The Devil's Staircase

by Randy D. Smith

  Black Jack downed his whisky and smiled. "Kill Rafael, steal the gold from armed vaqueros in a foreign country and get it back here through Comanche and bandit country without getting my ass shot off. Then I have to convince Anson Jones that I was on assignment for you when I stole the gold. Sounds like a crappy deal, General, especially if something happens to you while I’m gone."

  Houston smiled coldly and downed his whisky. "It is. Hell, Jack, I’d think it was a suicide mission if I was you. Only a crazy man would do it."

  "Or a man with nothing to lose."

  Houston crossed his arms on the desk. "The gold has to be your first priority. You might have to give up on Rafael to get the gold. You need to understand that up front."

  "You know better. Why would I do that?"

  "Because of what I’ve done for you for the last three years. Because Texas needs that gold. You have my word that if you get that gold back here you can write your own ticket as far as Rafael is concerned. I’m calling in my markers, Jack, and you owe me."

  Black Jack stared coldly into Houston’s eyes. "I owe Rafael more."

  "This is your chance to get both. Maybe. Texas needs that gold."

  Ransom nodded.

  "Can you find any men to ride with you? I haven’t a man of my own to spare and no one can know your plans."

  "Patch Wilkes is in town. I doubt that he has anything better to do and I can trust him."

  "You’re the only man in Texas who thinks he can trust Patch Wilkes. Are you sure?"

  "I have some markers of my own to collect and Patch owes me. No, General, Patch will be my man as long as he doesn’t know about the gold."

  "And if he finds out."

  Ransom shook his head and felt the grip of his right Colt. "I’ll probably have to kill him."

  Houston nodded and began writing. "Recruit as many men as you can. I’m authorizing you two hundred dollars to recruit and outfit any men you can find. Sunrise at the ranch plaza you are to meet Valverde. If Patch or anyone else is willing to ride along this authorizes him to temporary Ranger status. That’s all I can offer. You’re on special assignment by order but it ain’t worth spit once you’ve secured the gold. After you’ve got the gold, and until you turn it into me, you’re just a common outlaw."

  "Covering your ass, General?"

  Houston nodded as he blew on the ink to help it dry. "How long have you known me?"

  "Over ten years."

  "What do you think?"

  Ransom smiled and stepped to the desk for the paper. "I guess I’ll see you when I see you, General."

  Houston folded and handed him the paper. "I know you, Jack. Perhaps better than you know yourself. You’re smart and you’re good. Along with John Coffee Hays, Deaf Smith and Bigfoot Wallace you are one of the best Rangers I’ve got. I look forward to the day when you can get this Rafael business behind you. Texas needs you."

  Black Jack took the paper and pulled his sombrero on his head. "Thank you, General. I guess I needed to hear that." He walked out the door.

  Houston stared at the closed door and poured himself another whisky. He noticed the bag containing Tomaso’s head. "Forgot your souvenir, Jack," he thought to himself. "You were a good man, once. Adios, amigo. I’ll miss you."

  Chapter 3

  The El Hambre Cantina was a simple one-room log cabin attached by a dog run to a second kitchen cabin, as were almost all the original buildings in Houston. Other than a rough board table perched atop two whisky barrels and several long tables and benches it was bare. The dirt floor was packed hard and the single door was the only source of outside light. Only a few rough candles illuminated the interior and they were not lit until requested. The place was dark, hot and reeked of body order, whisky and cigars.

  Patch Wilkes sat alone at the end of the far table from the doorway drinking from a gallon crock of whisky. A huge sixteen-inch blade Bowie knife and a percussion single shot pistol rested on the table within easy reach. Another pistol was shoved in his belt and a percussion muzzle loading long rifle leaned against the wall behind him. He wore a black patch over his left eye, Mexican style sombrero, unbleached cotton shirt and pants, chaparejos and moccasins. He was a big man, over six feet, and two hundred pounds. His beard and hair were gray and his skin was leathery from years in the sun. He was too absorbed in his whisky to notice Black Jack enter.

  Jack approached warily. It was not a good idea to startle Patch when he was drinking until his mood was tested. "How you doing, Patch?"

