“I know it won’t, but it wouldn’t be right to let him burn up if we can give him a decent burial instead. ”
“All right.”
The men Bob had sent to look for the outlaws headed back into the brush, while the others dismounted. Bob and Jeb first went to the woman. She was clearly dead, having been shot several times. Bob muttered a curse.
“Men who’d shoot down a woman like that are the worst scum I can imagine, Bob,” Jeb said. “They deserve to be killed like the rabid skunks they are.”
“They will be, soon as we catch up to ’em,” Bob answered. “We’ve been gainin’ on ’em steady. It won’t be too long now until we get ’em in our gunsights. And when we do…”
One of the other Rangers called from where he had rolled a young man onto his back.
“This one’s done for too, Bob,” he called. “Took a couple of slugs in his chest. Young kid, too. Couldn’t have been more’n eighteen or nineteen years old. Real shame.”
For several weeks now, he and his men had been chasing the gang of outlaws which had apparently attacked and murdered this family. Every time they came close to capturing them, somehow they managed to slip away. The leader of the bunch was obviously a clever individual who knew the territory well. He seemed to know every escape route for miles around.
“This man’s still alive,” another Ranger called. He was hunkered alongside the man Jonathan had shot. “Dunno for how long, though. He’s gut-shot, got plugged plumb in the center of his belly. I figure he’s one of the men we’ve been after.”
Bob and Jeb hurried over to the dying outlaw. Bob looked down at the mortally wounded man. He had long black hair, and whiskers stubbled his face and neck. Dust coating his clothes indicated he had been riding long and hard.
“Texas Rangers, mister,” Bob said. “Looks like you don’t have much time left. Who were you ridin’ with, and where’s your outfit hole up?”
The wounded outlaw groaned, then shook his head.
“I ain’t gonna tell you nothin’, Ranger,” he muttered.
“Listen to me,” Bob urged. “You’ve been part of a bunch that’s been killin’ and robbin’ folks all over this part of Texas. You’ve even killed a woman and a young kid here. You might want to make peace with your Maker before you cash in your chips.”
“I didn’t kill that woman or kid. Caught a slug before I could even get off a shot. Far as makin’ peace with God, I reckon it’s too late for that. Besides, I’ve been headed to meet the Devil since the day I was born. My pappy kept tellin’ me that. Looks like I made certain he was gonna be right. And I sure ain’t gonna give up my pards to any lawman.”
“They weren’t worried about you,” Jeb said. “Seems to me they left you here to die, rather’n tryin’ to find a doc and get you some help. Dunno about you, but I sure wouldn’t protect anyone who left me alone with a bullet in my guts.”
“Just my bad luck, is all,” the man replied. “Knew I’d catch a slug, sooner or later.” He coughed, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His breathing was becoming more shallow and ragged.
“You mind at least givin’ us your name, mister?” Bob asked.
“What difference does it make what my name is?”
“We can let your kinfolks know what happened to you.”
The outlaw gave a weak laugh.
“Sure. Tell ’em their boy died an outlaw. That’d make ’em real happy. Besides, I’ve got no kin left.”
“Mister, you don’t have long, probably only a few minutes,” Jeb said. “Why not do one thing right in your life and tell us where to find your pardners? Help us stop ’em from killin’ anyone else.”
“Not gonna do that. But I reckon it won’t hurt to tell you my name. It’s Lance. Lance Ches…”
The outlaw shuddered, sighed, and breathed his last.
“He’s gone, Bob,” Jeb said. “Took whatever he knew with him, even his full name.”
“Don’t matter. We’ll catch up to those men, and real soon. Meantime, let’s try’n see if we can salvage anything out of what’s left of this place. These folks might have some kin we can track down and get whatever possessions we can find to ’em. They’d appreciate that. And maybe we’ll come up with some grub those outlaws might’ve missed. Almost feels like we’re stealin’ from the dead ourselves, but it’d be a shame to let any supplies we can use go to waste.”
“All right, Bob.”
Hoot Harrison and Ed Jennings had pulled the older man’s body free of the burning cabin. The Easterner was still clutching his shotgun. They moved him away from the flames, then rejoined Berkeley and Rollins.
“That man was dead before the roof fell on him,” Hoot explained. “He took a bullet square in the center of his chest. Got off both barrels of his shotgun before he died, though. I doubt he managed to hit any of those renegades.”
