Bud considered the country.
“They’ll go north,” he said, “make fer the Big Red an’ figger on gittin’ inter Oklahomy.”
“Do we hev authority there?” asked the trooper.
“We’ll git it,” said Bud Jones.
He was not worrying about that end of it. The Rangers got their men. Even if the posse had them and had not lynched them, he was going to obey orders, posse or no posse. There might be fifty in the posse, but he was going to take over the bandits, see them lodged in jail at Wichita Falls, and stay there until hot tempers cooled. Judge Edgar Scurry was there, strict advocate of the written law.
“Here’s where we ride, Bill,” he said. “Our hawsses’ll be fresher than theirs, time we git there, at thet.”
They started off at the foxtrot that covers country and does not tire horse or rider, without change of pace, so much as the shift from lope to walk. As they neared the Wichita River, they saw punchers riding back and forth across the ends of a thick growth of brush that grew on the high bank above the sandy bed of the stream.
Others, dismounted, taking cover behind clumps of grass and bushes, were firing into the brush. Puffs of smoke rose, and the flashes began to show plainer and plainer in the thick growth. The sound of firing filled the air persistently in ragged volleys, as the posse fired at will, raking the brush with lead from rifles, until it seemed as if no living thing could stay in the zone and remain alive. Leaves and twigs had been stripped away in places by the horizontal hail.
Out of the brush came answering shots, so close that now and then a cowboy darted for a better cover than the one that had just been raked.
“They’re in there,” said the trooper to Corporal Bud Jones, who nodded, taking in the situation.
“Never mind yore rifle,” he said to the other. “They’ve got enough artillery unlimbered as it is. If we don’t git those hombres soon, they’ll sneak off in the dark. No moon an’ a cloudy sky. Made to order fer ’em.”
A man loped out to meet them on a gray horse. It was Sheriff McClure.
“We’ve got ’em, Ranger,” he said to Bud, recognizing him.
Bud hid a smile. The bandits might be surrounded, but as long as the posse stayed outside the thicket, it had not got them.
“I’ve got men ercross the river,” said the sheriff. “We’ve got their hawsses. Run ’em off their laigs.”
“What do you aim doin’ next?” asked Bud.
“Bound to wing ’em sooner or later. We’ve sure percolated thet bresh, an’ we’ve got plenty of ammunition. Theirs can’t hold out much longer. They got to come out sooner or later. They’ve done enough damage. No sense in rushin’ ’em.”
“Jest the same, it’s gittin’ dark,” said Bud. “I’m goin’ in—the two of us.”
The sheriff gasped. He knew the bravery of the Rangers. He was not a coward, but he considered he would be throwing his life away if he went into the brush. He said so.
“Jest the same, we’re goin’ in,” said Bud quietly. “I’ve got my orders to git ’em. Come on, Bill! Wait till I hail ’em.”
The sheriff mentally threw up his hands. The posse stared.
Bud Jones took over the attack. He rode toward the brush, conscious that he was watched, conscious, also, that he was known. He was not Bud Jones, but a Ranger, representative of that force.
He had ordered the firing to cease. No shots came from the thicket, but there were men there who faced violent and horrible death, with their fingers on gun triggers.
“Come out, Crawford!” Bud cried. “This is Corporal Jones of the Rangers!”
His voice ran clear and authoritative on the still air while the posse waited, expecting to see him fall, recognizing the daring of the man, some of them murmuring against his recklessness.
There was no answer from mouth of flesh or metal.
“I’m givin’ you exactly ten minutes to come out of there with yore hands in the air,” Bud called. “If you ain’t in sight by then, I’m comin’ in to git you!”
A reply came at last. Crawford was speaking. He seemed to have advanced to the edge of the thicket. The trooper had moved up to Bud. The posse whispered together, those who were close:
“He’ll plug him, sure. If he does, we’ll ride plumb through thet brush. Thet Ranger is a plumb fool! Both of ’em are.”
