by Ralph Cotton
Now, with Tackett out of the office, Durant paced in the small jail cell like a trapped mountain cat, his dark eyes gleaming from a face full of sweat. “Ranger, you’ve got to hear me out.” He stopped and gripped the bars. “You wanted to know about the men who killed my family…now I’m trying to tell you!”
The Ranger only glanced over, snapping his pistol back together, spinning the cylinder and holding it up close to his ear. He clicked it six times, listening to the sound of it, making sure the action was smooth and clean. “Durant, you didn’t want to talk about it before when I had time to listen. So now you can save your breath.” He holstered the pistol and picked up the big Swiss rifle, running a hand along the barrel. “We’ll pick up where we left off once I get back.”
“If you don’t listen to what I’m saying, you might not get back at all.” Willis Durant rattled the bars in his hands, his face pressed to them. “You’re making a big mistake not taking me with you. These men are not Mexican bandits! These are the men I’ve been after all this time. You think I would lie about something like this?”
The Ranger looked up with a thin, tense smile, trying to keep his concern for Maria in check. “Well, let’s look at it. You’re facing a long time in prison on one hand, or a lynching party on the other.” He paused and seemed to consider it for a second. Then he said, “Yeah, I can see where you might be tempted to bend the truth a bit.” He slid a cartridge into the rifle chamber and snapped it shut. “But you’re Tackett’s problem now…I’m headed out.” He slipped the rifle into its leather scabbard and leaned it against the side of the battered desk.
“Damn it, Ranger! Have you ever heard of the Border Dogs?” Durant glared at him from between the bars.
The Ranger stopped and looked back at him. A persistent conviction in the man’s voice bore attending. “Yes, I’ve heard of them…an old Southern cavalry regiment left over from the war. A fellow by the name of Martin Zell used to be their leader. What about them?”
“This is them, Ranger! This is the men you’ll be after. You’ve got to believe me!”
“Oh?” The Ranger just watched him, listening.
“Yes. They’re still in business,” Durant said in an urgent voice. “Zell is still their leader. Folks think he’s dead, that he’s been dead for years—but he’s not! Him and his Border Dogs are the ones who robbed that army train a few weeks back. They pass themselves off as Mexican bandits. Took enough small arms and light cannon to start a war if they wanted to. They run guns to the Mexican federales.“Durant’s hands tightened once more on the iron bars. “You’ve got to take my word on this!”
Major Martin Zell…The Ranger ran the name through his mind, studying the seriousness in Durant’s voice and expression. “A Southern cavalry regiment, huh?” He saw no waver in those dark eyes staring back into his. “All right, Durant, let’s say I believe you…now what?”
“You’ve got to take me with you.” Durant’s voice leveled, full of resolve. He stood tense, waiting, afraid he already knew the answer, but having to ask it just the same.
“You’re out of your mind, Durant.”
At this point it made no difference who these men were. Bandits or cavalry, they had Maria. That was all he knew. He’d learn soon enough whom he was up against, somewhere out there along the border. The Ranger let go of a breath and picked his gray sombrero up off the desk.
“No! Please! Listen to me!” Durant stretched an arm out through the bars. “You asked about the men who killed my family. They’re riding with Zell! Their names are Payton and Leo Parker. The Parker brothers…surely you’ve heard of them. I know where they’re headed, where they hide out. I’ve got to catch them there, or I’ll never get another chance at them! This is the break I’ve been praying for! For God sakes, Ranger—”
“I’ve heard of the Parker brothers. They’re a couple of murdering snakes.” The Ranger looked at him and adjusted his sombrero onto his head. He picked up the rifle and swung it under his arm. “Sorry, Durant.” He turned and walked to the dusty window. Outside, Tackett led the two horses up to the rail and tossed their reins around it.
“You’ll never find these men on your own!” Durant shouted from his cell. “Take me with you! You’ve got to, if you ever want to see your woman alive!”
The Ranger strode out the door and closed it behind him, then stepped off the boardwalk to the hitch rail. Tackett nodded toward the office. “What’s Durant carrying on about?”
