The Faith and the Rangers

by James J. Griffin

  4

  At the crest of the ridge, the ceaseless wind reached its full fury, tossing sand into my face. I wiped a hand across my eyes and squinted into the distance, searching for a safe path down the steep slope.

  I don’t believe it!

  My mind refused to consider what I’d seen was real. I blinked, and gazed down the ridge again.

  It is a soddy! I will have a place to spend the night!

  In a little hollow below the ridge stood a small sod cabin, apparently long abandoned. Nonetheless, it still appeared sturdy, despite years of neglect.

  “C’mon, Laramie. We’ll both sleep comfortable tonight.”

  I pushed my gelding down the grade, then rode slowly up to the sod shack. Dried grass and weeds overgrew the roof, and the door hung by one leather hinge. It banged open and shut in the wind. However, the soddy was firmly built and solid, an inviting shelter from the elements. Even the small corral alongside it was still in good shape, and overgrown with frost-killed grass

  it would provide my horse with fodder for the night. All I’d have to do was nail a couple of the rails back in place and it would hold Laramie quite nicely.

  I dismounted, led my horse inside the corral, and removed the saddle and bridle. Laramie rolled, then fell to cropping at the dry grass. While he grazed I hammered those fallen rails into place.

  There was an old rusted bucket lying in one corner of the enclosure. I carried it to the small pond behind the cabin, filled it, and left it in the corral for Laramie. Satisfied I had settled my paint as well as possible under the circumstances, I scratched his ears.

  “You take it easy, fella. Get a good night’s rest,” I told him.

  I untied my bedroll from the cantle of my saddle, shouldered my saddlebags, and headed inside the dirt shanty.

  The air inside the soddy was thick and musty. There was no furniture, except for a rusted stove in one corner, tipped on its side. Previous passersby must have stripped the place clean. Apparently even the mice had abandoned this sorry place, for there wasn’t a sign of those rodents anywhere. A thick coating of dust covered every surface. With the wind, more dust drifted from the roof in a thin brown haze. The soddy’s dank interior would be dreary enough on a sunny day. Now, with clouds thickening and night coming on, it was downright depressing.

  The wind moaning overhead and pushing in fitful gusts through chinks in the walls made the dirt-walled shack seem almost threatening.

  Worn-out, I didn’t attempt to find fuel and build a fire. I gulped down some hardtack, washing it down with tepid water from my canteen.

  Too dog-tired to even pull off my boots and gunbelt, I rolled out my blankets on the packed earth floor and slid under them. That soddy might have been gloomy, the atmosphere inside oppressing, but I was grateful for the shelter it provided from the maelstrom.

  I curled up on my side and fell asleep to the accompaniment of that ceaseless, howling wind.

  ^^^^^^^^^^^^^

  I had no idea how long I’d been sleeping when I became aware of a presence in the room. The soddy seemed dimly illuminated by the mid-morning sun, but a brown haze still hung in the air, and the wind still moaned.

  The door had been blown open, and outside the shack stood a woman, along with two young children. They were standing in front of a freshly dug grave. A crude wooden cross stood at its head, while the wind lifted dirt from the loose earth mounded over the grave and carried it off. The family stood with heads bowed for a time, then turned toward the cabin. Just before they

  reached the door the wind swept them away, to disappear in a cloud of dust.

  I jerked awake, gasping for breath, my heart pounding. Groggily, I reached for a match, then realized there was no lamp. I settled back. The door was still closed, the only illumination a few streaks of light from the rising full moon working their way through cracks in the door.

  It was only a dream, I thought. That wind’s got you spooked

  I reached into my vest pocket, took out the makings, and built a cigarette. I struck a match and lit the smoke, taking a long drag. I lay there in that shack smoking and listening to the wind. By the time I’d smoked that quirly to the butt, the tobacco had calmed my jangled nerves. I stubbed out the cigarette, rolled back up in my blankets, and drifted back to sleep.