Jim Kelly and Dan Morton returned from scouting the area surrounding the ranch.
“Those hombres didn’t stick around, Bob,” Jim reported. “Must’ve driven the stock off from this ranch. Tracks of a whole passel of cattle headed southeast, and bein’ driven hard. We could probably catch up with ’em without too much trouble. Couldn’t be more’n an hour or two since they hit.”
Bob looked at the lowering sun, which was nearing the western horizon. Clouds were also building to the northwest. He shook his head.
“Much as I’d like to try, we’d never find ’em before dark. It’s a new moon tonight, plus it looks like it might rain a bit, so even trailin’ a herd of cattle would be real tough. We’ll spend the night here, bury these folks, then go after those renegades right after sunup. They’re probably not gonna drive that herd all night, and even if they do, they can’t keep pushin’ ’em too hard. We should find ’em without too much trouble. Meantime, help the rest of the boys try’n douse those fires and see if there’s anything we can save. Looks to me like the wind’s gonna pick up soon, and we don’t need any embers blowin’ around and startin’ a wildfire. I don’t think there’s enough rain in those clouds to stop one if it gets a good start. Once the fires are out cover the bodies so the scavengers can’t get at ’em.”
“All right, Bob.”
Jim and Dan dismounted and joined two of the men who were pulling buckets of water from the well and tossing them on the barn, while Bob and Jeb headed for what was left of the cabin. They began poking through the still smoldering ruins.
“Looks like they made sure nothing was left,” Bob said.
“Sure seems that way,” Jeb agreed. His gaze settled on a plank door set into the ground at an angle. It was partially covered by a section of the cabin’s back wall which had fallen on it.
“That looks like a root cellar. Reckon I’ll check and see if there’s any vegetables in there, or maybe even some preserves the missus put up. Anything at all would be a nice change from bacon and beans.”
Jeb walked over to the door, kicked aside the smoldering section of wall, and lifted the door. When he did, a young boy charged out of the cellar. He ran straight into Jeb, burying his head in the Ranger’s stomach, driving the air out of his lungs and knocking him to the ground. He dove on top of Jeb, swinging his fists wildly.
“You killed my brother!” he screamed. One of his punches connected with the side of Jeb’s jaw. Jeb grabbed the youngster’s wrists. The boy continued to struggle.
“Hold still, kid. Get offa me. None of us killed your brother. We’re Texas Rangers. Hold still, I said,” Jeb repeated, when the boy continued to resist. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just get offa me and we’ll get this all straightened out.”
Bob and Jim hurried over to help their fellow Ranger. They grabbed Nathaniel’s shoulders and lifted him gently from atop Jeb.
“Take it easy, son,” Bob said. “Like Jeb says, we’re not gonna hurt you. We’re not part of the outfit that killed your folks. We’re Texas Rangers. Been on the trail of those murderers for quite a spell now. Just wish we could’ve caught up with ’em soone
r, so we might’ve been able to save your kin. We’re gonna let go of you now. All right?”
Nathaniel nodded his head, sniffling. He was trying desperately not to cry.
“Let him go, Jim.”
Nathaniel’s arms were released. Jeb came to his feet and stood rubbing the lump rising on his jaw.
“You pack quite a wallop there, kid,” he said.
“I’m sorry, mister,” Nathaniel answered. “It’s just that I thought… I thought…” His voice trailed off.
“We understand, son,” Bob said.
Jim looked at the gash across Nathaniel’s scalp. The boy’s hair was matted down with sweat and dried blood.
“Bob, this boy’s hurt,” he said. “Appears to me he’s been shot. Looks like he was mighty lucky and the bullet just creased him. Reckon I’d better patch him up and make sure, though.”
“All right, Jim,” Bob agreed. “We’ll take him over to that cottonwood. He needs to get out of the sun before he gets a bad burn, bein’ shirtless like he is. I know the sun’s settin’, but it’s still high enough to roast a man’s skin.”
“You go with the lieutenant, son,” Jim said. “I’ll be right back. I’ll fetch some water for the boy, too.” He headed for his horse, to retrieve the rudimentary medical kit he carried in his saddlebags. Bob and Jeb led Nathaniel to the scant shade of a half-dead cottonwood. The tree had taken root well away from any good source of water, but had somehow survived for quite a few years. However, it was now losing its struggle to live.
