The Faith and the Rangers

by James J. Griffin

  “He say which way he was headed?”

  “Don’t tell this lawman anythin’ more, Pa,” Tom urged.

  “Son, I know you love your brother. So do I,” Troy responded. “But he’s no good. Hasn’t been since he growed

  up. If this man doesn’t stop him, he’ll rob and murder more innocent folks. Sooner or later Travis is bound to die with a bellyful of lead, or hangin’ from a cottonwood limb. I’m not gonna protect him any longer.”

  To Taggart he continued, “Travis didn’t say where he was goin’. He headed south from here. My guess is Mexico.”

  “That’s what I figure too,” Taggart answered. “What’s he ridin’ now?”

  “A big-chested bay gelding with a sock on his near forefoot,” Troy answered.

  “That’s one good horse,” Tom broke in. “You’ll have a heckuva time catchin’ up to my brother with that pinto of yours. He’s pretty, but I’ve never seen a spotted horse with much bottom.”

  “Well, you’re lookin’ at one now,” Taggart said. “Mike’ll outlast just about any other horse in Texas. But I won’t catch Travis standin’ here palaverin’. I’d best get ridin’.”

  “You want some coffee or chuck, Ranger?” Troy asked.

  “Can’t take the time. I’ve got plenty of grub in my saddlebags. But thank you for the offer, and the information. I know it wasn’t easy for you to answer my questions. I’ll try and take your boy alive if at all possible.”

  “Don’t matter none.” Troy’s voice was thick with despair. “Travis made his choice a long time ago. I reckon it’d be best if you kill him with a bullet, rather’n him bein’ jailed and dyin’ at the end of a rope.”

  “That’ll be his decision,” Taggart answered. “Tom, Mr. Burnham, again, muchas gracias. Adios.”

  3

  It only took a few moments for Taggart to find the tracks of Travis Burnham’s horse. As his father had said, the renegade had headed south from the Rocking B.

  “He ain’t tryin’ to cover his tracks,” Taggart told his horse, “Appears he’s makin’ a beeline for Mexico. It’s up to us to stop him before he gets there. C’mon, boy. Pick up the pace.”

  He spurred Mike into a ground-eating lope, a pace the gelding could maintain all day without tiring.

  Two miles later, the hoof prints of Burnham’s horse turned right, into a brush-choked ravine. Taggart reined Mike to a halt. He took a drink from his canteen while he examined the tracks.

  “Looks like Burnham decided to try and shake off any pursuit after all,” Taggart muttered. “And that draw’s the perfect spot for an ambush. We go in there and I’m liable to end up with a bullet in my back, horse. Reckon we don’t have any choice, though. Besides, those prints are several hours old. My guess is Burnham ducked in there hopin’ no one’d follow, and just kept on goin’. Well, let’s find out.”

  Taggart pushed his mount into the thick growth. Mike snorted a protest when the thorny vegetation jabbed his hide.

  Taggart’s pace was slowed to a walk while he worked his way through the winding ravine. Several times, he had to stop Mike and dismount, to force his way through the dense underbrush. Both man and horse had blood flowing from deep scratches gouged out of their flesh by spiny needles and thorns before they finally emerged from the draw.

  “Burnham accomplished what he set out to do. We lost considerable time tryin’ to follow his tracks through there. But soon’s I find some water we’re gonna take a few minutes and rest. You need a drink and I want to rub some salve on your scrapes, Mike.”

  The Ranger followed Burnham’s trail for another twenty minutes, until he reached a small cienega.

  “Burnham stopped here to rest his horse. We’re gonna do the same.”

  Taggart swung from the saddle and loosened the cinches. He slipped the bit from Mike’s mouth and gave him a peppermint. He let the overo drink, then while Mike cropped at the lush grass surrounding the seep, dug a tin of salve from his saddlebags. He coated his horse’s wounds with the ointment, then did the same to the scratches marring his own face and hands.

  Taggart removed some jerky and hardtack from his saddlebag. He ate a quick meal while Mike grazed. He washed down the stringy meat and dry biscuits with water from the seep, then refilled his canteen.

