A Ranger Redeemed (Lone Star Ranger Book 7)

by James J. Griffin

  “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 trailin’ 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.

  “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?”

  T
he 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 sooner, 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 t
hat 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?”