The Faith and the Rangers

by James J. Griffin

  The three remaining outlaws had now determined Pete’s location. They concentrated their fire on the fallen log. Fighting the pain from the bullet in his back, Pete kept shifting positions. When he aimed at another powder flash, his bullet hit Tom Pardee, who jackknifed and pitched to the dirt.

  “I’m hit in the belly, Ben,” Pardee screamed. “Gimme a hand, will ya?”

  “Hang on, Tom,” Reed called back. “Soon as we finish this Ranger, we’ll get to you.”

  Reed’s next shot just missed Pete’s chest. Pete returned fire, but missed. He quickly reloaded.

  Judd Sutton’s shot ricocheted off the boulder where Pete had taken cover. Pete screeched, fell, and lay groaning.

  “I think I got him, Ben,” Sutton called.

  “Be careful, Judd,” Reed warned.

  “That Ranger sounds like he’s in bad shape. I’m gonna finish him,” Sutton answered. He crept closer to where Pete was stretched out against the boulder. Taking no chances, Sutton circled the rocks. He climbed onto the one sheltering Pete.

  “Ranger. You hit bad?” he called.

  “I’m. done for,” Pete gasped. “You got me. in my. guts. Hurts. somethin’ fierce. Reckon. you win.”

  “Aw, gee. That’s a real shame, lawman.”

  “Just. finish me off, will. ya?” Pete pleaded.

  “With pleasure, Ranger.”

  Sutton stuck his head over the boulder. Pete shot him between the eyes. Sutton plunged off the rock and thudded to the ground, alongside the Ranger.

  “Judd?” Reed called. “Judd?”

  “He’s dead,” Pete answered. “So are you, Reed, unless you throw down your gun, right now.”

  “Not a chance, Ranger,” Reed screamed. He raced toward Pete, firing wildly. One bullet grazed Pete’s scalp, then Pete aimed carefully as Reed loomed above him. He fired twice, his first shot taking Reed in the stomach, the second in his left breast. Reed spun, then crashed face-down. Silence descended. The only sounds were Pete’s labored breathing and the moaning of the badly wounded Pardee.

  Pete reloaded his gun, then pushed himself to his feet. He staggered to where Pardee lay, hands clamped to his gut. Pete kicked Pardee’s gun out of reach.

  “You gotta help me,” Pardee begged.

  “Soon as I check your pardners, I’ll see what I can do for you,” Pete promised. He checked the other men, making sure they were dead. That done, he whistled for Trooper. A moment later, the big bay trotted up to the Ranger and nuzzled his shoulder.

  “Good boy, Troop,” Pete praised. He dug in his saddlebags for his medical kit and a clean cloth, then returned to Pardee.

  “Lemme see what I can do for you,” he said.

  “Dunno if you can do anythin’,” Pardee answered. “You gut-shot me, Ranger. Figure I’ve had it, but at least takin a slug’s better’n hangin’.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  Pete opened Pardee’s shirt.

  “You’re hit bad, all right,” he said. He placed the cloth over the bullet hole in Pardee’s middle.

  “Be right back.” Pete pulled the shirt off Ben Reed, tore it into strips, then used those to tie the bandage in place.

  “Best I can do for you until we reach town and I get you to the doc,” Pete noted.

  “Ranger, all my pardners are dead, ain’t they?”

  “They sure are.”

  “Listen to me. I’m not gonna die and let Montrose get away with his scheme. That banker was behind the whole thing. It was his idea to have his own bank robbed, then after a few weeks, when things had quieted down, get the money back. He’d been embezzling from his customers for quite a spell. Needed some way to cover that up.”

  “I know,” Pete answered. “I found his letter in Hunter’s saddlebags. Figured if I didn’t let on Montrose’d trip himself up.”

  “You ruined everythin’ when you shot Hunter,” Pardee complained.

  “We’d better get movin’. I’ll load up your pards, get you in the saddle, and we’ll head for town,” Pete said.

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere, except mebbe to Hell,” Pardee replied.