  “Enough relaxin’ for you, bud,” he told his horse, with a fond slap on the neck. “Burnham’s puttin’ miles between us, and we’re burnin’ daylight. Time to get movin’.”

  Taggart slid Mike’s bridle back in place and retightened his cinches. Once he was in the saddle, he again pushed the pinto into his tireless lope.

  After several miles, Taggart again reined to a stop. He thumbed back his Stetson and scratched his head in puzzlement.

  “This doesn’t make any sense, Mike. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Burnham is circlin’ back north, mebbe even headin’ back to Uvalde itself. What the devil is he up to?”

  Instead of heading directly south toward Mexico, once he’d emerged from the ravine Burnham had set a twisted trail, which switched back on itself several times, but which was unmistakably gradually turning back north.

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do but keep followin’ these tracks,” Taggart continued. “At least we’re gainin’ on him some. Long as daylight holds out we’ve got a chance of catchin’ up to him.”

  He heeled the gelding into motion once again.

  To Taggart’s frustration, dusk found him apparently still several miles behind his quarry. Clouds had covered the sky during the course of the afternoon, and with a new moon there would be no chance of continuing on Burnham’s trail until morning.

  “I reckon we’ll have to find a place to hole up for the night, Mike,” he said to his horse. “Well, at least you’ll get some rest. You could use it. We both can. We’ll start out fresh at sunup.”

  The Ranger rode two more miles, until he came upon a clear stream. The creek tumbled over a steep bluff, widened into a deep pool, then flowed into a series of rapids, which cascaded over a bank on the opposite side of the trail. From there it disappeared into dense undergrowth.

  “This looks like as good a place as any to set up camp, Mike. We’ll spend the night here.”

  Taggart dismounted, unsaddled his horse, and rubbed him down. That done, he let Mike have a long drink, then picketed the pinto for the night on a section of thick grama grass.

  “Reckon you’re all set, pardner,” he noted. “Now that you’re settled, that water looks mighty good to me. Reckon I’ll take a swim before I make my supper.”

  Taggart stripped off his sweat and dirt stained clothes, and tossed them on the stream bank. He plunged into the water.

  The Ranger spent several minutes swimming, then several more relaxing in the creek, allowing the cool water to soak away some of the grime and aches of the trail. Once he felt thoroughly refreshed Taggart emerged from the stream. He allowed the evening breeze to dry him off, then redressed.

  “Time to eat.”

  Taggart pulled his frying pan and coffeepot from his saddlebags. He hunkered alongside the creek to fill the pot. Just as he pulled it from the water, excruciating pain exploded through his head. The last things Taggart remembered were the crack of a rifle shot, then a distant thud as his body struck the ground. He rolled over the embankment, slid to the bottom, and lay unmoving.

  4

  “I’m sure glad it’s Saturday, so we can go fishin’ rather’n wastin’ the day in school,” Bobby remarked to Jesse. “You about ready there?”

  “Just about.” Jesse picked up his fishing pole and climbed onto Freckles’ back.

  “Now I’m set. Let’s go.”

  The boys put their horses, Jesse’s pinto and Bobby’s blaze-faced chestnut gelding, into a shuffling walk. With the entire day ahead of them, they were in no particular hurry.

  “Where do you want to head, Bobby?”
>
  “How about that spot on Agua Verde Creek? The fish are usually bitin’ there,” Bobby suggested.

  “That’s fine with me. And if they’re not, we can go swimmin’,” Jesse agreed.

  Walking along in the warm sunshine, the horses were almost as lethargic as their young riders. They meandered up the trail, the boys letting them set their own pace. After about three miles, Freckles suddenly stopped. He

  stood stock-still, head high and ears pricked sharply forward. The little pinto’s nostrils flared as he keened the air.

  “C’mon, Freckles. Get goin’!” Jesse urged. He drummed his heels on the horse’s ribs. His gelding merely danced sideways, still staring into the distance.

  “What’s the matter with your horse?” Bobby asked.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” Jesse replied, again kicking the pinto in his sides. “Let’s go, Freckles!”

  “Somethin’s botherin’ him, that’s for certain,” Bobby said. “Either that, or he’s just bein’ stubborn.”

