The Faith and the Rangers

by James J. Griffin

  “He is also a brother, and I will protect him as best I can,” Blue Hawk retorted. He knelt alongside Blanchard.

  “Jack, I am sorry,” Blue Hawk murmured. “Dark Bear is my cousin. He did not realize what he was doing.”

  “It’s all right, Blue Hawk,” Blanchard half-whispered. “Although I don’t think any of your Comanche medicine will help me this time.”

  The Ranger’s hands were still wrapped around the arrow’s shaft. Surprisingly little blood was running from the wound to trickle over the flesh of Blanchard’s belly. However, internally he was bleeding profusely, blood filling his abdominal cavity.

  “I am afraid you are right, my friend,” Blue Hawk sorrowfully answered. “I will stay with you until your soul flies to the Great Spirit. And may there be a curse on Dark Bear until he makes amends for what he has done.”

  “Does Dark Bear understand English?” Blanchard asked.

  “Very little,” Blue Hawk answered.

  “Then please tell him this for me. I understand why he put this arrow in me. Had our roles been reversed, and I saw a Comanche and white man together, I might have done the same as he did, and put a bullet into the warrior to save the white man’s life. Dark Bear only did what he believed was right. I hold no malice toward him, and I don’t want your curse on him.”

  In Comanche, Blue Hawk repeated Blanchard’s words to his cousin. When he finished, Dark Bear responded, at first calmly, then his voice rising when he glared at

  Blanchard and gestured angrily. Dark Bear’s eyes glittered as he fixed his gaze on the dying Ranger.

  Blue Hawk answered Dark Bear in equally harsh tones, then turned away from his fellow Comanche.

  “Jack, Dark Bear offers his thanks for your forgiveness, and as is your wish I will not curse his spirit. However, I will not do as he requests and allow him to take your scalp!” Blue Hawk spat. “He also feels he has earned your horse and weapons.”

  Blanchard let out a deep sigh. Blood was now running from his mouth. He choked on it as he replied.

  “Let Dark Bear take my scalp,” Blanchard said. “After all, he earned it. He shot me fair and square, believing he was saving you. I just wish he’d got me in the chest rather’n my gut. I’d’ve died quicker and it wouldn’t hurt so much. Your cousin has the right to my scalp, but he’ll have to wait until I’m dead to collect it. That won’t be long now.”

  “What of your horse and weapons?” Blue Hawk questioned.

  “My horse is yours. You said yourself that under different circumstances you would have killed me to steal him. I know you will treat T well,” Blanchard answered. “My rifle and Colt are also yours. Let Dark Bear keep my Bowie knife as a trophy of war.”

  “That is more than fair, Jack,” Blue Hawk agreed.

  Blue Hawk repeated Blanchard’s statement for Dark Bear, who nodded his understanding to the Ranger.

  “Blue Hawk, I must ask one more favor,” Blanchard requested.

  “What is that?”

  “Please make sure someone gets word to Ranger Headquarters what happened to me. Don’t tell ‘em how I died, though, or they’ll come after Dark Bear. Just say that I was killed fightin’ the Hortons and their bunch.”

  “I’ll do that,” Blue Hawk agreed. “What about your family?”

  “I’ve got no kin,” Blanchard answered. “My mother and father are both dead, and I’ve got no sisters or brothers. The Rangers were the closest thing I had to a family.”

  “I understand,” Blue Hawk nodded. “I am also grateful you do not want revenge on Dark Bear.”

  Blanchard shuddered as a wave of agony wracked his body. Sweat was beading on his forehead and running down his chest and stomach, mixing with the blood around the arrow’s shaft.

  “I won’t be hangin’ on much longer, Blue Hawk,” he told the Comanche. “We made a great team though, didn’t we?”

  “We did indeed, Jack,” Blue Hawk answered. “May the eagle swiftly fly your spirit to the Great Spirit.”

  “Thanks, pardner,” Blanchard whispered.

  “I will not be able to give you a proper funeral, as is the white man’s custom,” Blue Hawk continued. “Nor will I be able to provide you a Comanche burial ceremony. However, I will make sure the scavengers will not ravage your flesh and scatter your bones.”