  Patch took a second to realize his name had been spoken. He looked up at Jack and tried to clear his vision. He grinned and gave a one-eyed squint. "Black Jack Ransom, how the hell are you?"

  Jack watched Patch’s hands to see if they would go for the knife or pistol.

  "Don’t worry, Jack. I ain’t that drunk…yet. Sit down. Have a drink with me."

  Ransom took to the bench across the table, placing a revolver on the bench beside him.

  "Where you been?" Patch asked. "I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age."

  "Rangering for Houston."

  "Well, how is the high and mighty general? Excuse the hell out of me. El Presidente del Grande Republica de Tejas!"

  "I just talked to him this afternoon. He seems fine."

  "Ain’t that wonderful? Did his highness allow you get down and kiss his finely crafted fat ass? Have a snort, old compadre."

  Jack lifted the jug and took a long drink. "Corn. Pretty damn good for this place."

  Patch laughed. "That’s cause I didn’t buy it here. They weren’t going to let me bring it in until," he patted his pistol and knife, "I convinced them otherwise."

  Jack turned to watch the barkeep shake his head and turn away.

  "How long you been here?" Jack asked.

  "Here? About four hours to my reckoning, maybe five. I like the bench and love the atmosphere of a fine establishment."

  "Five hours on one jug of corn liquor? You getting old?"

  Patch pointed to the floor behind him and snickered. "Three jugs of corn, compadre. That one is empty."

  "What you got going for yourself?" Jack asked after eyeing the empty jug and wondering how Patch was still upright.

  "I’m back in Texas for a while. Just spent the winter trapping with Carson and Tobin in the Rockies. Sold our furs in Taos for a bundle, split our shares, and I came back here to buy me a ranch and find me a white woman."

  "A white woman? What for?"

  "Hell, Jack, I’m fifty-five years old. Time to settle down and raise a family. I’m thinking of stealing one of them German girls. You know, the big ones with red hair and freckles. Some gal with a big ass and teats to match."

  "You well-heeled enough to buy a ranch?"

  "Got me purt-near two thousand dollars hidden away, old Jacky," Patch whispered coarsely. "I figure in this God forsaken out house, having two thousand dollars makes me a mighty wealthy gent. If I didn’t feel sorry for old Houston, I’d probably run against him for President next election."

  Three coarse looking men entered the room and settled at the second table facing Ransom and Wilkes. They were big men, all in their twenties, healthy and fit, if a little ragged. Wilkes eyed them suspiciously before continuing. "You ever catch up with that bunch that massacred your family?"

  Black Jack nodded. "All but one. I’m still looking for that jasper."

  "Still hanging their heads in that oak tree on your place?"

  "Got a fourth to get up before I leave."

  Patch nodded drunkenly and smiled. "El Tejano Diablo, that’s what they call you, Jacky. Hell, you’re famous even in the Rockies. I spent most of a rendezvous listening to some fool that never laid eyes on you tell those mountain men what a dangerous hombre you are. Them stories of his were plum hair raising. I thought some of them ole boys was going to piss their trousers just at the sound of your name."

  "You set them straight?"

  "Hell, no! I kept my mouth shut. I was getting too big a bang out of hearing what a terr
ible hombre you really are."

  Jack took another swig of whisky. "You serious about settling down?"

  "Look at me. Don’t I look serious?"

  Jack tried not to smile. "That’s why I’m asking."

  Patch looked past Jack and spoke loudly to one of the three men who had turned to watch them. "You got a problem?"

  The stranger smiled. "No, not really. I was wondering if you knew of any work."

  Patch opened his mouth and gave a mocking stare before answering. "Went to shit and the hogs ate it."

  They glared at Patch. "We don’t like that kind of talk. Maybe you’d like to buy us a drink to soothe our hurt feelings," the biggest of the three said.

  Patch pointed toward his crotch. "How’d you like to top this off to soothe mine?"

  Black Jack cursed softly and turned toward the men. "We don’t need no trouble, gents. He’s drunk."

  Two of the men stood menacingly. They were big men, dressed in working clothes, all carrying Bowie knives, Model 1835 flintlock muskets and North Model 1819 military pistols.