  Once again, that vision interrupted my slumber. As before ,the wind had awakened me. I now saw that same woman holding two pillowcases, cases which had once been white, but were now yellowed with age. She dipped the pillowcases in a basin of water, then carried them to the bed where her children lay sleeping. She tenderly placed the moistened clothes over their faces to protect them from the dust filtering from the dirt roof. That done, she tied another wet cloth over her own mouth and nose. She stood watching the slumbering children, then

  turned toward the door, listening. A look of utter despair crossed her face when the wind’s soft moan increased to a full-throated shriek.

  The woman turned from the door and threw herself down alongside her children. The howling wind drowned out her hopeless sobs.

  I was jolted to full wakefulness, my blood racing. Despite the night’s chill, sweat was pouring from my brow.

  I rolled onto my belly and reached for my saddlebags. I pulled out the small bottle of whiskey I carried, uncorked it, and stared at it for a long while. Reluctantly, I recorked the flask, put it away, and fell back on my blankets. I sure didn’t need that liquor’s effect on my already heightened imagination.

  I somehow slept a bit longer, but the dream soon returned. This time the woman had a long-handled spade in her hands. There were now three graves, the two brand new ones smaller than the other. The woman tossed a final shovelful of dirt on one grave, her shoulders slumped in defeat, her eyes dull and lifeless.

  The soddy’s door burst open. I scrambled from my bedroll, trying to clear the cobwebs from my mind. Upon the ridge above the shack stood the emaciated figure of that woman, pale as death, her features white as bone in the moonlight, the wind whipping her tattered dress.

  Unable to pull my gaze from that specter, I watched in dread while she raised her withered arms as if in supplication. Then, with a shriek of such despair it turned my blood cold, she vanished before the wind.

  In abject horror, I dashed from that shanty and for my horse, with the wind screaming all around. Laramie was pacing back and forth in the corral, trumpeting his fear. I jumped the fence and grabbed my gear. Somehow I managed to calm my terrified gelding enough to throw blanket and saddle on his back and get the bridle over his head.

  I jumped into the saddle, realizing in my panic I had neglected to open the gate. I dug my spurs into Laramie’s flanks, sending the frenzied horse directly at the rails I’d just repaired. He broke through those boards as if they were straw.

  My paint needed no urging to flee that hollow. He bounded away from there at a full gallop.

  I kept Laramie at that pace, heedless of any obstacles in our path, my only thought to put as much distance between myself and that terrifying vision as possible. I never looked back as I raced for my life, with the merciless wind shrieking at my horse’s heels and the woman’s banshee wail echoing in my ears.

  By first light, we were miles from that dirt shack. Laramie came to a stop alongside a small creek. He was completely exhausted. I slid from the saddle. He

  stood spraddle-legged, his head hanging. I pulled the saddle from his back and dropped it to the ground, then collapsed alongside it.

  Fatigue finally overcame my fear. Sleep claimed me, and in the daylight I slept soundly for several hours. I awakened feeling greatly relieved I’d managed to escape from that wraith. Laramie had recovered somewhat also, for when I awoke he greeted me with a cheerful nicker. He’d drunk and grazed while I dozed.

  “I’m sorry, pal,” I apologized to my paint. I pulled a currycomb from the saddlebags to brush the dried sweat f
rom his hide. By the time I had finished, the sun was well on its descent toward the western horizon. I shivered when a chance breeze brushed my cheek. Dread at the thought of spending another night out on that prairie churned in my belly. Besides, in my panic I’d left my blankets in that soddy. I would be mighty chilly without them.

  “Let’s try for town, pardner,” I whispered to Laramie.

  I quickly saddled my horse and climbed onto his back. He broke into an eager trot without hesitation.

  Darkness came well before we reached the nearest settlement, Aminto, a collection of a few shacks, a general store, a livery stable, and a saloon. I settled my horse in the stable and headed for that saloon. I would spend

  a week in that town trying to drink the horrific vision of that woman out of my mind. And the Diamond M would never learn what had happened to me. I never went back.

  The Youngest Rangers

  1

  Texas Ranger Clay Taggart reined his black and white overo to a halt atop a low hill. The view took in the settlement a short distance south. Taggart swung out of the saddle and pulled off his Stetson. He lifted his canteen from the saddlehorn, opened it, and poured most of the contents into the hat. He placed the hat in front of his horse’s muzzle. The gelding drank greedily.

