“You and your horse have just been challenged, Nate,” Dakota said. “You gonna let him talk about your cayuse like that?”
“Me, maybe, but not my horse. When and where, Andy?”
“This afternoon, four o’clock. Course’ll go around the boundaries of the camp. You can walk it out beforehand to get the feel of it. So, we’re on?”
“We’re on. And I ain’t worried about eatin’ Diablo’s dust. You’ll be lucky to stay close enough to Red to even see his heels.”
***
At four o’clock, every Ranger was gathered to watch the race between the newcomer, Nate, on his sorrel Big Red, and Andy on his black, Diablo. Even the sentries had been allowed to leave their posts. Excitement had been building all afternoon, and wagering continued up to the last minute. Tex Carlson had been given the task of keeping tracks of the bets. Nate and Andy were at the starting line, their horses snorting and prancing. Captain Quincy called for quiet.
“Andy, Nate, you’ll start when I fire my pistol. You know the course, out of camp, up the hill to the dead oak, around that, left across the top of the ridge, outside the split trunk cottonwood, then back down to the finish line here. No shortcuttin’, or that man gets disqualified. Jump the start and you’re disqualified. Are all bets placed, Tex?”
“All but yours, Cap’n.”
“I have to maintain complete impartiality as commanding officer of this company, so I can’t show favor by placing a bet on one man or the other.”
“You could bet on both, Cap’n ,” Phil Knight shouted, to laughter. “Couldn’t lose that way.”
“I couldn’t win either, you chucklehead,” Quincy retorted. He pulled his pistol from its holster and pointed it into the air.
“Andy, are you ready?”
“Ready, Cap’n.”
“Nate?”
“Ready, Cap’n.”
“Good. Bring your horses up to the line.”
Diablo and Big Red were moved into place.
“Good. Set. Go!”
Quincy fired, and both horses broke into a dead run. Diablo was slightly ahead when they reached the base of the rise, but Red overtook him and pulled ahead slightly as they climbed the hill. When they turned to race across the top of the ridge, they were neck and neck, manes and tails flying, both riders low over their necks, slapping them with the reins and urging them on.
Shouts of encouragement rose from the Rangers.
“Go, Andy!”
“C’mon, Nate!”
“You’ve got him now, Nate!”
“Stay with him, Andy!”
The yells grew louder as the horses rounded the cottonwood and pounded for the finish line. Diablo had the inside when they rounded the tree and moved ahead, but Red pulled even once again. It was still anyone’s race. The Rangers yelled louder, clapping and cheering as they urged the riders on.
There was a boggy stretch at the bottom of the hill, a shallow, mostly dry creek. Andy and Nate pushed their horses even harder as they neared the finish. Diablo and Big Red hit the edge of the creek, and at the same moment, planted their hooves and stopped without warning. Andy and Nate sailed over their horses’ heads, landing on their backs, the wind knocked out of them. Nate ended up in a patch of prickly pear, while Andy slid through the mud and hauled up against a large clump of ocotillo. Their horses stood on the edge of the creek, snorting and blowing.
Nate and Andy were still lying where they fell, struggling for breath, when the other Rangers rushed up.
“Andy! Nate! You all right?” Captain Quincy called.
“Yeah… yeah, I think so,” Andy answered. “Dumb horse.”
“Neither one of those horses ain’t so dumb,” Ken said. “Can’t blame ’em for stoppin’ like that, since they weren’t sure what the footin’ would be when they hit that mud.”
“Boy howdy, that’s for certain,” Tim added. “They had no idea how deep the water in that creek was, either. With the clouds and sky reflectin’ in that water, it probably looked ten feet deep to your broncs. Heck, I’d have stopped short and sent you boys flyin’ if I’d been Red or Diablo. That’s why folks say horses have horse sense. Most of ’em know better than to get themselves into a pickle they can’t get out of.”
“I reckon these two don’t need a lecture right about now,” Captain Quincy said. He offered Nate a hand up.
“How about you, Nate? You hurt?”
“Nah. I think… everything’s in one piece.”
