“That’s exactly why I chose you for this assignment,” Strong said, with a chuckle. “I knew you’d be so impatient to get back home you’re not gonna put up with any nonsense. You’ll straighten ‘em out right quick.” He again grew serious. “Listen, Ranger, I don’t relish sending you on this job any more than you want to take it. However, I’ve got no other man available right now who can handle it, at least without a lot of trouble and probably gunplay besides. That’d be the last thing we’d need. The Big Bend territory’s been fairly quiet for quite a spell now. I’d like to keep it that way. That’s why I’m countin’ on you.”
“I’ll do my best, Cap’n,” Tim said, with a sigh. “Both of us will.”
“Tate?”
“Tim’s right, Cap’n. You can count on me too.”
“Good.” Strong glanced at the Regulator clock on the wall opposite his desk, ticking away the time. “We’d better head over to the depot and make sure everything’s ready for your horses. There’s supposed to be a boxcar prepared to hitch onto the local for Rowdy and Buddy. I’ve got to make certain it is.”
The three men finished their coffee, Tate and Strong stubbed out their smokes, then they headed for the Texas and Pacific station.
***
Despite Captain Strong’s misgivings, the boxcar was indeed ready for Rowdy and Buddy. There was a bucket for water, as well as several flakes of hay stacked in one corner. When the San Antonio to Fort Worth local pulled into the station, the car was quickly coupled to the back of the train. A ramp was set in place and the Rangers led their horses inside. They removed the saddles, blankets and bridles and set those aside. Buddy, this being his first time in a train car, whickered nervously. Tate patted his shoulder to reassure the mouse-colored gelding.
“It’ll be just fine, Buddy. You’ll see. Rowdy’s gonna be right here with you, and I’ll check on you every stop. Just relax and work on that hay.”
Rowdy was a veteran train traveler, so he settled right in. He nuzzled Tim’s pocket for a peppermint. Tim pulled out two.
“I’m gonna give Tate one for Buddy, all right, pard?” he asked. Rowdy nickered, took the treat from Tim’s hand, and crunched down happily. Tate took the other candy and offered it to his horse. Buddy sniffed tentatively at the peppermint, took it daintily between his lips, then tossed his head up and down at first taste of the unfamiliar treat. He nuzzled Tate’s hand for more.
“Not now,” Tate said, laughing. “Mebbe I can talk Tim out of another one for you later. You relax now.” He patted Buddy’s shoulder again.
“Rowdy, I’ll see you later. Try’n get some rest,” Tim ordered. Rowdy nipped at Tim’s ear, then settled to munching on some hay.
The conductor stuck his head in the door.
“You Rangers got those horses settled? We’re behind schedule already, and need to try’n make up some time.”
“We’re just finishin’ up,” Tim answered. He and Tate left the car. The ramp was removed and the door slid shut and latched in place. Captain Strong was still waiting on the platform. He shook both men’s hands.
“Tim, Tate, good luck to both of you. I hope I’m not handin’ you more than you can bite off and chew.”
“Oh, like you haven’t done just that how many times before?” Tim said, chuckling. “Don’t worry, Cap’n. We’ll take care of things for you.”
“I sure hope so, Tim. And remember, we don’t want any gunplay unless absolutely necessary. Tate, you listen to Tim. Make sure you follow his orders. You can learn a lot from him.”
“I will, Cap’n,” Tate assured him.
“Good. Then I’ll see you in a few days. Adios.”
“Adios, Cap’n.” Tim and Tate climbed into the passenger coach just in front of the boxcar containing their horses, then settled into the right back seat. From there, they had a clear view of the entire car, but no one could come up behind them. One thing a Ranger learned, and fast, was to always be cautious. It was either that, or lose his life to an ambush bullet in the back.
The conductor shouted his “All Aboard!” and a moment later the train rolled north out of Austin, bound for Fort Worth.
***
The local from San Antonio to Forth Worth was exactly that, and then some. Besides stopping at every town of any size along the way, it also picked up or left off mail and passengers at several whistle or flag stops en route. Tim and Tate passed the time playing cards, napping, or watching the scenery roll by. It took the train well over ten hours to cover the almost two hundred miles from Austin to Fort Worth. It chugged into the Fort Worth train yards shortly after eight o’clock.
“We’ll take care of the horses, then get a room for the night, Tate,” Tim said as they stepped off the train. “The Texas and Pacific has a railroad hotel right next to the depot here. It’s as good as any. Has a decent restaurant, too. We’ll stay there.”
“Don’t matter much to me where we bed down, long as it’s got a soft mattress and clean sheets,” Tate said. “Sleepin’ on the hard ground does grow tiresome after a while. Before we turn in, how about we visit one of the saloons for a couple of drinks? It’s not like we’re gonna have to get up early tomorrow. Our train doesn’t leave until quarter after ten.”
“Why not? I reckon I could stand a beer or two,” Tim said. “There’s a good place a couple of blocks from here, the Driftin’ Drover. Close enough we can walk, much as I dislike hoofin’ it. We’ll head there after we chow down.” Like most men born and raised to the saddle, Tim hated to walk. He’d much prefer to take his horse, even if the distance was only a block or two. Almost every cowboy felt exactly the same.