  “I’d be grateful for that,” Blanchard answered, his voice weak and fading. “Reckon, it’s time to see what’s on the… other side of… the Great. Divide.”

  Blanchard was wrenched with pain. The Ranger rolled onto his side in a death spasm, gave out a long groan, then his body went slack.

  “You were as brave and honorable as any Comanche warrior, Texas Ranger Jack Blanchard,” Blue Hawk sorrowfully whispered.

  True to Blanchard’s word, Dark Bear was allowed to take his scalp, but out of respect for the Ranger he’d killed, and at Blue Hawk’s insistence, Dark Bear sliced the scalp carefully and cleanly from Blanchard’s skull. Once that was done, Dark Bear took Blanchard’s Bowie and departed, leaving the grieving Blue Hawk alone with his dead companion.

  T, Blanchard’s pinto, had remained nearby, waiting and watching. Now, he walked up to his deceased rider, nuzzled him, and nickered sadly.

  “I know you’ll miss Jack,” Blue Hawk soothed the horse. “I promise you I’ll care for you just as he did. Right now, though, it will be better if you don’t see what I have to do.”

  He led the horse away and picketed him with the others.

  Blue Hawk gathered dried branches and stacked them to prepare for his Ranger compadre’s final journey. Once he had sufficient fuel, he gently lifted Blanchard’s body from the ground and laid it reverently on the pyre. He picked up Blanchard’s silver star on silver circle badge from where it had fallen and placed it on the Ranger’s breast.

  The preparations completed, Blue Hawk lit a length of dried mesquite and touched it to several places at the base of the pyre. As the flames rose, he broke into a Comanche death chant, the mournful dirge seeming to mix with the sparks rising into the night sky. When the flames reached Blanchard’s body, a single tear rolled down Blue Hawk’s cheek.

  Gunfight at Taylor Ridge

  Introduction

  Conventional wisdom states the traditional Western story is dying or already dead, particularly among young people. It’s claimed the younger generations have little or no interest in our American Western heritage, either the facts of history or the legends which have made the cowboys, gunslingers, lawmen, Native American Indians, cavalrymen, and settlers of the American West enduring icons for generations throughout the entire world.

  In the presentations I give at schools, libraries, and other venues throughout the United States, I have found this not to be true. Young people are still extremely interested in the stories and history of the West. I am concluding this anthology with the following true story, which illustrates perfectly this interest.

  1

  After what seemed weeks of dreary, rainy weather, Sunday dawned warm and sunny, so I took advantage of the fine weather to get my horse out for some exercise, and to get in some patrol hours. Yankee and I are members of the state horse patrol, volunteers who help keep an eye on the state parks and forests. As always, I substituted a cowboy hat for the riding helmet which is part of my uniform.

  Once I saddled up, I headed for my usual assigned areas of Buell Forest and Taylor Ridge. I had been riding for about an hour when Yankee pricked up his ears and sniffed the air, a sure sign that something or someone is nearby. When we rounded the next bend in the trail, we came upon a gentleman who was out exploring the woods, along with his five year old grandson, Dylan. Dylan was excited to see my horse and, to his eyes, a cowboy. He was also all wound up because he’d outgrown his old cowboy hat, and only the day before had gotten a new black one similar to the one I was wearing. Dylan’s granddad and legal guardian, Vinny, told me Dylan c
ouldn’t decide whether he wanted to be a biker or a cowboy when he grew up. Vinny also related how he and Dylan watched

  all the cowboy movies on the Encore Westerns Channel, and Dylan knew who Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger, and Gene Autry were. He added that Dylan even owned a Roy Rogers and Trigger pocket knife. Very surprising for a kid in 2008.

  While we were talking, Dylan was petting my horse, who loves both attention and kids. Dylan worked his way from Yankee’s right shoulder to his nose to his left shoulder, all the while looking curiously at me. Finally, Dylan brought up the question he’d obviously been dying to ask.

  “Mister, how come you aren’t wearing your cowboy pistol?”

  I explained that I wasn’t allowed to carry a gun while on duty, then kiddingly asked him if he could draw and shoot like a cowboy. He and his grandfather both said yes, so of course I couldn’t let that challenge pass. I braced myself for a showdown.