“It’s quite a story,” the Ranger said. He pushed up the brim of his sombrero and took a moment to tell Tackett the gist of it. Then, reaching out and tying his rifle scabbard to the spare horse’s saddle, he added, “If any of it’s true, he might get a little frisky on you before long. Better keep a close eye turned on him.”
“Of course I will. But what if it’s all true? I’ve heard of Martin Zell over the years. What if he is out there…still alive?”
“Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not,” the Ranger said. “Either way, I’ve got no time to lose figuring it out.” He turned to the horses.
“Dang it, Sam. Are you sure you don’t want me riding along with ya? There’s no telling what you’re apt to run into out there.”
“I’m sure.” The Ranger made a check of the spare horse’s saddle, snugging the cinch tight. He would ride the spare horse, giving the white barb a chance to rest. “I’d say you’ve got plenty to do right here.”
Tackett looked around the dirt street and off toward the saloon, where two of the Flying Cross cowhands stood leaning against the front wall with half-filled beer mugs in their hands. “All right then. Don’t worry about nothing here. Just go on out there and get Maria.”
“I plan to,” the Ranger said, taking the reins and stepping up into the saddle.
Tackett watched the Ranger ride away until he passed the last building on the dusty street and turned out of sight onto the trail leading out to the sand flats. Before going back into his office, Tackett glanced once again at the saloon and saw that one of the cowhands had gone inside and came back with Donahue at his side. All three of them gazed after the Ranger’s drifting wake of dust, then turned their eyes to Tackett as he opened the door to his office and stepped inside.
When Tackett closed the door, he expected Durant to be standing at the cell bars, ready to start in, giving him the same story he’d given the Ranger. But Durant had moved away from the bars and sat slumped on the edge of a hard wooden bed, his broad shoulders slumped in an air of defeat. Tackett eyed him curiously as he moved over to his desk and laid his hat down. “What’s the matter…you’ve already run out of steam?”
“Yeah.” Durant raised his face for a second, then lowered it, speaking down to the floor. “I know when I’m whipped, Sheriff. Just keep Donahue and his cowboys from hanging me before the judge gets here. That’s all I ask.”
“There’ll be no lynching, Durant. You can believe that.”
“I believe it, Sheriff.” Durant stood up, a calmness about him, his arms hanging loose at his sides. His dark eyes moved across the floor, up the wall of the cell, and out through the bars to the dusty front window, where beyond it in the far distance past Donahue and his cowhands and the few townsmen who had come to join them stood the black scalloped shadows of the high badlands.
Durant continued sitting on the edge of the hard bed for the next few minutes, standing up every now and then to keep an eye on the growing number of men across the street. The young man from the livery barn had relieved Tackett, and Tackett had slipped out the small door in the rear of the building. “I hate sneaking down alleys just to go get a bite to eat,” Tackett had said before leaving. He’d shot a glance at Durant sitting with his face lowered, and he added to the young man, “Stay on your toes, Donald. Do a good job, we’ll see about getting you a deputy badge next time.”
Donald, the livery helper, had only nodded, a solemn expression on his dirt-streaked face; but no sooner had Tackett closed the door when the young man’s face spread wide in a
grin. “Hear that?” He leaned back in Tackett’s chair. “And they say a man can’t get ahead these days.”
“Yeah, kid, you’re doing all right for yourself.” Durant stood, glancing across the room out through the dusty window to the gathering crowd across the street. The rail clerk had reappeared now, the coiled rope back up on his shoulder. “Suppose Tackett trusts you enough to take me to the jake? I haven’t been all day.”
“Well, I’m sure he does.” Donald folded his hands behind his shaggy head. “But I ain’t going to. I know all about you, Willis Durant. I ain’t taking no chances.”
Durant shrugged and cast another glance out through the window. “If you’re scared, I understand,” he said. Across the street, Donahue and the rail clerk stood talking and gesturing between themselves, Donahue nodding his big head. The rest of the men nodded in agreement. “But I need to go pretty bad.”
“Scared? Hell, I ain’t scared. I just ain’t stupid either.” He grinned.