  The bullet in Pete’s back was out of his reach. It would have to remain where it was until he could get to a doctor. Fighting the pain and nausea which threatened to overcome him, he retrieved the outlaws’ horses, draped the dead men belly-down over their saddles, then got Pardee onto his horse. He tied the wounded man in place.

  “Try’n hold on until we reach Rankin,” Pete told him.

  “I’ll do my best,” Pardee answered, then slumped over his horse’s neck.

  4

  Pete rode hunched in the saddle until he reached town. Once there, he forced himself upright. A crowd quickly gathered when he reined up in front of the marshal’s office. Hiram Porter was at the forefront.

  “What happened, Ranger? These the jaspers who robbed the bank?” he questioned

  “They are,” Pete confirmed.

  “You got all of ‘em?”

  Before Pete could answer, Ebenezer Montrose joined Porter.

  “You caught those outlaws? Good work, Ranger. Did you retrieve the stolen money?”

  “I didn’t get all of ‘em. Not quite yet,” Pete answered.

  Tom Pardee roused himself.

  “That’s right,” he gasped. “Montrose, I’m gonna make sure you go to Hell along with the rest of us. I’m sayin’ right here you planned the entire thing. You had your own bank robbed.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Montrose snapped.

  “No, it’s not.” Pete growled. “I found your letter in Hunter’s saddlebags. You’re under arrest for robbery and murder, Montrose.”

  With an oath, the banker pulled a short-barreled revolver from inside his coat. Before he could shoot, Pete yanked his Colt from its holster and fired. His bullet struck Montrose in the heart. The banker took two stumbling steps, then crumpled.

  “Reckon I’ll be seein’ Montrose and ol’ Satan in a few minutes,” Pardee muttered. He sagged over his horse’s side.

  “What in the blue blazes happened here, Ranger?” Porter demanded.

  “I’ll explain it all after I see the doc,” Pete answered. “I need to get a slug outta my back.”

  With that, Pete slid off Trooper and fell to the road. Once the bullet was removed, he would take several weeks to recover, before he returned to his duties as a Texas Ranger.

  The Wind

  1

  I awoke with a scream loud enough to wake the dead. I started to leap from my bunk, but instead settled back down, shaking with fear and covered with sweat. The full moon sent its vivid light through the bunkhouse window and directly onto my bed, while a steady wind moaned through the pines. That wind had blown open the door and slammed it against the wall.

  “What in blue blazes was that all about, Bob? You all right?” Thad Coburn, one of the other new men here at the Rafter K Ranch, called. I’d awakened everyone in the bunkhouse. They were staring at me questioningly.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just had a real bad nightmare, that’s all,” I explained.

  “You must’ve been dreamin’ that the devil himself was after you to let out a holler like that. Sent shivers up

  my spine,” Jake Bennett, the Rafter K’s segundo, added. “Sure hope you don’t wake up like that again.”

  “I won’t,” I promised him. I’d arrived at the Rafter K only a few days previously, and had talked them into taking a chance on this grubline-riding cowboy named Bob Lydell. I sure didn’t want to lose the job by scaring everyone out of their wits, ruining their sleep. And I liked what I’d seen of the place so far. The Rafter K was set high in the foothills of the Colorado Rockies, with fantastic scenery and crisp, clear air. The bunkhouse was sturdily built and cleaner than most, the other buildings in good repair, while the chuck was the best I’d had on any
of the spreads where I’d worked. The cattle were all nice and fat from grazing on that thick Colorado grass. Best of all from a working cowboy’s standpoint, every horse in the string I’d been assigned was a superior mount. Each of them was a hardworking cowpony, trustworthy and true. I felt I had finally found a place where I could be content for the rest of my life, and perhaps drive the demons from my mind for good.

  “Good. Then I’d recommend we all get back to our shut-eye. We’ve got an early start and a long day ahead of us,” Bennett ordered.

  “As for me, if I’m gonna dream, it’s gonna be about Betsy, that cute blonde filly down at the Drover’s Bar,” Coburn commented.

  “Dreamin’ about her’s about all you’ll do,” Hank Mayburn retorted. “That gal ain’t ever gonna give you the time of day.”

