Until Darkness Disappears (A Saga of Texas)

by Will Cook

  “When do you want me back, Major?”

  “When I send for you,” Manners said. “There’s one crackerjack still on the loose . . . Batiste Rameras. He was Early’s contact and Vargas’s right-hand man. If you should happen to find him, do your duty as a Texas Ranger. I won’t burden you with a warrant.”

  Hinshaw grinned. “Major, I heard that you didn’t approve of McCabe’s shoot-from-the-hip methods. Ain’t this kind of against the grain?”

  “Never you mind that,” Manners said, waving his hand. “Now get your bath and clothes changed and hie into town.” He turned to Jim Gary. “If you wanted to draw Vargas here, how would you word the invitation?”

  “I think I’d play on his sense of vanity,” Gary said.

  “I agree,” Manners said, sweeping a paper off his desk. “Listen to this . . . Pedro Vargas, bastard son of an Apache squaw. You call yourself El Jefe, The Chief, a tide better suited to your horse. You have boasted of killing Texans, but the truth is that you have grown fat like an old woman. Why don’t you go back to sleeping in the sun? We have the machine guns you want, and, although you have thirty men to our one, we know you are afraid to cross….” He looked at Hinshaw. “I thought I told you to get going?”

  “I was just listening, Major.”

  “The devil with that. Get out of here.” He turned again to his message and Jim Gary. “Don’t you think I’m putting this nicely?”

  When Hinshaw closed the door, Manners was reading Gary the rest of it.

  The bath and change of clothes were as good as a night’s sleep to Martin Hinshaw. After cleaning and oiling his gun, he changed horses again and went to town. The aroma of beer caught him as he passed the saloon. He wheeled around, tied up, and went in to have one. The bartender shoved a full schooner his way, then came up for conversation.

  “Hard to believe about Fred Early,” he said. “Always seemed such a nice fella.

  “What’s hard to believe about it?” Hinshaw asked. “What did Early ever do to make you think he was a nice fella? Spend a little money in here?” He drank some of his beer, then pushed the stein away from him, and rang a dime on the bar.

  The bartender picked it up, then said: “Got a message for you from Rameras.”

  “What kind of a message?”

  The bartender reached down and came up with a Mauser rifle and five rounds of ammunition. “He left this here. Said he had one just like it. Said you’d know where to find him so the Hinshaws and the Rameras family could finally settle their old differences once and for all.”

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday, I think. Yeah, yesterday. He rode north.”

  “I know that,” Hinshaw said, and unbuckled his gun belt and laid it on the bar. “Keep this for me until I come back.”

  “Suppose you don’t?”

  “Then sell it and take the money and get drunk,” Hinshaw said.

  He picked up the rifle and the ammunition and went out. Pausing on the walk, he opened the bolt and shoved the cartridges against the magazine spring, then closed the bolt, and slipped on the safety. He mounted his horse, turned out of town, and cut north.

  Each mile he traveled became more familiar to him. It was the land of his childhood. He knew where the rabbit warrens were and where the wild game fed. Going back now was really a relief to him, yet all the time he had felt a dread. He supposed it was because he had run away once, and it had been the secret shame that had held him back. But he was going now. It wasn’t the old fire of family animosity that pulled him, but a clean, legal duty and a pride in the Texas Rangers. Rameras wouldn’t understand that because he only wanted to kill the last remaining Hinshaw. He couldn’t be blamed for that.

  At nightfall, Hinshaw camped cold and slept on the ground with a blanket around him. At dawn he was mounted and moving again. He came to the old home place just before noon. Little remained except half an adobe wall and a crumbling stone fireplace. His father was buried somewhere nearby, but he didn’t know exactly where. No one had thought to erect a marker. An open grave had been freshly dug.

  Three miles to go, he thought, and rode on. The Rameras mansion loomed ahead finally, a gaunt, low, rambling building, decaying after years of desertion and neglect. There was no sign of life, and Hinshaw stopped well out of rifle range and dismounted. A movement in a grove of trees attracted his attention. He eased closer. Batiste Rameras was digging in the family plot, and he had no weapon on him or near him.