“Jim, we’d better get both these youngsters back to the camp so you can check ’em over, just to be sure,” Quincy ordered. “Ken, Tad, Tim, Tom, give Jim a hand. Bill, Hank, get their horses.”
Andy and Nate were pulled to their feet. Both moaned. They walked stiffly back to the camp. When they sat down, both cried out in pain.
“Just what I expected,” Jim said, laughing.
“What?” Quincy asked.
“Both these boys ended up in some cactus. Their backsides are full of needles. I’m gonna have to pull those out.”
“Oh, no you ain’t,” Andy protested.
“Same goes for me,” Nate added.
“Neither of you have a choice,” Jim answered. “If I don’t pull those spines out they’ll only work their way in deeper, which’ll hurt a lot more. And, if they fester, you’ll be in real trouble. Now, drop your denims and drawers and lie on your bellies while I get my instruments.”
“Cap’n?” Andy said.
“Jim’s the doctor. Do what he says.”
Reluctantly, their faces red, Andy and Nate did as instructed. To their chagrin, the rest of the Rangers couldn’t resist poking fun at their predicament.
“You two both look like pincushions, there’s so many spines stuck in your backsides,” Jim said. “I guess I’ll start with you first, Nate.”
With tweezers and pliers, he began to remove the offending spines from Nate’s bottom. Nate yelped and winced with every tug. Blood oozed when Jim removed some of the deeper spines.
“Hey, Nate, Andy. You don’t mind us needling you a little, do you?” Lieutenant Bob asked.
“These boys got stuck, no ‘butts’ about it,” Joe added.
“Got a little behind in their work,” Shorty said.
“Should’ve turned the other cheek… I mean, cheeks,” Ed put in.
“Men, I’d like to propose a toast to our two flyin’ comrades,” Jeb said. He raised an imaginary glass. “Bottoms up!”
“If y’all would just shut up, we’d appreciate it,” Andy muttered. “Better still, why not just leave me’n Nate alone in our misery?”
“Not a chance,” Jeb answered. “We couldn’t leave our pardners all alone and without companionship when they’ve been hurt so bad, could we, fellers?”
“No, not a chance.”
“Not at all.”
“Wouldn’t be fittin’.”
“There you have it, boys,” Jeb said. “We’ll be stayin’. Only one question. Who won the race? I guess it was a tie.”
“I dunno,” George said. “Nate flew farther before hittin’ the dirt, so I’d say he won.”
“But Andy slid farther, so I’d say it was him,” Hoot replied.
“No sure way to tell,” Captain Quincy said. “Of course, we could have Jim count the number of cactus needles he pulls out of their backsides. Man with the most needles wins.”
“I sure ain’t sittin’ here countin’ how many spines I pull out of these two idiots,” Jim said. “Their horses are smarter than they are.” He paused. “And that’s enough cracks about ’em.”
“Then we have no winner. Tex, just give everyone back their money,” Quincy ordered. “Jim, finish up here. Rest of you, back to work or whatever you were doin’. You men on sentry duty, back to your posts. We’ve left the camp unguarded long enough.”
“All right, Cap’n.”
Jim finished pulling the spines out of Andy and Nate, then coated their wounds with ointment.
“You can pull your pants back up now,
” he said. “But you won’t be sittin’ real easy for a couple of days, that’s for certain. I’d recommend you sleep on your bellies, too. Keep from irritatin’ your butts more’n necessary. G’wan, get outta here.”
“Whose bright idea was this, anyway?” Andy asked, as he and Nate redressed.
“It was yours,” Nate pointed out.
“Oh. Yeah. It was. Want a rematch?”
“Not a chance. Let’s leave it as it was. We’ve both got real fast horses.”
“Sounds good to me. You ran a good race, Nate.”
“So did you, Andy.”
***
Nate had trouble sleeping that night, between the pain in his backside and assorted bruises he had from hitting the ground. Still, he did manage to fall asleep after some time. He woke up about two in the morning, got out of bed, and walked over to where Hoot lay snoring.
“Hoot.” He shook Hoot’s shoulders. “Hoot!”
“Huh? What you want, Nate?”
“Not me. Cap’n Quincy. Hank saw some Comanches prowlin’ around. The captain wants you right now. He’s gettin’ up a patrol to go after ’em.”