“Don’t you fool yorese’f,” growled an old-timer. “They ain’t fools, an’ no more is Crawford. I’ve seen Rangers work before. It ain’t jest them; it’s a hull lot more back of ’em thet’s built the same way. Thet corp’ril ain’t any older than the Kid, but he’s got them buffaloed.”
“What’ll happen if we do come out?” Crawford shouted.
“I’ll take keer of you. You’ll be taken keer of as long as you’re in my custody. You know thet, Crawford. So do you, Kid, or you ought to. If you don’t come out, I’ll come in shootin’! I’m timin’ you.”
IV.
There was silence again. The pair were whispering in the brush.
“You ain’t got no nerve,” said the Kid to his partner fiercely. “It’ll be pitch dark in ten minutes.”
“No, it won’t,” said Crawford. “It won’t be dark fer half an hour, an’ thet foxy Ranger knows it. They’ve got us, Kid. They’ll protect us. It’s them or lynchin’. There’s allus a chance to break jail.”
“Like blazes there is! Let him come.”
“Know his rep’? I do. You’re a pretty good shot, Kid. So am I. But he’s better. The hull of Company F is dead shots, an’ he’s their best. We ain’t got many shots left.”
“I’m stayin’,” said the Kid, stubbornly, and Crawford kept still when Bud called out again.
“Two minutes left, Crawford.” There was no tremor in Bud’s voice, but there was one in the soul of Crawford.
He and the Kid had retreated to the middle of the brush. The Kid squatted, handling his hot gun. For the first time in his life, he was wavering, thinking. The cool courage of the Ranger was matching his, and he was not sure of the result.
He frowned and cursed beneath his breath. It was almost too dark now for them to see each other’s faces. But they could hear. He would hear the Ranger coming with those keen ears of his that had caught the click of the latch on the door of the bank. Even then, he had only wounded his man and had let him get away to raise the alarm.
What if he missed the Ranger, did not kill him? There would come an answering shot at his flash. What if they killed both Rangers? There were still the men of the posse on the two sides of the stream. The bandits had only a few shells, no horses, no food. The Kid was physically tired, and they were tortured with thirst. His hand trembled a little.
Bud lighted a match and held it unwaveringly while the second hand of the watch completed its final circuit. Then, unconcernedly as if he was going for his supper, he dismounted, unholstered, and turned to the trooper.
“Come on, Bill,” he said in an ordinary tone. “You take the left end an’ I’ll take the right.”
By the fading light, the fifty men who had tried for hours to dislodge the two bandits listened for the sound of a shot.
They heard the rustling of the thorny growth, and then silence. Long minutes passed that seemed an hour. Dusk deepened.
Crawford was ready to quit. The Kid was not sure, yet. It was the silence that bothered him most. These Rangers were advancing with the stealth of Indians. Then he heard a low, calm voice:
“All right, Crawford. You’re actin’ plumb sensible. This way, Bill. Take care of him.”
In the darkness of the brush, the sound was deceiving. The Kid whirled, as he squatted and fingered his gun. A shot would betray him. There were two of them. A twig cracked, and he crawled off, expecting bullets.
Utter silence again. He could hear his heart beating, and that was all.
Then the voice again. A figure seemed to have materialized out of the dense shadows.
“All right, Kid. Stand up! Hoist yore hands!”
The tab
les were turned. His hands reached for the sky. He felt the prod of a gun muzzle directing him forward.
Their stars had faded and set before the stars of silver that the Rangers wore. The utter coolness of Bud cowed the Kid as he walked on. He had quit. His nerve did not match that of this man.
They came out before the silent posse. The guns of the Rangers were holstered; their prisoners walked in front of them, hands above their ears.
“They’re our prisoners.” Bud’s voice was stern and commanding. “We’re taking them to Wichita Falls, without interference. We’re not looking for trouble.”
Neither was the posse. Its members were quiet in the presence of the man who had shown them courage superior to their own.
They set the captives on their own jaded mounts, handcuffed with the irons of the sheriff. A few went back with them to town; the rest rode back to their jobs on the ranches. “Ranger style” was the topic of the bunkhouses that night.