“Then suit yourself.” Durant unbuttoned his trousers and dropped them to his knees. “You’ll have a hell of a mess to clean up here.” He started to squat down beside the wooden bed.
“Whoa now!” Donald snapped to his feet. “You can’t do something like that!”
Durant stood up. “I told you I have go really bad.”
“But damn it—!” Donald turned a half circle, looking for advice from somewhere, his hand scratching his head. “Can’t you wait? Just till he gets back?”
“If I could, I would, kid. Think I want to do this?” He half squatted again. “I’ve got no choice.”
“Just hold on now!” Donald snatched the handcuffs from atop the desk, turned them in his hands, not sure what to do.
“I hold my hands out,” Durant said. “You reach through and cuff them. It’s that simple.”
“I know it,” Donald said, puffing his chest a bit, moving over to the cell. “Just don’t try nothing on me, I’m warning ya.”
“I won’t.” Durant raised his trousers, fastened them, and moved forward with his wrists out together, catching a glimpse of the cell key hanging from the young man’s belt. “But hurry, kid.” He bounced on his toes, tense and straining.
“I’m hurrying as quick as I can.” Donald opened the cuffs and reached in through the bars with them. “Give me your hands.”
“All right.” Durant moved a step forward, letting the kid take him by his right wrist and reach toward it with the open handcuff.
Then, just as Donald was about to snap the cuff on his wrist, Durant jerked his right arm back, pulling Donald’s wrist right into position, and seeing the cuff slap shut around it. “Damn it!” Donald jerked his cuffed hand back, but Durant had him. Catching him by the other wrist, Durant pulled him forward and in a flash of movement snatched the open cuff from Donald’s hand and snapped it around his other wrist.
“Jesus! What the—?”
Donald’s words stopped short as Durant yanked him forward against the bars, the young man’s forehead sounding out a low, muffled ring on the thick iron. “Bad move, kid.” He let him slide down until Donald’s cuffed hands stopped at the iron cross-bracing and left him hanging there, knocked cold.
Durant moved quickly, reaching through the bars, taking the large brass key ring from Donald’s belt, and hurrying to the cell door. Across the street, Donahue and the others seemed to be gathering nerve, milling closer together. Getting ready to make a move, Durant thought, casting a nervous glance through the window as he moved to the rifle rack on the wall. He took down a Winchester repeater and hurried to the desk.
Rummaging through the desk drawers, he snatched a box of cartridges, cracked the box open on the edge of the desk, ad loaded the rifle. Brass cartridges spilled onto the floor. His eyes searched for a pistol but found none; and when he shot another quick glance out through the window, he saw that Donahue had moved off the boardwalk, the others in line behind him.
In the back, the rear door creaked. He moved to it and flattened himself against the wall beside it as it came open. “Dang it, Donald,” Tackett said, stepping inside, fanning the door shut. “Looks like I was wrong about Donahue. We might have some trouble coming—” He snapped to a halt, seeing Donald hanging limp from the bars. When he spun around with his hand on his pistol, Durant stepped forward, jamming the rifle barrel against his chest.
“Easy, Tackett. Don’t make me kill you.” Durant reached out with one hand, keeping the rifle in place, and, brushing Tackett’s gun hand away from the pistol, lifted it from the holster and righted it in his hand, cocking it.
“Is he dead?” Tackett gestured toward Donald slumped against the bars.
“No.” Durant shoved the pistol into his waistband, reached out and lifted Tackett’s holster belt with the long row of cartridges in it, then slung it over his shoulder. “I just knocked him out.”
“That’s good.” Tackett spoke in a clipped tone through clenched jaws. “’Cause I’m going to break his dang fool neck when he wakes up.” He looked down at the rifle barrel against his chest, then back up to Durant. “Now what about me?”
“In the cell,” Durant commanded. “Hurry, we’ve got company coming.”
“Uh-uh.” Tackett stood firm and shook his head. “I won’t be found locked in my own jail—a laughingstock.”