  When he waved Hinshaw on in, Hinshaw hesitated, then mounted and rode over. Rameras wiped the sweat from his face and said: “I have already dug your grave, señor. Not ten feet from your father’s. I will bury you beside him, where you belong.” He threw his shovel aside. “But I am a realist. Perhaps you will have to bury me, so I have saved you the trouble of digging. Place me by my father.”

  “You’re a funny cuss, Rameras.”

  “We have our ways, all of us,” Rameras said. “Tonight, you would please me by eating with me and sharing some wine and my tobacco. Afterward, I must ask you to camp away from the house. When it is dawn, I’ll be waiting for you. I have five rounds, too.”

  “I’m a Texas Ranger with orders to bring you in,” Hinshaw said, raising his Mauser. “Why don’t I just do it now and save this foolishness?”

  “A Hinshaw cannot act in shame,” Rameras said. “Neither can I. It is a curse we both bear. Had it not been so, I would have ambushed you, or you would shoot me now. Come . . . I have a bottle of wine in the cistern cooling.” He smiled and walked to the deserted house.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Colonel Jim Gary rode into Laredo early in the morning. He had some important dispatches that he wanted to get out on the afternoon eastbound. There was also a letter to his wife that he wanted to get off. He dropped these off at the depot where they were placed in the mail sack, then he rode on to the center of town. A question to a swamper sweeping out the saloon gave him directions to Ella Sanders’s house. He tied up at the hitching post outside and went down the walk. She was on the porch, washing windows, and she smiled when she saw him.

  “Why, Colonel Gary. This is a surprise. Come in. I’ll put on some coffee.”

  “Thank you,” He looked at the pail and soap and drying cloth. “It seems that you’d have Marty doing that.”

  She laughed and went into the kitchen, Gary following. “My mother taught me not to wait until a man did household chores. How is Marty?”

  Gary frowned. “Don’t you know? I thought he was here.”

  She looked at him. “I haven’t seen him.”

  “He left the ranger camp yesterday to see you.” His manner mirrored some alarm. “Thank you for the offer of coffee, but I’ve got to look into this.”

  He turned and went through the house and down the front walk. Riding back to the main street, he dismounted in front of the hotel and went in. The clerk didn’t know anything, but suggested the saloon, and Gary crossed the street. The bartender was a man who took pride in knowing everyone’s business and repeating it. He told Gary about Batiste Rameras’s challenge, and Gary stormed out of the place. His first impulse was to ride to the north, but he thought better of it and went to Ella Sanders’s house. She met him at the gate, and he quickly filled her in on the details.

  “Please go to Major Manners and inform him of this,” Gary said, “I’ll ride north and see if I can get Hinshaw out of this before his hot head gets him killed. Any particulars I should know about finding the place?”

  “Follow the wagon road north,” she said. “You can’t miss the old Rameras place.”

  “Thank you. Don’t waste any time informing the major.” He turned his horse and galloped out of town.

  Batiste Rameras had gone to considerable trouble to be a good host to his enemy. On a pack horse he had brought along dishes and cooking ware and food. He cooked as though he were eating his last meal. Hinshaw, suspicious yet of Rameras’s motives, brought his rifle along, but when he saw that Rameras had put his awa
y, he leaned the Mauser against the outer wall and forgot about it.

  When they sat down to eat, Hinshaw said: “How could you be sure I’d share this with you?”

  “I did not think you would be so uncivilized as to refuse,” he said. “In truth, I was as sure that you would accept as I was sure you would come here to kill me. It is a thing enemies should do, break bread and share a bottle of wine before settling their differences.”

  “I sure don’t understand you, Rameras.”

  The Mexican shrugged. “Why should you? Tonight I will pray and move the beads on my rosary, and it will not matter to you that I pray not for me but for my wife and children. Miguel and Sanchos, they must grow strong and be men of honor. And Lita with her small, soft hands and big eyes, she must see a world of beauty.” He looked at Hinshaw. “You didn’t know I had a family? It’s no matter.”

  “I’m not leaving a son to pass my hate onto,” Hinshaw said.