“Comanches?” Hoot jumped out of bed and grabbed his boots. He stepped into one. His foot pushed into a soft, squishy, smelly mass.
“What the…” Hoot pulled his foot out of the boot and looked with disgust at the slimy substance coating his foot. “Horse manure. Nate, you…”
“I reckon that makes us even, Hoot. No more snakes?”
“No more snakes. No more manure? Deal?”
“Deal.”
9
Nate’s shirt had been torn when he was thrown off Big Red during the race. Jeb showed him how to use a needle and thread.
“Can’t rely on your mama out here to patch up your clothes, Nate,” he said. “You should always carry a spool of thread and a needle or two in your gear.”
Nate was sitting on his bunk, mending the shirt, when Jeb returned from giving Dudley leftover biscuits from breakfast.
“Nate, put that shirt aside for now,” he ordered. “Time to see if you can use your fists.”
“What?”
“You’re gonna fight in a boxing match. It’s the only way we can tell if a new man can handle a fist fight or a saloon brawl. Come with me.”
Nate put down the shirt and stood up.
“You mean I’m really gonna fight someone?”
“Yep. Hoot Harrison. He’s closest to you in size and age, so Cap’n Dave figures you and him’d be the most even match.”
“But I like Hoot. I don’t want to fight him,” Nate objected. “Matter of fact, I don’t want to fight anyone here.”
“That doesn’t matter. You have to prove yourself, Nate. You don’t want to wait until you’re tryin’ to face down two or three drunken cowboys in a bar to find out that you don’t have the stomach for a fight. We’ve all been in these matches. In fact, sometimes we set one up just for fun, and of course a chance to make some money by bettin’ on the outcome. Sometimes, two men’ll want to fight each other just for the heck of it, or out of pride. No one’ll think less of you if you lose, but if you refuse to fight, you won’t have any chance of bein’ a Ranger. You comin’ or not?”
“Yeah, I’m comin’. Might as well get it over with.”
“You’ll do just fine. Nothin’ to worry about.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You ain’t the one about to get his head knocked off.”
“I reckon you’re right.”
“How long’s this fight gonna last?” Nate asked, as they headed for the center of the camp.
“Hard to say. Until one of you is knocked out or quits, or the captain stops it. Only advice I can give you is do your best. This won’t be as bad as a saloon fight, or even one with some renegade you’re tryin’ to bring in. In those, everything’s fair. A man’ll try to poke you in the eyes, mebbe even gouge ’em out, or throw dirt in your face to blind you. He’ll scratch and claw, do anythin’ he needs to win. He’ll kick you in the shins, or put a knee in your belly or groin. Whatever he has to do to take the fight out of you. You understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. This’ll be a straight up fight. Punches only. It’s just a way to find out if you can take a punch… and give one. Just remember one thing. That’s not your pard Hoot Harrison you’ll be fightin’, but an hombre who’s a wanted man, and who’s tryin’ his best to keep outta jail. Hoot’ll be thinkin’ the same way. I’d suggest you think back to when he put that snake in your boot and get good and mad about that. Comprende?”
“Comprende?”
“Means ‘do you understand?’”
“Yeah, I understand. I’m still not happy about it, but I understand.”
“Good. Just keep thinkin’ about that snake.”
“I will. Only problem is will Hoot keep thinkin’ about the manure I filled his boot with?”
“You filled Hoot’s boot with horse manure?”
“I sure did. Figured it was a good way to get even for the snake.”
“Well, I’ll be jiggered. Sounds like this might be a grudge match after all,” Jeb said. He chuckled.
***
The rest of the men were already gathered around a sandy patch of ground in front of Captain Quincy’s tent, forming a makeshift ring. Bets were quietly being made as to who would win this fight. They parted to allow Nate inside, then closed ranks. Hoot, stripped to the waist, was already in the ring, along with Captain Quincy, who would act as referee.
“Good to see you here, Nate,” Quincy said. “I’ve had more than one man wash out by refusin’ to fight. I knew you wouldn’t be one of ’em. Are you ready for this?”
“I reckon I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, Cap’n,” Nate answered. “Just give me one minute.”