“Sit down and lean against the tree, son,” Bob ordered. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Nathaniel. Nathaniel Stewart.”
“That your ma and pa got killed over yonder?”
“Yeah. Yeah. And Jonathan, my big brother. Those men killed… killed…”
“You don’t need to say anything more… Nathaniel. We know what happened.”
“You the one who gut-shot that son of a—um—sidewinder, Nate?” Jeb asked, careful not to use the term he really wanted to use to describe the dead outlaw.
“My name’s Nathaniel.”
Jeb shook his head. He smiled, trying to reassure the boy he was safe, and with friends.
“That’s too much of a mouthful. Long as you don’t mind, I reckon we’ll call you Nate.”
“I guess it’ll be all right,” Nathaniel said, with a shrug.
“Fine. Now, did you shoot that hombre?”
“Hombre?” Nathaniel was puzzled.
“Spanish for man,” Bob explained. “You’ll hear a lot of that mixed in with English here in Texas.”
“Oh. No, no I didn’t shoot him. My brother did that… just before he got shot himself.”
“I see.”
“But I think I did shoot one,” Nathaniel said. “I took my brother’s gun from his hand and pulled the trigger. Saw one of the other men grab his arm and heard him yelp. Then, I guess I got shot, because I don’t remember anything after that.”
“Nate, this is important,” Jeb said. “Which arm?”
“The left.”
“Good. Once we catch up to that bunch it’ll help identify him.”
Jim returned, carrying his medical kit and a canteen. The rest of the Rangers were with him.
“Y’all can stop questionin’ this poor boy until I fix him up,” he said, in a west Texas twang. “You keep jawin’ at him like that and he’s liable to keel right over on us.”
“All right, Jim,” Bob said. To Nathaniel he added, “Jim here’s kind of the troop doctor. He had some medical trainin’ while fightin’ for the Confederacy. He’s as good at fixin’ broken bones, stitchin’ up cuts or knife wounds, and diggin’ bullets out of a man as any doctor I’ve ever met.”
“And I drink a whole sight less than a lot of those,” Jim added. “Now let me take a look at you, son. What’s your name?”
“It’s Nathaniel… Nate.”
“All right, Nate. I’m gonna take a looksee at this head of yours, then patch you up. You’re gonna be just fine. Take a drink before I get started.”
He opened his canteen and handed it to Nathaniel. Nathaniel took it and drank greedily.
“Not too much,” Jim cautioned. “Don’t want you gettin’ a bellyache from drinkin’ too much. Course, it won’t be as bad a bellyache as the one your brother gave that hombre lyin’ over there. Lead bellyaches are the worst kind. Reckon your brother must’ve been a man to ride the river with. I’d wager he’d have made a fine Ranger.” He grinned. Nathaniel managed a thin smile of his own.
“There, that’s better,” Jim said. He parted Nathaniel’s hair to examine the bullet slash across his scalp. He poured some water from his canteen onto a scrap of cloth and used that to wash away dirt, dried blood, and bits of flesh.
“I hate to do this to you, Nate, but you’re gonna need a few stitches to pull your skin back together so it can heal. You’re a real lucky kid. Fraction of an inch lower and you’d be dead.”
“That means he must have an even thicker skull than you, Jim,” Jeb said, chuckling.
“See if I take the bullet out of your hide next time you catch a slug, Jeb,” Jim retorted. “Nate, this is gonna hurt somethin’ fierce. You think you’ll be able to handle it?”
Nathaniel swallowed hard. “Do I have a choice?”
“I’m afraid not, son.”
“Then I’ll have to.”
“Good. You’re a brave lad. I reckon you’d do to ride the river with, too.”
Jim took a razor from his bag, along with a scalpel, thick needle and thread, and a small flask of whiskey. “This whiskey is strictly for medicinal purposes, Nate. I use it to clean and sterilize my instruments.” He doused the bullet crease with some of the whiskey, poured some more over the razor, then shaved off a strip of Nathaniel’s hair from around the wound. Nathaniel flinched.
“You’re gonna scalp me like those wild Indians I’ve heard about,” he protested.