Lights shone in the town as they returned, riding down the main street with Bud guarding the Kid, Bill, the trooper, on the other side, both watchful for any sign of outbreak.
They saw Crawford and the Kid in their cells and went to the hotel, taking care to announce that they were staying there a day or so.
There was talk of lynching, but it died down to mutterings and saloon bragging by the end of the first day. It was not only the presence of Bud and his trooper, calm, friendly but determined in their midst, but the story of how they had brought out their men. That dominated all. A ranch foreman expressed the general opinion—the same old-timer who had spoken when Bud challenged Crawford:
“Them Rangers aire plain pizen on hawssback, likewise afoot.”
Bud was not quite satisfied. He believed in hunches, and he sensed trouble.
“The cap’n said two days,” he said. “We’ll make it three.”
The third morning came with news of a disturbance in a neighboring town and a call for Ranger service.
“We’ll be back as soon as we kin,” Bud told the sheriff. “Hold ’em.”
V.
The news of their leaving spread rapidly. By sunset, the temper of the lawless element had seasoned the general feeling toward a lynching.
Hardesty was wrongly and willfully reported to be dying. Frank Dorsey was buried in the afternoon, and the funeral was followed by a general gathering of small groups that gradually joined. Doctor Kendall was said to be doomed from blood poisoning. It was not true, but the rumor served the purpose of those who were bent upon mob law.
So with the disturbance in the neighboring town, Bud had been rather inclined to suspect a ruse, but the trouble was genuine enough and needed Rangers to curb it. Still his hunch suggested that he return to Wichita Falls as soon as possible.
There was a lot of drinking going on all day, increasing after dark—a lot of talk and threats. The mob lacked a leader to give the word of command, but it was plain to sober folk that a crisis was near.
Just before midnight, the leader materialized, and in fifteen minutes, a crowd was hurrying to the jail. Reason was lost to the majority because of the liquor that had aroused the brutes in them. They were like wolves who scent a kill. Relatives of the wounded men were made much of, the tale of the murder and robbery and chase rehearsed. Dorsey’s widow was held up as an incentive for speedy reprisal.
The keys were in the hands of the mob. The sheriff surrendered before the show of irresistible force. It seemed as if the whole town had risen against him. His secret sympathies might have been aroused because of the shooting of Hardesty, his deputy.
Judge Scurry gathered other conservative citizens and vainly made a plea for the observance of the written law. Wichita Falls would be given a bad name. It had a reputation that it would lose. To lynch was to kill illegally.
They hooted him down, howling at his oratory with the cry of a pack. They took Crawford and the Kid from their cells to the scene of the robbery. The preparations were swift. Hundreds of hands were ready to assist in them.
A wagon was brought, a rope, a man found who could tie the right sort of knot. There was a tree handy, a great oak with a horizontal limb, over which the rope was tossed. The bight of it was dallied about a saddle horn. A waddy, pal of Odie Thomas, who had pleaded for the job but drank too much liquor to be of any use, was in the saddle.
All about the jail was a cordon of citizens and cowboys beyond control. Someone suggested they had better hurry, or the Rangers would be back.
Yesterday or that afternoon, the thought might have deterred them. But now they were doubly drunk, with alcohol and the ancient lust for life, revenge, and cruelty. They were all armed. A company of Rangers could not have rescued the prisoners without killing many.
The prisoners saw this, as they stood in the rough grasp of men who no longer regarded them as such. They were as good as dead.
The Kid had got back all his nerve. The sight and sound of the yelling mob made him mad. He was bound about the arms, his wrists pinioned, and he was thrust up into the bed of the wagon, threatened with guns if he made an attempt to run. But his bravado never left him.
Escape was impossible. He stood with his feet apart and told them what he thought of them. His language was lurid, pointed with a string of oaths and epithets that got under the skins of his executioners.
“You got anything to say?” a man demanded.
“Sure!” said the Kid. “Tell dad I died game— and died with my boots on.”
He glanced at the cowboy on the horse with the. rope.
“All right, fella,” he called. “Pull ahead!”
Someone struck the horse with a sombrero and it jumped forward, jerking the Kid into the air. He died without a struggle.