  “That’ll be Uvalde just ahead, Mike,” he told the horse. “We’re headin’ into Travis Burnham’s home grounds. Mebbe we’ll finally catch up with him. Boy howdy, he’s led us a chase for fair.”

  Taggart had been trailing the renegade for almost two months, from San Marcos, where Burnham had robbed and killed two cattle buyers, through Boerne, where he’d robbed the bank, badly wounding the clerk, to Kerrville. Taggart had missed finding the outlaw in that town by

  two days. Word had reached Burnham a Ranger was on his trail, so he left town on the run.

  From Kerrville, Burnham had headed almost due south to Bandera, where he’d robbed another bank, this time killing a deputy. When Taggart reached Bandera, he was informed Burnham was evidently continuing south toward Uvalde, where he had kin.

  Taggart allowed his pinto to finish drinking, then took a swallow from the canteen for himself. He climbed back into the saddle.

  “Let’s go, boy.”

  He kicked the horse into a lope.

  Twenty minutes later, Taggart rode into Uvalde. He drew abreast of the school just as a group of boys boiled out from behind the building, several of them yelling encouragement to a pair of ten year olds, who were fighting. One landed a blow to his opponent’s chin, knocking him backwards. He wrapped his arms around his adversary’s waist and drove his head into his stomach. The two boys rolled in the dirt, fists flailing.

  Taggart spun Mike and leapt from the saddle. He reached the combatants in two strides, grabbed them by the shoulders, and pulled them to their feet.

  “Whoa, take it easy. You’re stirrin’ up quite a commotion. Settle down,” he ordered.

  “Lemme go, Mister!” the smaller boy, towheaded, with light blue eyes, ordered.

  “Not until you quiet down!” Taggart reiterated. “That goes for both of you,” he added, when the other boy tried to twist out of his grasp.

  Realizing the futility of further attempts to break free of Taggart’s grip, the boys quit their squirming. They gazed up sullenly at the Ranger.

  “Now, what’s this all about?” Taggart asked.

  “Nothin’,” one muttered.

  “It didn’t look like nothin’ to me,” Taggart responded. “In fact, it appeared you two were tryin’ your darndest to kill each other. Let’s try this again. If I let you loose, will you behave?”

  “I reckon,” the towhead replied.

  “Same here,” the second, lankier, with dark brown hair and eyes, conceded.

  “That’s more like it.”

  Taggart released the pair.

  “What’s your names?”

  “Bobby. Bobby Madison,” the taller boy answered.

  “Jesse Collins,” the towhead responded.

  “Good. Now we’re gettin’ somewhere. So what was that ruckus all about?”

  “Bobby claims Freckles is no good!” Jesse exclaimed.

  “You’d better make that a mite clearer,” Taggart urged. “Who’s Freckles?”

  “My horse. That’s him over there.”

  Jesse pointed to a scrubby bay pinto cowpony tied to the school’s hitchrail.

  “Bobby said Freckles isn’t good for anything just because he’s spotted. I couldn’t let him say that about my horse!”

  “I’m tellin’ the truth,” Bobby insisted. “My dad’s the smartest rancher in these parts, and he says pintos ain’t good for nothin’! Only Indians think they’re worth anything.”

  “That’s not true! You take that back, Bobby!” Jesse demanded.

  “Just simmer down,” Taggart ordered. He turned to Bobby.

  “You claim pintos are worthless, Bobby?”

  “That’s right. Everyone know it,” Bobby retorted.

  “You’re wrong, son. I’ll show you,” Taggart answered. He gave a soft whistle. Mike trotted up to him and nuzzled his hand.

  “You see this pinto? This is my horse, Mike. He and I’ve been trail pards a long time. He’s one of the smartest broncs you’ll ever meet. Watch. Give Bobby a kiss, Mike.”

  The big gelding lowered his head and licked the boy’s face.

  “Yuck!” Bobby exclaimed, wiping his cheek. The other boys laughed.

  “Now give Jesse a hug, Mike.”

  Mike twisted his head to the side, then laid it on Jesse’s shoulder.