“No, I’m not, Nate. I promise you that. You do need to keep still while I’m workin’ on you, though. I know it’s not easy, but try’n not move as best you can, so I don’t accidentally take off another chunk of your scalp. All right?”
“All right, sir.”
“Sir? Who’s ‘sir’? My name’s Jim. Don’t you forget it, you hear?”
“Yessir, sir… I mean, Jim.”
“That’s better. I’ll get through this quick as I can. Here, take this bandanna. There’s a knot in it. Put it in your mouth. If the pain gets to be too much, bite down on it, hard as you can. That’ll help some.”
Nathaniel took the piece of cloth and did as told. He clamped his teeth down hard. Jim picked up his scalpel, doused it with whiskey, then the wound again. He used the scalpel to trim the slash’s ragged edges. Nathaniel bit down so hard on the cloth he was certain his jaw would bust or his teeth would shatter. His eyes watered with the pain.
“You’re doin’ just fine, Nate,” Jim assured him. “That was the worst of it.” He picked up the needle and thread, soaked them with whiskey, and efficiently sewed up the wound. Once done, he coated it thickly with salve, placed a clean strip of cloth over it, and tied another strip of cloth over that and around Nathaniel’s head to hold it in place.
“I’m all done, Nate,” Jim said. “You can let go of the bandanna now. That wasn’t all that bad, was it?”
Nathaniel pulled the cloth from his mouth.
“No, not too bad,” he half-whispered.
“You don’t need to lie, Nate,” Jeb said. “I know that hurt like the devil. But you took it like a grown man, son. You can be proud of yourself.”
“Thanks, sir,” Nathaniel said.
“Whoa. Enough of that ‘sir’ stuff. Like Jim said, none of us in this outfit are named sir. My name’s Jeb. Reckon I’d better introduce you to the rest of the boys. This here’s Lieutenant Robert Berkeley, although everyone generally calls him Bob. We’re pretty informal in the Rangers, not like the Army. Next to him’s Henry Harrison, better known as Hoot.
Alongside him’s Ed Jennings, then we have Dan Morton, and finally those two ugly look-alike hombres are Tom and Tim Tomlinson. We branded Tim with that scar on his cheek so we can tell which is which. Boys, any of you didn’t catch his name this here’s Nathaniel Stewart… only we’re gonna call him Nate.”
“Don’t listen to one word this ring-tailed liar says,” Tim said. “Jeb’s always tellin’ whoppers. I got this scar from a Comanche’s arrow.”
Tim and his brother were identical twins, with blonde hair and blue eyes.
“Don’t believe my brother, either,” Tom said. “He gave himself that scar when his razor slipped while he was shavin’.”
“Way I heard it, a senorita at Rosa’s Cantina in El Paso give it to you, Tim,” Hoot said, laughing.
“That’s enough out of all of you,” Bob ordered. “Start settin’ up camp. Nate,” he continued. “Before we realized there was anyone left alive we decided to spend the night here, then start after those renegades first thing in the morning. It’s almost dusk, so it’ll be too late to keep after ’em tonight. Since we’ve found you still in one piece, I reckon I need to ask your permission to use your place.”
“Sure,” Nathaniel agreed. “I guess it’ll be okay, but shouldn’t you ask…” He stopped short, his voice cracking and his eyes filling with tears.
The lieutenant put a comforting hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder.
“It’s all right, Nate. Go ahead and cry if you need to. Won’t be any of us here think any less of you. We’ve all lost loved ones or friends. Unless you’d like things done different, we’d planned on buryin’ your folks at sunup.”
Nathaniel sniffled and ran an arm under his nose.
“No. I think I’m all right,” he said. “And I know my pa’d sure like to stay right here. I guess my ma and Jonathan would like that too. We’ll… we’ll bury them here, on the ranch.”
“Good. Mind if I ask you another question?”
“What’s that?”
“The reason Jeb opened that root cellar is to find any food which might be in there that we could use. We’ve been on the trail for weeks now, and bacon, beans, and biscuits every day sure gets tiresome. We were hopin’ to find some vegetables or maybe even some preserves your ma might’ve put up. Is it all right if we still do that? I’d imagine you’re gettin’ mighty hungry yourself.”
Lone Star Ranger : A Ranger to Ride With (9781310568404) Page 2