He peeled off his shirt, pulled off his hat and bandanna, unbuckled his gunbelt, and handed those to Jeb.
“Now I’m ready.”
“Good. Nate, as the other men already know, since they’ve all been through this, there are only a few rules. No biting, kicking, spitting or throwing dirt in your opponent’s face. No poking or gouging at the eyes. No head-butting. However, any type of punch is allowed, and any part of your opponent’s body is a fair target. There will be no rounds. The fight will continue until one of you is knocked out, one of you quits, or I stop it. Do you have any questions?”
“No, Cap’n.”
“How about you, Hoot?”
“No, Cap’n.”
“Good. Now, shake hands and then come out fightin’.”
Nate and Hoot shook hands, then backed away, glaring at each other. They circled for a few minutes, each looking for an advantage, then Hoot feinted a punch to Nate’s chin. When Nate raised his arm to block the blow, Hoot sank his left fist into Nate’s belly. Nate doubled over slightly, then staggered back, gasping. Hoot aimed another punch at Nate’s chin. Again, Nate raised an arm to parry the blow, and Hoot slammed another punch to his belly. Nate jackknifed and dropped to his knees, holding his middle and fighting for air. Hoot danced around him.
“You got him, Hoot!” Tim yelled. “Finish him off!”
Nate struggled to his feet and weaved toward Hoot. He got in a jab to Hoot’s jaw and hit him in the ribs. Hoot countered with an uppercut to Nate’s chin, this time connecting, knocking him back. He followed up with a right and a left to Nate’s gut. Nate went down and curled up on his side, arms wrapped around his middle. The men hooted and hollered, sensing a quick end to the fight. Captain Quincy stood over the downed youngster.
“You want to quit, son?”
“Not… not yet,” Nate gasped. He rolled onto his stomach, then pushed himself to his hands and knees.
“Get up, Nate!” Jeb shouted. “Get up, kid. You can handle him. You’ve just got to believe that.”
“Just like in our horse race, Nate,” Andy hollered. “You didn’t quit then. Don’t quit now. You’ve got a lot of fight left in you!”
Nate struggled to his feet.
Captain Quincy kept the two fighters separated for a moment, then let them close again. Once more, Hoot’s first punch landed smack in the center of Nate’s belly. Nate’s breathing was ragged now, blood dripping from his chin and trickling from the corner of his mouth.
“Protect your belly, Nate!” Jed yelled. “He knows you’re not guardin’ your middle. Protect that belly! Hoot hits you in the gut one more time and you’re finished!”
Nate nodded at Jed. He closed in on Hoot, landing a right to his stomach, then a left to the point of his chin that staggered him. A following punch took Hoot in his left eye, swelling it shut, then he stumbled into another shot to his jaw. Nate moved in for the kill, readying a terrific right to Hoot’s face. He was stopped in his tracks when Hoot ducked the blow and sank his fist wrist-deep into Nate’s belly. Nate folded into a right to his chin, which snapped his head back and drove him halfway across the makeshift ring. He landed on his back, out cold. Captain Quincy grabbed Hoot’s wrist and lifted his arm high.
“We have a winner! Hoot Harrison, by a knockout!”
Most of the men cheered, having placed their money on Hoot to win. Jeb picked up a bucket of water. He, Andy, and Jim walked up to Nate. Jeb dumped the water over his head. Nate spluttered.
“Huh? What?”
“Take it easy, Nate. The fight’s over,” Jeb said.
“I… lost, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, I reckon you did,” Andy said.
“But you put up one heckuva fight,” Jeb added.
“Don’t matter. I lost.”
“Yeah, but you never quit,” Jeb said. “That’s what really counts. That’s what we like to see in a Ranger, a man who never quits.”
“And if you ever learn to keep from gettin’ slugged in the gut you might actually win a fight someday,” Andy said.
“Reckon… I did… let him get me there… few times.”
“A few times! You might as well’ve had a target painted on your belly, Nate,” Jeb said, with a laugh. “Once you’re feelin’ a bit better I’ll show you how to protect your middle.”
Lone Star Ranger : A Ranger to Ride With (9781310568404) Page 10
