised about his new home. Back in Delaware, he had a wash stand, pitcher, and basin in his room. It was a simple matter to heat water on the kitchen stove and carry some upstairs for bathing. The house even had a bathtub in a separate room off the back. Here in Texas, with water scarce, the entire family used water sparingly from the pump to fill a shallow trough, then wash up as best they could. Towels, soap, and washcloths were on the bench next to the pump. A full bath involved dragging a zinc tub from the dogtrot into the kitchen, then heating kettles of water. Filling and then emptying the tub was a major chore, so a hot bath was a rare treat indeed. More often, the boys would bathe in Wallace Creek, which ran along the back boundary of the ranch.
Nathaniel and Jonathan pulled off their hats and neckerchiefs, then peeled out of their sweat-soaked shirts. Nathaniel pumped the trough full, then both ducked their heads into the refreshing water. They turned at the sound of fast-approaching horses.
“That looks like trouble,” Jonathan said. Close to a dozen men were riding for the house at a gallop. All had rifles or pistols in their hands. Jonathan pulled his Smith and Wesson from the holster on his right hip. Marcus had also heard the men’s approach. He came into the dogtrot holding an over and under shotgun.
“What do you men want?” he called.
The foremost rider leveled his rifle and fired once, his bullet knocking Marcus off his feet. He hit the cabin wall and slid to the ground. The shotgun blasted its load of buckshot harmlessly into the dogtrot roof when Marcus’ finger tightened on its triggers as he died.
“Get down,” Jonathan shouted. He pushed Nathaniel aside, then fired a snap shot at one of the raiders. The bullet took the man in his stomach. He grunted, grabbed his middle and slumped over his horse’s neck, then tumbled to the dirt.
Two of the men returned Jonathan’s fire. Blood blossomed on his chest when their bullets tore into him. He staggered and fell to his face. Nathaniel lunged from where his brother had pushed him behind the trough, wrested the pistol from Jonathan’s hand, rolled over twice, and shot. His bullet struck one of the men in the left arm, then an impact like a sledgehammer’s blow hit Nathaniel’s head. The last thing he remembered before falling into a sea of whirling black was his mother, calling his name.
2
Texas Ranger Lieutenant Robert Berkeley ordered the column of seven men he led to a halt atop a low rise which overlooked the San Saba River. The river had cut a small valley through this mostly flat or gently rolling part of Texas. Gazing at the horizon, he spoke to the man next to him. He pointed to a column of thick black smoke rising into the otherwise clear blue sky.
“I don’t like the looks of that smoke over yonder. What do you think, Jeb?”
Ranger Jeb Rollins thumbed back his Stetson and ran a hand across his sweaty forehead.
“Don’t like the looks of it either, Bob. It’s way too much smoke for a campfire. But it’s not enough to be a prairie fire, less’n it just got started. I reckon it’s someone’s house or barn blazin’.”
“You recollect any ranches down that way?”
Jeb thought for a minute.
“Only one near that spot is the old Stillwell place, about six miles from here. Lies along Wallace Creek as I recall. It was abandoned for quite a spell, but I heard some Easterners name of Stewart bought the spread and moved in there some months back. You think the men we’ve been trai
lin’ might have hit the place? Those folks wouldn’t stand a chance if they did.”
“I wouldn’t bet my hat against it,” Bob answered. “We’d better get over there and find out. Men, let’s ride!” He dug his spurs into his horse’s sides. Alongside him Jeb did the same, spurring his paint into motion. Their horses broke into a fast lope, the rest of the Rangers strung out behind them. They maintained that pace for a good four miles then as they neared the old Stillwell ranch, with a thin haze of smoke now drifting on the breeze, urged them into a gallop. Once they were within a half mile of the place, the smoke now thicker and making their eyes water, they pushed their mounts into a dead run. As they neared the ranch they pulled rifles from their scabbards or pistols from their holsters. If those renegades were still looting the place, they were about to receive a rude surprise. The Rangers would ride in without warning, guns blazing, and ask questions once the smoke had settled.
There was a thick screen of scrub brush surrounding the Stewart ranch. The Rangers burst through that but quickly pulled their horses to a halt, realizing they were too late to help anyone. The cabin and barn had both collapsed and were now little more than heaps of still-burning timbers. Three bodies lay sprawled on the ground, a man and a woman near the burning cabin, another man further out. A pair of boots could be seen protruding from where the dogtrot’s roof had evidently fallen on another body when it caved in.
“Kelly, Morton, you two check the area around here. Make sure those renegades haven’t holed up nearby. Don’t want them jumpin’ us,” Berkeley ordered. “The rest of you, let’s do what we can for these folks. Harrison, Jennings, try’n pull what’s left of the poor hombre under that roof outta there before the flames get to him.”
“Don’t think it’ll make much difference to him, Bob,” Ed Jennings answered.
Lone Star Ranger : A Ranger to Ride With (9781310568404) Page 1