  “Good boy, Mike,” Taggart praised. He dug in his pocket for a peppermint, which he gave to the horse.

  “Mike’ll also shake hands,” Taggart added.

  “Almost any cayuse can learn tricks, but that doesn’t mean he’s worth much, Mister,” one of the other boys objected.

  “What might your name be, son?” Taggart asked him.

  “Joe Perkins.”

  “You’re right, Joe,” Taggart agreed. “But anyone who says the color or pattern of a horse’s coat determines whether he’s a good mount is dead wrong. Mike’s the finest horse I’ve ever owned. He’s saved my life more

  than once. Besides, a Texas Ranger has to ride the best horse he can possibly find.”

  “You’re a Texas Ranger, Mister?” Jesse echoed.

  “That’s right. Ranger Clay Taggart. Been a Ranger for quite a few years. Mike’s been with me for most of them. He’s taught me the color of a horse’s hide doesn’t matter. It’s the heart and guts under that hide which counts, just like with men. Mike’s got both. And a Ranger sure needs that, since his life often depends on his horse.”

  “Well, mebbe I was wrong about all pintos,” Bobby admitted, “But that still doesn’t mean Jesse’s horse is a good one.”

  “We’ll have to see about that,” Taggart replied. “Jess, bring your horse over here.”

  “Sure thing, Mister Taggart!”

  Jesse hurried to his horse, untied him, and brought him to the Ranger.

  “Let me take a look at him,” Taggart said.

  Taggart circled the small horse, studying him from every angle, picking up Freckles’ feet to examine his hooves, all the while speaking soothingly to the gelding. He stroked the horse’s neck, then looked into his eyes.

  “Well, Mister Taggart?” Jesse demanded.

  “Call me Clay, Jess. Or Ranger Clay. That goes for all of you.”

  “But what about Freckles?” Jesse insisted.

  “Yeah. Is he any good?” Bobby added. “Sure don’t look like much.”

  “Freckles isn’t the best lookin’ bronc in Texas, that’s for certain,” Taggart answered. “But he’s got good legs and feet. Pretty deep chest, too. Most of all, he’s got a kindly eye. To me, that’s the most important thing in a
horse. Jess, Freckles is a mount you can depend on. I’d bet my hat on it.”

  “Gee, thanks, Ranger Clay. See, Bobby. I told you.”

  “I guess I was wrong,” Bobby conceded. “Reckon I own you an apology, Jess, for what I said about your horse, and the fight.”

  “Heck, I started that fight,” Jesse admitted. “Wasn’t all your fault, Bobby.”

  He retied Freckles to the rail.

  “I’d say neither of you needs to apologize,” Taggart told them. “Men disagree about horses all the time. Long as you shake hands you can put this behind you. How about it?”

  “I reckon we can,” Jesse answered. “Friends again, Bobby?”

  “Sure. Friends again.”

  The boys shook hands.

  “That’s settled. Now, I noticed a general store just up the road. Why don’t all of you skedaddle down there for some licorice? I’m buyin’,” Taggart grinned.

  “You bet, Ranger Clay! Bobby exclaimed. “Let’s go!”

  The boys headed for the store on the run.

  “You handled that situation quite well, sir.”

  Taggart looked around at the sound of that feminine voice. For the first time he noticed the schoolmarm. She was standing on the school’s porch, gazing with admiration at the Ranger.

  “Why, thank you, ma’am,” Clay replied. “I was just tryin’ to break up that fight.”

  “I appreciate what you did. That’s why I didn’t interfere. You had everything under control. And they’re not really bad boys. It’s just that Jesse’s family doesn’t have much, except their hardscrabble ranch, while Bobby’s family is fairly well-off. They own a large spread just outside town. But despite the impression you might have gotten from that fight, Bobby and Jesse are best friends.”

  “Well, I was a boy myself once,” Taggart answered.

  “I would imagine you were,” the teacher laughed.

  “I guess that did sound pretty silly,” Taggart admitted. Without realizing it, he was staring at the pretty young woman. She was petite and blonde, with blue eyes the shade of cornflowers, her complexion the color of cream.