  The others were soon back asleep, snoring softly under their blankets. However, I couldn’t shake the terrifying image of that nightmare from my mind.

  I tossed and turned for a spell, then gave up trying to get back to sleep as a lost cause. I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress and sat up, then picked up my shirt and jeans from the floor alongside my bunk. I used the shirt to wipe the sweat from my face and chest, tossed it aside and pulled on the jeans. I reached for my vest, hanging from a peg over my bunk, and removed my matches, cigarette papers, and sack of Durham from the left breast pocket. Not wanting to again disturb my bunkmates, I didn’t pull on my boots, but quietly as possible padded barefoot to the door. My hands were shaking so violently it took me several tries to build a smoke. I spilled half my sack of tobacco before I managed to sprinkle enough on a paper to roll a quirly. When at last I succeeded, I scratched a lucifer to life on the wall, then touched it to the end of the cigarette.

  Dark, puffy clouds were scudding across the sky, alternately obscuring then revealing the full late September harvest moon. The interplay of light and dark sent eerie shadows across the rolling foothills. The tall pines seemed to bend threateningly toward the bunkhouse with each fitful gust. Inside the stable the horses were restless,

  nickering and stamping. And somewhere in the hills a wolf howled mournfully, its chilling call echoing off the hills and over the prairie. The animal’s high-pitched wail sent shudders up my spine.

  That wind, the moon, the shadows, and the wolf’s cries brought back memories of another night a year ago. A night on the Wyoming high plains, much like this one. A night that, try as I might, I would never forget.

  2

  One Year Previous

  I’d spent most of my twenty-eight years on this earth as a drifting cowpoke, starting in Texas at the age of sixteen, following the herds north to the Kansas railheads. Since then I had cowboyed from Texas west to the Arizona Territory, then north to the Dakotas and Montana, with jobs just about everywhere in between. Just plain fiddlefooted, I’d stay in one place for a time, then move on. I’d finally wound up working for the Diamond M in Wyoming.

  The Diamond M was a huge operation, big even by Wyoming standards. It sat south of the Bighorn Mountains, east of Wind River Canyon and the Owl Creek Range. Its range spread all the way from Badwater Creek to the South Fork of the Powder River. Besides being mighty good grazing land, the Diamond M took in some of the prettiest scenery in the West. I had been working there for six months, as long as I’d ever stayed in one place. Now, in early September, I was seriously considering remaining through the winter.

  However, right now I was sick of the whole place. I’d been assigned one of the most distasteful tasks a cowboy could have, aside from digging postholes. I’d been sent to check and repair miles of fenceline along Badwater Creek, from its headwaters south for thirty miles. While I would ordinarily welcome the solitude of such a job, after two weeks of mending fence I just wanted to get back to the Diamond M’s headquarters, then head for town and blow off some steam. But with sunset coming on, all I had to look forward to was yet another night sleeping on the hard ground, the only warmth to ward off the autumn chill that of a sagebrush fire.

  “C’mon, Laramie, let’s find a spot to hole up for the night,” I told my paint gelding. Rather than using one of the horses from my assigned string, I’d taken Laramie, my personal mount. At this point I even envied that horse. He’d spent a good part of the last two weeks loafing and grazing while I stretched and patched wire and straightened fence posts.

  It took me until well after dusk to find the spot I wanted, a hollow which would shelter me from the almost constant north wind. That wind had been blowing just about every day since I’d left the ranch headquarters, and truthfully it was making me a bit jumpy. For the past two days it had been gradually increasing in speed, the gusts becoming more intense. I didn’t want to spend another night out in the open, but on those desolate high plains

  I didn’t have much choice. At least the hollow would provide a bit of protection from that chilling wind.

  I unsaddled Laramie, let him drink from the small waterhole in the center of the hollow, then rubbed him down and picketed him to graze. Once he was settled, I gathered sagebrush for my fire, made my bacon, biscuits, beans, and coffee, then quickly downed my supper.

  After cleaning the frying pan and tin eating utensils, I lingered over a final smoke and cup of coffee, watching the sky as it faded from indigo to black, and the countless stars pinpricking its inky curtain. A dim light on the eastern horizon promised the nearly full moon would soon be rising. The wind was moaning overhead, but down here in this hollow it was merely a light breeze.