  “Maybe. Or dumb,” Jesse answered. He tried to push his horse into motion. Freckles spun sideways, fighting the reins. He let out a loud neigh, then stood nickering.

  “Seems like he wants to head up that old side trail to Peter’s Bluff,” Bobby observed. “Maybe we should see why.”

  “There’s nothin’ much up there,” Jesse protested. “The fishin’ hole’s straight ahead.”

  “I know that, but your horse insists on takin’ that trail. Wait a minute. Listen, Jess!”

  “I don’t hear anything,” Jesse complained.

  Freckles gave out another neigh. It was answered by a return whinny. Freckles trumpeted again, this time joined by Bobby’s chestnut.

  “There’s a horse up there! Monte hears it too!” Bobby exclaimed.

  “You’re right! Maybe it’s hurt,” Jesse answered. “We’d better go and find out.”

  Jesse released the pressure on his reins. Instantly, Freckles shot up the narrow side trail at a dead run, Bobby’s chestnut at his heels.

  They reached the summit of the rise, racing along the base of the bluff. Freckles rounded a bend, then stopped so abruptly Jesse was tossed over his head and thudded to the ground.

  Bobby leapt from Monte’s back and hurried to his friend’s side.

  “Jesse, you all right?”

  “Yeah,” Jesse gasped. “But you were right about pintos bein’ stupid. Dumb horse.”

  “He’s not so dumb. Look there!”

  Bobby pointed to a black and white gelding, straining at the end of its picket rope. The horse was pawing the ground and whickering frantically.

  “That’s Mike! Ranger Clay’s horse!” Jesse exclaimed.

  “It sure is. Clay must be in trouble,” Bobby answered.

  “We’ve gotta help him. But where’s he at?” Jesse wondered.

  “He can’t be too far off. Not without his horse.” Bobby replied.

  “Maybe Mike can help us.”

  Jesse hurried to the Ranger’s horse.

  “Can you show us where Clay is, Mike?”

  “Turn him loose,” Bobby suggested. “He might lead us to Clay.”

  “Good idea.”

  Jesse untied the rope from Mike’s halter. The overo trotted to the embankment, where he stood pawing the dirt and whinnying.

  “Down there!” Bobby exclaimed, following the gelding’s gaze.

  “Where? I don’t see anything,” Jesse answered.

  “There. Half-hidden in the scrub. You can hardly see him.”

  Bobby pointed to the still form of a man, barely visible through the thick underbrush.

  “I’ve spotted him. Clay!” Jesse shouted.

  “He’s not movin’,” Bobby said. “Ranger!”

  “Ranger! Hey, Ranger Clay! Ranger Clay!” both boys shouted.

  “It’s no use,” Bobby muttered. “He doesn’t hear us.”

  “We’ve gotta get him outta there,” Jesse insisted.

  “But how?” Bobby answered. “We might be able to climb down that bank, but we’d never be able to pull Clay back up. He’s way too heavy. Besides, what if he’s… dead?”

  “We can’t know that until one of us goes down there. You afraid of a dead man?” Jesse asked.

  “I. I guess not,” Bobby stammered. “It’s just that, well, I ain’t never seen a corpse up close before.”

  “If you’re scared, I’ll go down that bank,” Jesse offered.

  “We’ve still gotta figure out how to get him back up,” Bobby reminded him. “Mebbe one of us should ride for help.”

  “There might not be enough time for that,” Jesse replied.

  “Then we’ve gotta think of somethin’, and quick,” Bobby answered.

  “His horse! Bobby, get Clay’s saddle and rope.”

  “That’s it!”

  Bobby hurried to where Taggart’s saddle lay on the ground. He carried it back to where Mike stood, looking down at his rider and nickering questioningly.

  “Get that saddle on him!” Jesse ordered.

  Bobby tossed the saddle onto the gelding’s back and tightened the cinches. He took Taggart’s lariat from the saddle and dallied one end around the horn, then tied a loop in the other.

  “One of us has gotta go down there and tie this rope around Clay,” he noted.

  “I reckon that should be you, since you’re bigger’n I am. It’ll take all the muscle you’ve got to lift that Ranger and slip the lasso under him,” Jesse answered. “That is, unless you’re still too scared.”