  “Nor I,” Rameras said. “It was the hate of our fathers, handed to us, forced on us, molding us to a path that had to lead here. But it will end here, Hinshaw. It must come to pass.”

  Hinshaw thought about this and said: “My old man used to see you and your brothers in town or on the range, and he’d tell me that I ought to waylay those spiks. I guess he kept after me all right, from the time I knew what talk was to the time I left home.”

  “The words of our fathers were never taken lightly,” Rameras said. “But it has never been so in my house. I have taught my sons not to hate the yanquis. I do not hate you, Hinshaw, but my father did, and I must honor the wishes of my father. It is the same with you, I think.”

  “If you’re so all fired full of this good feeling, why did you work with Vargas and Fred Early?”

  “For Early I had no use,” Rameras said. “He was to me, as you were to him, a man to be used and then killed when he was through with you.”

  “And Vargas?”

  Rameras shrugged. “He is Mexican. We have much in common. The hate we feel toward Texans binds us. Neither of us can forget. He never wanted to, and I cannot. But I differ from Vargas. The things I feel are bad, and yet I’m helpless against them. They are my own to bear. I do not want to pass them on. Vargas preaches hate. I wish to suppress it.”

  Hinshaw stared at him, then said: “You’re a liar.” He threw his plate aside and stood up. “All of this . . . this last supper business and talk about your kids… it’s all a put-on, Rameras. You’re a no-good, hating Mexican trying to make out differently, but it’s all a damned lie. You don’t preach hate? What do you think you’re doing every time Vargas hands a rifle to some Mexican sodbuster and takes him into his army? What do you think you’re doing when a Texan dies or a child is taken by the Mexicans?” He shook his head. “You almost lulled me into making a mistake, Rameras. You almost had me thinking that I wasn’t a cop, and you wasn’t a criminal. Get on your feet, Rameras. I’m arresting you in the name of the State of Texas.”

  “I was afraid you would take that attitude,” Rameras said, and stepped back. He reached down into the top of his boot and brought out a knife.

  “So you weren’t armed, huh?” Hinshaw laughed. “How many rounds do you really have for the Mauser?”

  Rameras grinned. “A bandoleer.” He flipped the knife over in his hand so he could throw it.

  There was no hesitation in Hinshaw. He whipped out with his foot, caught a folding chair, and sailed it at Rameras, who threw the knife and ducked at the same time and wasted his one chance. The knife fell far behind Hinshaw, out of Rameras’s reach. Hinshaw went into the Mexican, chopping with his fists, opening cuts on his face.

  Rameras had the strength, and he wanted to wrestle. He grabbed Hinshaw over the arms and crushed him, lifting him off the ground. The strength of the man was enormous, and Hinshaw felt his ribs contract. He felt a moment of panic that he immediately beat down. With his thumbs, he jabbed into Rameras’s groin, and it was enough to free the grip momentarily and allow Hinshaw to slip clear. Then he laced a punch into the Mexican’s kidneys and hurt him.

  He hit him again, and Rameras cried out. Then Hinshaw put him down with a blow behind the ear. Rameras fell heavily and rolled over on his back, and Hinshaw went to the Mexican’s horse and got the rope off the saddle. He cut a short length of it to bind the man’s wrists behind him. He slipped the noose around Rameras’s neck and went to fetch his own horse and rifle.

  When Rameras regained consciousness, he was hauled to his feet, and Hinshaw mounted his horse. He tied the end of the rope to the saddle horn and said: “We’ve got a long walk back, so don’t drag your feet.”

  “You are without honor,” Rameras said. “I always knew it.”

  “A touching speech,” Hinshaw said, and rode out, Rameras following on the lead rope.

  A horse’s walk is different from a man’s, and Rameras was soon breathing hard for he had to half trot to keep up. Hinshaw stopped now and then but not out of pity for the prisoner. He had no intention of camping out the night with Rameras. He used the rests so that he could travel on without wasting hours.

  “If a man was meant to walk, he would have a hoof like a horse,” Rameras said. “It would only be merciful if you let me ride with you.”

  “I’m not merciful,” Hinshaw said. “I’m just a dumb fella trying to do my duty, and I damned near let my feelings get in the way of it.” He shook his head. “It sure takes a man a long time to smarten up. Come on, let’s trot.”