  “Draw, mister!” I shouted.

  Dylan and I jerked our “Colts” (the index finger and thumb sixshooters kids have used as pretend pistols for generations), and naturally I let Dylan beat me to the draw. When he aimed and fired, I yelped, clutched my stomach as if Dylan had just put a bullet through it, and collapsed over my horse’s neck. Dylan was thrilled.

  We had several more gunfights while I was still in the saddle. Dylan shot me in most of them, but I did

  manage to gun him down a couple of times. During one, I thought I’d finished him off, but Dylan never went down. Instead, he came back with the retort heard innumerable times in games of cowboys and Indians.

  “Your bullet just nicked me!”

  He then proceeded to plug me yet again. I dropped over Yankee’s withers with Dylan’s bullet in my chest.

  While I was lying slumped over my horse’s neck, Dylan came up with his next question.

  “How come you don’t fall off your horse when you get shot like the real cowboys (okay, the movie cowboys) do?”

  I explained that I wasn’t about to take a chance on breaking any bones by falling out of the saddle and hitting the ground. However, I did tell him I’d get off my horse so he could gun me down once more. That way he and his granddad would get to see Yankee’s “wounded cowboy” trick.

  Yankee performs several tricks, including giving kisses, hugs, neck massages, handshakes, and he will steal a bandanna from my shirt pocket. If I tell him I’m a horse thief and am attempting to steal him, he’ll bury his nose in my middle and shove me aside. However, his absolute favorite trick is one I call the “wounded cowboy”, an old Western movie stunt. I act as if I’ve been shot and fall face-down to the ground. Yank will then shove at my

  side with his muzzle until he flips me onto my back, then will nuzzle and lick my face until I “come to”.

  Of course, Dylan wasn’t about to give me the chance to get all the way out of the saddle. He nailed me as soon as my right foot hit the ground and my left was still in the stirrup. I gave Yankee his voice cue, “I’ve been shot, Yank!”, as I staggered, then dropped to the dirt in front of him. Yankee immediately put his nose to my ribs and shoved at my side until he rolled me onto my back, then nuzzled my face until I came back to life, much to Dylan and his granddad’s delight.

  We had to repeat the performance several times. Yankee, being the good-natured horse and ham that he is, stood stock-still, putting up with me as I flopped all over and under him while Dylan shot me again and again. Even when I ran out of the horse treats which are Yankee’s reward for performing, he still nuzzled me back to life every time I was shot down by that tow-headed five year old gunslinger I’d by now nicknamed “Dylan the Kid”.

  We must have had twenty or more gunfights, and like me Dylan died pretty good in some of them too, staggering and spinning dramatically before dropping to the ground “dead” when I shot him. He also sure knew his cowboy language. Dylan knew what an ambush was (I learned that the hard way when he sprang up from where he’d hidden behind a fallen log and shot me in the back), and also a lot of the old Western movie slang. I found

  that out during one of our showdowns. Dylan looked me straight in the eye while we got ready to draw.

  “I’m gonna gut-shoot you, Mister!” he growled.

  We both drew. Dylan beat me to the draw, and promptly shot me four times in the belly. I jackknifed and bit the dust. Sure enough, Dylan the Kid had gut- shot me. He knew exactly what that expression meant.

  I got even, though. In the very next showdown, I drilled Dylan right through his bellybutton. Dylan screamed in feigned agony as only a five year old boy can while he grabbed his belly, doubled over, and pitched to the dirt.

  Before he even bounced back up, Dylan shot me again. I crumpled to the ground, and now we were both lying in the wet leaves and mud, blazing away at each other with our imaginary sixguns, laughing uncontrollably as we shot each other time and time again.

  Finally, I had to move on. Before I rode off; however, there was time for a bit more fun.

  Dylan had been pleading for a ride on Yankee. I had reluctantly told him that since I was on duty, patrol regulations and liability issues forbade me from allowing anyone but myself to ride my horse. However, after having shot it out with Dylan, I couldn’t bring myself to simply ride away. I broke the rules, and put Dylan into the saddle to give him a short ride on Yankee. While we

  headed down the trail, Dylan kept yelling joyously at the top of his lungs.