  I drained the last of my coffee and stubbed out my cigarette. This night promised to be even chillier than the last several, so I collected more sagebrush and tossed it on the fire.

  I walked over to Laramie, scratched his ears, bade him goodnight, then checked his picket rope. Satisfied he was secured for the night, I retrieved my blankets and spread them out. I pulled off my hat, boots, and gunbelt, slid under the blankets, and soon fell asleep.

  3

  The next day dawned much the same as the last several. The sun rose brassily in the chilly air, doing little to take the edge off the frosty morning. However, by noon I’d be sweating under that same sun. The wind, which had died down during the night, was once again picking up from the northwest. It was certain to torment me all day.

  I rekindled my fire, cooked my breakfast, and wolfed it down. Once I was finished, I didn’t even bother to take the time for a smoke. I cleaned up my campsite, tied my bedroll behind my saddle, pulled on my leather gloves, and retrieved Laramie. The sun was barely a half-hour above the eastern horizon when I was back in the saddle, facing another long day of drudgery.

  The next several hours were a repeat of the past two weeks. It was ride along the fence until I found a break. Then I’d dismount and ground-hitch Laramie. I’d take my pliers, pull the wire taut, and splice it back together. If a post were down, I’d straighten it back up, tamp down the soil at its base, then hammer the wire back in place. Occasionally I would have to employ wire cutters to break through a tangle of downed wire, cutting and

  splicing until I had the snarl cleared and the fence back in place.

  By late afternoon I was wistfully reflecting on the days of the open range, before this cussed “devil’s wire” had been invented. Several times the sharp barbs had ripped through the protection of my thick leather gloves to slice my hands. My language had been reduced to swearing every time I felt another sting from that wire. I was almost convinced it was a thing alive, malevolently attempting to tear me to shreds. When the wire in a particularly nasty snag snapped without warning and slashed across my face I went to my knees in pain, violently cursing Joseph Glidden, the hombre who’d perfected barbed wire. If I’d had him in front of me at that moment I’d have cheerfully gut-shot him. However, all I could do was curse Glidden roundly, put my bandanna to my ripped cheek until the bleeding stopped, then resume my task.

  But much as I hated it, that blasted wire
wasn’t the worst of my troubles, at least not to my mind. That accursed northwest wind had been steadily increasing all day. I’d had to tie my bandanna over my nose and mouth to keep out the dust it carried. Nonetheless, bits of sand and grit stung my eyes and blurred my vision. With evening coming on, that wind carried the chill of the faraway snow-capped peaks where it was born. It had rolled out of those mountains, tumbled over their foothills, and worked its way through the canyons and river breaks, picking up speed all along its journey. By

  now it had been blowing for miles over the high prairies, unimpeded except for the occasional coulee or draw. Where it funneled through those defiles that wind shrieked with the voices of a thousand demons. It was even affecting Laramie, my normally unflappable paint. The gelding kept tossing his head, snorting anxiously, his nostrils flaring as he scented the air and stamped nervously. He finally came up to me and nuzzled my shoulder.

  “I reckon you’re right, boy,” I tried to soothe him. “It’s time to call it a day and try’n find some cover from this gale.”

  I jammed my tools into the saddlebags and climbed onto Laramie’s back. Once mounted, I scanned the surrounding prairie for any sign of shelter. The only place I spotted was a high ridge. With luck, once I topped that rise and headed down the other side, it would provide a bit of cover from the unceasing wind.

  “Let’s go, boy,” I urged my horse. He gave a snort of protest when a particularly fierce gust stung his hide with fragments of gravel. It ruffled Laramie’s mane and blew his tail nearly perpendicular to his body.

  “It’s gettin’ worse,” I muttered, “And there’s nowhere to hide.”

  Here on the high plains, that wind could blow for days, even weeks. It had been known to drive men insane.

  If I didn’t escape from its grasp, I could very well meet the same fate.

  I heeled Laramie into a slow jogtrot.