  “You are without soul,” Rameras said. “I should have killed you when you approached the grave, but it pleased me to toy with you.”

  “You want to be more careful with your toys,” Hinshaw said.

  As he rode on, he divided his time between the trail ahead and looking back to see how his prisoner was coming along. He didn’t figure there was much chance of Rameras’s slipping off the noose, not with his hands tied behind him, but he did not reckon with the man’s cleverness nor his dangerous nature.

  Rameras was already fifty yards away and running by the time Hinshaw discovered he was dragging just a rope. He stopped, dismounted, and shouldered the Mauser. He took his time aiming, and then he touched it off and watched Rameras go into a tumbler’s roll. Rameras started to get up, then fell. Hinshaw mounted and rode over to him. Rameras was bleeding at the shoulder, and he glared at Hinshaw, who dismounted and fastened the rope around the man’s neck. This time he looped it, put a knot in it, and snugged it up so that Rameras couldn’t work it off.

  “I’m bleeding badly,” Rameras said.

  “I know what kind of a shot I am,” Hinshaw said. “I just took a little meat off your shoulder.” Still he stripped off his bandanna and bound the wound before getting on his horse again. “We’ve still got a long walk. There’s no use tiring yourself out by running.”

  They wore out the night by marching slowly south. In the morning they stopped at a stream to drink and wash. When Rameras complained that he couldn’t function with his hands tied, Hinshaw pushed him in, saying: “Now no one’ll know if you wet your pants or not.”

  In mid-afternoon, Hinshaw saw a spiral of dust in the south and the dark speck of horse and rider that caused it. He stopped and freed the Mauser. Finally he could recognize Colonel Jim Gary, and he put the rifle away.

  Gary stopped and got down to rest his lathered horse. He saw Rameras on the lead rope and sighed with relief. “I rather expected to find you dead, Marty. Rameras is not exactly the most sneaky cuss on earth, but he’ll take a close second.”

  Hinshaw grinned. “Well, to tell the truth, he almost got to me with the sad story of his wife and kids.”

  “What wife and kids? He baches it in a room behind his shop.”

  Hinshaw turned and looked at Batiste Rameras. “You’re the most convincing liar I ever met. You really had me believing that stuff.”

  Rameras shrugged. “I tried to once before… on another Hinshaw, and it worked.”

  “On my father?”

  “Si,”
Rameras said. “My brothers were dead and my father. Alone I was left with the yanqui. So I went to him with a white cloth and tears in my eyes and asked him to spare me. He lowered the muzzle, and then I drew from the folds of my clothing a pistola, and I shot him. But even on the ground he summoned the strength to shoot me before he died.”

  Hinshaw said: “You’ve confessed before a witness. That makes you as good as hung, Rameras.”

  “I will be hung anyway,” he said. “Let us go . . . my shoulder gives me pain.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Gary said. “Who rode on whom? Did the Rameras clan start the fight, or did Hinshaw?”

  Rameras nodded toward Martin Hinshaw. “We waited until he went away. The old man was alone, the lion without his cub. We rode on him, my father and brothers, but he was waiting for us, his claws sharpened. My father died first, a bullet in his breast.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t kill you, Rameras,” Hinshaw said. “Shall we go, Colonel?”

  * * * * *

  A sleepless night and the long ride called for a glass of whisky when Hinshaw reached town. With this small fire burning in his stomach, he did what he had started out to do—went to see Ella Sanders.

  She answered his knock and said: “A little tardy, aren’t you?”

  “Some,” he admitted. “Should I throw my hat in first?”

  “No, I’ll allow you this mistake.” She turned into the house, and he followed her. Then he took her arm and pulled her around to face him.

  “Don’t I get a kiss?”

  “Do you think you have one coming?”

  He smiled. “Well, I’ve had a trying few days with mighty slim pleasures. I was sort of looking forward to it.” He put his arms around her and held her loosely. “I thought I’d kiss you a couple of times and talk marriage. I don’t believe in long engagements.”

  “Are you going to stay in the rangers, Marty?”