  “I’m riding a real cowboy horse!” he shouted repeatedly.

  When we returned to where Dylan’s grandfather was waiting, naturally we had to have a few more gunfights. Dylan was just too reluctant to quit our play, and frankly I wasn’t quite ready to give up either, although by this point I was certain my body was going to be feeling the effects of all those falls by the time I got home.

  When I was at last ready to get on Yankee’s back and head for home, I told Dylan to shoot me while I was climbing into the saddle, and I would show him another of Yankee’s tricks. When I mounted, Dylan shot me as soon as he could aim at my stomach over my horse’s back, while my left foot was in the stirrup and I was swinging the right over my horse’s rump. I fell belly-down across Yankee, to show Dylan and Vinny how my horse would carry a “dead cowboy” slung over the saddle, just like in the movies.

  Dylan again pleaded to have a couple of more shootouts before I left, and of course I couldn’t refuse him. In one, I shot Dylan. After taking my bullet in his chest, Dylan staggered into a tree before spinning around and falling face up right in front of my horse. Yankee immediately dropped his nose to nuzzle Dylan back to life. The look on Dylan’s face while Yankee nuzzled him

  was priceless. I was totally surprised at Yank’s actions, since he had never been willing to perform this trick with anyone but me.

  But how did Dylan return Yankee’s favor? He looked up at me as he aimed at my chest.

  “You didn’t get me, Mister! I was just playin’ possum!”

  Dylan the Kid plugged me dead center and shot me out of the saddle. He shot me again as I tumbled off Yankee, then once more when I hit the dirt.

  Yep, the boy knew his cowboy movie stuff, all right. Played dead until he knew I didn’t have my gun at the ready, then promptly let me have it.

  I promised Dylan and Vinny one more trick from Yankee before I rode off. I explained to Dylan that if he shot and killed me, Yankee would take his dead rider home.

  Dylan got behind me and shot me in the back. I grunted as I arched in death agony, then crumpled over Yankee’s neck. Trained not to move until I am fully seated and upright in the saddle, Yankee stood perfectly still until I whispered to him.

  “Take me home, pardner.”

  Yankee slowly walked off, carrying his “dead” rider slumped in the saddle.

  As I rode away, Dylan the Kid’s final words to me weren’t “Good-bye” or “It was nice meeting you”. No, Dyl
an had a much more appropriate farewell.

  “It was fun shootin’ you, Mister,” Dylan shouted after me.

  I whirled my horse and shot that five year old gunslinger right through his guts. Two can play possum.

  I honestly don’t know who had more fun that afternoon, me, Dylan, or his granddad Vinny. All I know is for an hour or so I felt like a ten year old again, playing cowboys with my best friend. Every one of the worries and inhibitions of an adult disappeared that day, at least for a while, as Dylan and I shot it out. And surprisingly, I never felt one ache from all those gunbattles and the falls I took.

  There are plenty more kids like Dylan out there, kids who are the potential next generation of Western readers. I’ve met many of them during my presentations at public libraries, schools, and bookstores. Most of these kids have little knowledge of the American West and its history, but give them a few good stories and they are ready for more.

  As we know, there is no longer a ready audience for the Western novel, so it’s up to us as authors and educators to reach out, find those future readers, and encourage their interest. We need to keep pushing the Western genre every chance we get, and in any way we

  can. So if playing gunslinger with a five year old is what it takes to make a kid a lifelong fan of Westerns, then that’s what I’ll do. Besides, playing cowboy, even after all these years, is still a heckuva lot of fun, especially since I now have the horse I’d always wanted as a kid.

  There’s an epilogue to this story. I had promised Vinny and Dylan we would keep in touch. However, a couple of months later, their house was empty. Vinny’s mother had been suffering with terminal cancer. Vinny had told me he and Dylan might have to move once she passed on. I figured since I had no idea where they had gone, I wouldn’t see them again. But several months later, they showed up at one of my programs about the frontier West at our local public library. Luckily they had moved to the same town where I live, in fact only a few blocks from my place, and had read an announcement about the presentation in our local weekly newspaper. Dylan and several others youngsters who were there helped out with the reenactments, and I’m certain some of them, at least, went home with a better appreciation of the West and Westerns.