  "Careful, he’s a Ranger," the sitting man warned, pointing toward Black Jack’s Pattersons.

  "Don’t matter what he is, pigeon," Patch slurred. "Your fight is with me if you think you’re up to it."

  The men hesitated. Finally, the tallest stepped forward. "I guess we’ll have to take your word for that. I don’t want no trouble with a Ranger."

  "There ain’t going to be no trouble," Jack said, directing a harsh look to Patch. "If you boys need a drink, I’ll spring for it."

  "Much obliged," the tall man said before sitting.

  Jack signaled to the bar keep to give them drinks.

  "You kind of mellowed there, Jacky," Patch squinted. "I can remember when you’d a jumped at a chance to kick some ass."

  "I’ve got better ass to kick for better reasons. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about."

  "Go on," Patch said before taking another swig.

  "I’m recruiting men to back me for an escort trip to Santa Fe. I need you if you’re willing."

  "What’s in it for me?"

  Jack smiled. "Payback."

  Patch was quiet, thinking. He nodded. "I owe you. That’s for sure."

  "It’ll be dangerous. Chances are that both of us could get our asses shot off."

  Patch raised the eyebrow of his good eye. "Then why are you doing it?"

  "My chance to settle the score over Beth."

  "The last man?"

  Jack nodded, taking another swig.

  "How long?"

  "Two maybe three months. You’ll get Ranger pay."

  "A whole sixteen dollars," Patch smirked. "What’ll I do with all that fortune?"

  Patch eyed Jack’s Pattersons. "Carson’s got one of them Colts. Shot some asshole at rendezvous with it. What’s the chance of me getting one of them if I help you out?"

  "If you stick, I’ll give you one of mine as a bonus."

  "Course, I could buy one a lot easier."

  Jack nodded. "If you can find one."

  The tall man at the table spoke. "You have any idea where we might find some work, Ranger?"

  Patch glared. "Don’t know of any cows that need milking. What else would you be good for?"

  "We can do about anything. We just drifted in from Tennessee. Before that we were soldiers."

  Jack turned to give them a second look. "Soldiers, huh? You got horses?"

  The tall man shook his head. "No horses and few supplies, but we’ve got the guns."

  "What’s your names?" Jack asked.

  "Tad Cole. This is my brother, Kyle," he pointed to the second tall man. "The other man is Toby Kaufman. We were in the 1st infantry for the last seven years."

  "How’d you get here with no horses?" Patch asked.

  "Worked our passage on a freighter out of New Orleans."

  "Why Texas?" Jack asked.

  Tad Cole smiled. "Why not. Free land and a new start. Never could get ahead soldiering."

  "You deserters?" Jack asked.

  Tad Cole considered his answer than smiled. "Hell, yes. How’d you know?"

  Jack liked his honesty. "Harper’s Ferry muskets and North pistols. You boys look like you just stepped out of an armory. I’ve got a job for you, maybe. The problem is that it pays Ranger wages and asks soldier’s duties. Can you boys ride and handle stock?"

  "Yes," Tad Cole said. "We can do that well enough. As far as soldier’s wages is concerned, anything is better than going hungry."

  "I need some men to accompany a party to Santa Fe. I’m sure I can get hold of some horses and saddles for you. The job will pay eight dollars a man with food. If we make it to Santa Fe, you’re on your own. You can either come back or go on from there. I’ll spring for supplies, give you the horses, and your money in cash once we’ve made Santa Fe."

  "How you know we won’t desert on you?" Tad asked.

  "Where would you go? I ain’t asking for years, boys. Just thirty days."

  Tad Cole turned toward his companions. "Give me a few minutes to talk it over."

  Jack nodded. "Fair enough."

  "Deserters, huh? You sure you know what you’re doing?" Patch asked.

  Jack smiled. "Half the white men in Texas are deserters, failed businessmen staying out of debtor’s prison, or on the run. These boys look solid enough."

  Patch became suspicious. "There’s something brewing and you ain’t giving the whole story. How you going to pay them?"

  "With the wages that was to go to you," Jack said.

  "And, what if I decide to ride along?"

  "I’m a Captain. I’ll cover their wages."