Crawford, coming second, weakened, cringed. He lacked the bravado of the boy half his age. He was lifted to the wagon like a sack of flour, where he begged for whisky. Somebody handed up a pint flask, and Crawford gulped it down in two swallows. It helped a little, but as the noose went round his neck and he felt the rasp of the knot back of his ear, he broke down, screaming and pleading as he was swung off his feet.
There was one rough, rasping yell as the figure of Crawford dangled beside that of the Kid. Then a sudden silence settled over the mob. They had taken life in red, shouting anger, and now death mutely sobered them. The saloons were still open, but they had few customers.
Men went back to their homes quietly. By two o’clock in the morning, the streets were deserted. The two bodies swung limply from the bough of the tree, obscure in the shadows.
VI.
Dawn was just breaking, gray in the east, as Bud Jones and his trooper came galloping back to Wichita Falls.
“It’s right quiet,” said Bill.
Bud did not answer. That mysterious sixth sense of his—the combination, perhaps, of all his senses, keen as they were—was warning him. The inner voice of his hunch whispered persistently that something had gone wrong in Wichita Falls.
He had carried out orders. He had delivered his men to the right authorities. There was no responsibility with him as to what might have happened later. He had played the game as the cards fell. But his spirit was heavy.
Something seemed brooding in the air as he touched the roan ever so slightly with his spurs; and Pepper, thirty miles of hard travel behind him, leaped forward as if at the beginning of a sprint. The trooper’s mount followed with less speed.
A little wind had sprung up with the mounting of the sun. It rustled in the top of the tree where the two dead men swung—rustled like whispering ghosts. The first red rays tinged leaves and branches with crimson that gradually extended.
Bud drew the roan to its haunches as he came to a sudden halt. The town was still asleep. There was not even a stray animal about. All was intensely silent, save for the breathing of the horses, the sound of the wind in the treetop, as Bud gazed at the ghastly fruit that hung from the lower bough.
“We come too late,” said Bill in a low voice. “You was right. You
said you had a hunch they’d start somethin’.”
Bud nodded.
“I had a hunch,” he said. “I’ve got another one. Wichita Falls ain’t goin’ to git erway with this. Might hev been all right in the early days, when there was no law an’ less order, but thet’s passed. My hunch ses thet Cap’n Halstead’ll post a Ranger in Wichita until it gits so it kin handle itself. We represent the law. It’s got to be respected, an’ what they’ve done here is plumb agin’ the law.”
“It may be agin’ the law,” said Bill, “but it come mighty close to justice.”
Bud said nothing. He could not endorse the words of his subordinate, however he might sympathize with them. His face was stern as they rode slowly down the street toward the hotel. First and last, he was a Ranger. The rule of the mob could not be tolerated. Once permitted, the lawless took advantage of it for their own purposes—the settling of their own grudges.
An example had been forcefully set that must tend to discourage others who, like Crawford and the Kid, wanted easy money and held life lightly that stood in their way. But the lynchers also needed discouraging.
“In the eyes of the law, they’ve assisted at murder,” Bud said. “Bill, you ride to camp and report to Cap’n Halstead. I’m stayin’ on till I hear from him. I’ve got a few words to say to some of these hombres who engineered this swingin’ bee last night. A town thet can’t govern itself ain’t likely to prosper. It’s no place fer women an’ children. I reckon it’ll hev to be shown—Ranger style.”
PLUMB AMUSING, by Jackson Cole
Jerry Hunt was big, rugged and a right good cowhand, but sometimes the way he found just about everything plumb amusing was hard to stand. Fun was fun, but the rest of the Horseshoe outfit figured there were times when a man should be serious.
“Never did see a man like Jerry,” said Carl Birkell, the salty foreman of the spread. “Last winter when he got lost in the blizzard and nearly had his feet froze off, he thought it was funny as all getout.”
“And the time a horse kicked him and laid him up for a week he thought that was shore humorous,” said Len Foster. “Huh, the things that hombre thinks are funny!”
The Western Megapack - 25 Classic Western Stories Page 14