  “I ain’t scared,” Bobby retorted. “You just keep a tight grip on that rope. Make sure Mike doesn’t move.”

  “You can count on me, pardner. But don’t slip, whatever you do. And good luck.”

  “Thanks, Jess.”

  Bobby gripped the rope and disappeared over the lip of the embankment. Jesse stood at Mike’s head, keeping a tight grip on the pinto’s halter while he stroked the horse’s neck and spoke soothingly to him.

  After what seemed an eternity to Jesse, Bobby came back into view, more than halfway down the steep slope.

  Bobby slid to the bottom, then scrambled to the downed Ranger.

  “Bobby! Are you all right?” Jesse called.

  “I’m fine!” Bobby shouted back.

  “What about Clay?”

  “His head’s all bloody, but he’s still breathin’. He looks in bad shape. We’ve gotta hurry. I’ll get the rope around him, then you have Mike pull him up. Go slow and careful.”

  “Don’t worry about me and Mike. Just get that rope tied!”

  It was a struggle for the eighty-five pound Bobby to lift the two hundred plus pound Taggart’s upper body and work the rope around the unconscious Ranger. He was exhausted when the lariat was finally under Taggart’s armpits and tied around his chest.

  “I’m ready, Jess. Get us outta here!”

  “Hold on!”

  Jesse urged Mike away from the cliff. Experienced in working cattle, the big gelding realized what was expected of him. He kept the rope taut as he backed slowly from the edge.

  “Easy, Mike. Steady, boy. You don’t want to hurt Clay more’n he already is,” Jesse cautioned. “That’s it.

  Nice and easy. You’re doin’ fine, Mike. Keep goin’, just like that.”

  Moments later, Mike dragged Taggart and Bobby back over the embankment’s rim.

  “Stop, Mike! You did great, boy!”

  Jesse unwrapped the lariat from Mike’s saddlehorn. The pinto trotted up to Taggart and nuzzled his rider’s face. Taggart’s only response was a barely audible moan.

  “We did it, Jess!” Bobby shouted. “We got Clay outta there!”

  “We sure did,” Jesse responded. “But we’re still in trouble. He’s not gonna come to, and there’s no way
we can get him onto a horse by ourselves. We need a buckboard.”

  “That means we’ll have to go for help after all.”

  “One of us will. The other will have to stay with Clay.”

  “Which one?”

  “You’d better, Bobby. Monte’s a lot faster than Freckles.”

  “All right, Jess. I’ll head for your place. It’s closest. You gonna be all right until I get back?”

  “I’ll be okay. Tell my pa to hurry back here. And have him send my brother for the doc.”

  “I’ll be back quick as I can,” Bobby promised.

  He gathered Monte’s reins, leapt onto the chestnut’s back, and pushed him into a dead run.

  5

  Clay Taggart awoke in unfamiliar surroundings, and with a pounding headache. He was flat on his back in a comfortable bed, covered by a clean sheet. He opened his eyes to see a whitewashed ceiling. He groaned and touched a hand to his head. Most of his hair had been shaved away, and a bandage covered a good part of his scalp.

  Hearing the Ranger moan, the woman at his bedside stirred.

  “Ranger Taggart? Are you awake?” she softly asked.

  Taggart turned his head to see a woman in her late thirties.

  “I reckon so, ma’am. Might I ask who you are? And where am I?”

  “My name is Bea Collins. You’re at the Triangle C Ranch.”

  “Collins?”

  “That’s right. Jesse Collins’ mother. How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve got a wicked headache, but other than that not bad. Plus I’m a mite puzzled. How’d I get here? Last thing I remember was gettin’ shot.”

  “Bobby Madison and Jesse. They were going fishing when they stumbled across you. Evidently you’d fallen over an embankment after that bullet struck. The boys found you there. I’ll let them tell you the entire story, but somehow they got you back to the trail, then came for help. My husband brought you here. You were too weak to survive the trip to town. That’s another seven miles. Doctor Palmer came out here to treat you. He confirmed our suspicions. You probably would have died before reaching Uvalde. The doctor said you have a rather severe concussion from the bullet wound. Fortunately, your skull wasn’t fractured. Another quarter inch lower, however…”