“Suit yourself.” Durant pulled the rifle back, taking it in both hands now, cocking the butt back to one side. “I hate doing this, Sheriff.”
“No, you don’t, you danged-on account son of a—” Tackett managed to get part of his words out a split second before the rifle butt snapped forward and slammed across his jaw.
Outside in the street, Donahue and his cowhands moved forward to the sheriff’s office, a small throng of townsmen following close behind them. When Donahue stepped onto the boardwalk and turned to speak to the others before going inside, he did not see Willis Durant lurking in the alley twenty yards away, watching them. Durant had raced out the back door, down the ally, and back alongside the mercantile store. He crouched now and waited, listening to Donahue tell the townsmen how this was their town and how the sheriff had no right to deny them justice.
Then, as Donahue turned and proceeded inside the sheriff’s office, Durant made his move. He sped across the dirt street and back toward the hitch rail, even as the townsmen pressed themselves past the door behind Donahue. With the pistol out and cocked in his hand, he dropped down among the three horses standing at the rail and freed their reins, holding on to a big grule stallion as it stamped and snorted and laid its ears back. “Easy, boy,” he whispered, calming the big horse.
Behind him on the boardwalk, a woman standing in a doorway gasped and threw a hand to her mouth. But she fell silent as Durant’s eyes flashed her a warning glance. Durant heard the men yelling from inside the office across the street. He swung up atop the big grule and turned it, giving it heel; and as it bolted down the street, he fired two shots in the air, scattering the other horses ahead of him in a spray of dust.
Chapter 8
Lieutenant Howell knew better than to question good fortune, yet a couple of things had kept him puzzled ever since the Mexicans had made their desperate charge out of the high pass the day before. First, how in the world had his troops managed to get around in front of the bandits and catch them as they came down from the high rock pass; second, how in the hell had the bandits gotten up into the rock pass in the first place? They’d followed the bandit’s trail all night, yet come daylight when Sergeant Baines had awakened him in his saddle, they were at the mouth of the mountain trail, awaiting the Mexicans, who were now coming down toward them!
He ran a hand across his sweaty forehead. Well…call it blind luck, divine intervention, whatever. Thank God he hadn’t lost any more men—only two wounded, another one down with heat stroke. And although most of the Mexicans had charged through his line yesterday and lit out for the border, the wagon load of ammunition and the two women hostages were still up there, somewhere above him on the roc
ky trail.
He had to admit these bandits were a lot more professional than he’d expected, the way they came charging down out of the rock land. Sergeant Baines’s line of defense had seemed powerless to stop them. It was almost as if the sergeant had let them through. But as it turned out that might have been for the best. Now the bandits were divided. There could be no more than four or five of them left holding the wagon and the hostages.
Lieutenant Howell had let them sweat for a full day and night, not wanting to make any sudden moves that would endanger the women’s lives. But now it was time to mop up, go back to the fort, and report this mission accomplished. The few remaining bandits up there would offer little resistance. Prudence Vanderman was as good as saved. He was certain of it.
He let out a breath. While losing Prudence Vanderman was the sort of thing that could ruin his career, saving her could make him a general someday, he thought, smiling to himself. Let’s face it, the military might be run by brass and blue wool, but it was most certainly financed by top hats and cigars. He knew that much.
“Sergeant Baines.” Lieutenant Howell called out to him from ten yards away. “Get your men into position…prepare to attack immediately.”
“What? Sir?” Sergeant Baines came from behind a large boulder, his hands spread. He couldn’t believe it. They had Zell’s men broken up now, having tactically let a large part of them charge through and make a run for the border. He had no idea how many were still up there. This was the time to wait, not attack! Baines and his men had a strong position here. Didn’t this fool realize his voice could be heard high up into the rocks? Baines squinted in that direction, then back to the lieutenant.
“You have my order, Sergeant. We’ve spent as much time here as we can afford.” Howell swung onto his saddle.
For God sakes…Stunned, Sergeant Baines looked around at the troopers posted beside him on one side of the trail, their horses picketed off out of the line of fire. They returned his gaze, looking equally bewildered.