  Patch’s one eye went sly narrow. "Might be I’d be willing to cover their wages and their outfits if I knew the whole story."

  "We’ll be pulling simple guard duty. Houston’s short of Rangers."

  "How much money we guarding?" Patch asked.

  "Not sure, but it is a fair amount."

  Patch tapped the table with his finger while he thought. "Who’s got the money?"

  "A woman named Valverde," Jack answered, watching the wheels turning in Patch’s head.

  Patch smiled coldly. "Colonel Valverde’s woman, ain’t she? Runs that outfit between the Guadalupe and Pecos River."

  Jack nodded.

  "Who’s guarding us?" Patch smiled.

  "Probably twenty or thirty of her vaqueros."

  Patch took a large swig of whisky. "Hell, Jack. Why in the hell has Houston got a Ranger guarding money when there’s that many vaqueros riding for her?"

  "We’re guarding the vaqueros."

  Patch smiled slyly. "Too thin, Jacky. Too thin. I know Houston as well as you do. He don’t do nothing out of the goodness of his heart, especially for the wife of the Butcher of Goliad."

  Jack shrugged and took a swig. "You make of it what you want. You got my offer. Take it or leave it."

  Patch looked at the deserters. "If you boys are having trouble deciding, I’ll double your wages up front. That way you can get some decent duds before we ride out."

  "You got no promises from me. You offer them that money, you’re doing it on your own with no chance of getting it back," Jack warned.

  "I’ll gamble. Even if they are Mexicans, ten or fifteen to one is slim odds. With these three, that shaves the odds to four or five to one. We fought Comanches and Mexicans all along at five to one and never been beat. I’ll gamble.

  Tad Cole rose from his table and stuck out a grimy hand. "We’ll take that offer. Might be we can strike out into the mountains and try our hand at trapping.

  Patch shook his head. "Lord, almighty, more frozen pilgrims littering up the passes."

  Black Jack shook Tad’s hand. "Let’s get you boys some supplies and horses." He turned toward Patch. "If you’re in on this, you owe these boys some money."

  Patch pulled a leather bag from his belt and counted out twenty-four dollars. "I wouldn’t miss this for the world."

  Black Jack led the
men out of the room. Patch watched then signaled the bar keep to come. He placed a dollar on the table. "Go see if you can find Tanto Corrello. I’m too damn drunk to do it. Send him here. Tell him I’ve got a business proposition for him."

  The Bar Keep nodded, took the dollar and left.

  Patch took a swig of his whisky, smiled and spoke softly to himself. "Maybe I’ll just get me both them Colts."

  Chapter 4

  Black Jack was impressed with the way the new men looked when they gathered at the corrals to saddle their horses. Outfitted in new clothing, sombreros, boots, and freshly barbered, they looked like solid soldiers. Each carried a Harper’s Ferry musket, North pistol, Bowie knife and shooting bags. As they saddled he decided to get to know them better.

  "What made you boys quit the service? You look like you knew your stuff well enough."

  Tad Cole smiled. "Well, sir, we liked the army. Food was good enough and we liked the life. We got assigned this corporal named Tompkins. He didn’t like us too much. We had served with him before during the Blackhawk War and knew what a Judas goat he was. He always seemed to be riding us about something. We didn’t let it bother us too much as we figured it was just a matter of time till he got drunk and busted back to the ranks. We’d settle up with him then. Some supplies disappeared and he decided to lay the blame on Toby and Kyle. Put them up on charges for company punishment. I knew the boys hadn’t done it and figured it was probably Tompkins himself that took those supplies. I asked a few questions and Tompkins got wind of it. He and a couple of his cronies cornered me in a supply room and tried to rough me up. When it was all said and done, Corporal Tompkins got his arm broke and head cracked pretty bad. The other two were in no shape to be of much use to anyone for a while. I figured the brass would have some difficulty with me beating up three corporals so I busted the boys out of the guardhouse and we slipped on a freighter. Said goodbye to the army and hello to Texas."

  Black Jack nodded and looked to the others. "That the way of it, boys?"

  "That’s the straight story," Toby said eye to eye with Black Jack. "I got no reason to lie to you about it. If it was different, I’d say so."

  Black Jack turned to Kyle.