Rowdy and Buddy whinnied loud greetings when one of the brakemen opened the boxcar door and they saw their riders waiting. Tim and Tate gave the brakeman four bits to take their gear to the baggage room, to be held for their westbound train, then shouldered their saddlebags, haltered their horses, and led them to a nearby livery stable’s corral. They rubbed down the mounts, made sure they were grained and watered and would be provided plenty of hay. They left the hostler strict instructions for their care, as well as an explicit warning not to get near Tim’s one-man paint. Satisfied the horses would be well cared for, they went to the Texas and Pacific Fort Worth Hotel, obtained a room, cleaned up, and had a supper of thick beefsteaks, boiled potatoes and black-eyed peas, accompanied with plenty of hot black coffee, and peach pie for dessert. Tate rolled and smoked a quirly while they lingered over a final cup of coffee. Finally, their hunger satisfied, they paid the bill and headed for the Driftin’ Drover.
“It’s gonna be crowded in here, Tate,” Tim said. “Always is.” Sure enough, when they stepped inside, they had to shoulder their way through the crowd, then had to elbow a space at the bar. Three bartenders were tending to the customers’ needs. The nearest, a portly man who wore a huge walrus mustache, came over to them.
“What’ll it be, gents?” he asked.
“Beer.” Tim said. He almost had to shout to make himself heard over the noise of the crowd.
“Bourbon for me. Old Granddad’s if you’ve got it,” Tate requested.
“I do indeed,” the bartender answered. “You sure you’re old enough to handle it, kid? That’s a pretty potent red-eye. Packs a kick like a Missouri mule.”
“I can hold my whiskey all right,” Tate said.
“It’s your funeral,” the bartender replied, with a shrug. He hurried away, drew a mug of beer for Tim, then returned with that, a glass, and a bottle of Old Granddad’s. He filled Tate’s glass, then set the bottle on the shelf behind the bar.
“My name’s Bob,” he said. “Call me when you’re ready for more.”
“Tim.”
“I’m Tate. And we will.”
Tim had been in the Driftin’ Drover several times before, but Tate looked the place over while he worked on his drink. Like most saloons, the entire place smelled of tobacco smoke, sweat, and spilled liquor. It had a long, mirror-backed bar, several tables for games of chance; poker
, faro, roulette, and chuck-a-luck. There was a small dance floor, where several couples were dancing to the tunes a derby-hatted player was pounding out on an out of tune piano. Coal-oil ceiling lamps, their light dimmed by the clouds of tobacco smoke swirling around them, illuminated the place. Instead of the provocative paintings of scantily-clad women so many saloons featured, the Driftin’ Drover, in keeping with its name, had several large scenes of cattle drives and roundups hanging from its walls. There were also two pictures of gunfights, as well as a Civil War battle scene. Tate didn’t recognize which battle it depicted, but, this being Texas, it showed the Confederates clearly besting their blue-clad Yankee opponents. And as always, percentage girls clad in low-cut dresses to show off their obvious charms circulated among the patrons, encouraging them to drink or gamble, or pay for a dance. Occasionally one of them would accompany a man upstairs, then disappear behind a closed door to one of the rooms arrayed along a balcony which ran the width of the building. Perhaps, Tate thought, he’d partake of the company of one of those ladies himself. He grinned in anticipation.
Tim finished his beer and Tate his whiskey. They signaled to Bob for another. He provided those, then once again hurried off to meet the demands of his other customers. Tim and Tate took their time over the drinks, unwinding and enjoying watching the crowd. They had just about finished their second drinks when two of the percentage girls approached them. One was a buxom red-head, who wore a green silk gown. The other was a brunette, whose extremely low-cut red silk dress clearly showed her bosom. A cut-glass pendant dangling from a thin chain nestled in her cleavage. She took Tate by the arm.
“You boys look lonely,” she said. “I’m Liz, and my friend here’s Dahlia. Would you like to buy us a drink?”
“No thanks,” Tim said. “I’m just gonna finish this beer, then turn in. It’s been a long day.”
“It’s not that late, cowboy,” Dahlia said, wrapping her arm around Tim’s waist. “If you don’t want to drink with us, how about a dance, or perhaps a card game. Or if you’d like something else, that could be arranged too.” She smiled and tilted her head toward the upstairs balcony.
“I can’t speak for my pardner here, but I’m not interested,” Tim said. “You see, I’m a married man.”
“Since when does that make a difference?” Dahlia asked, her voice petulant. A pout crossed her face.
“Mebbe to some men it doesn’t, but it does to me,” Tim said. “I love my wife, and it wouldn’t be right for me to go to bed with another woman. Besides, I’m way too old for you.”
“Too old? You sure don’t look too old. You positive I can’t change your mind?”
“I’m all of twenty-seven years old,” Tim answered. “And no, you can’t. Tell Bob to give you a drink, and I’ll pay for it, but that’s all.”
“Twenty-seven? Why you’re as old as Methuselah,” Dahlia said, sarcastically. “I guess I’ll have to settle for that drink, then find another man whose scruples ain’t as high and mighty as yours.” She flounced away, indignant.
“What about you, cowboy?” Liz asked Tate. “Are you married too? Or also too old?”
“I sure ain’t, on either count, honey,” Tate answered. “I ain’t married, don’t even have a gal, and I’m only nineteen. Does that answer your questions?”
“It sure does, cowboy.”
“Tate.”
“Tate. It sure does. But it doesn’t answer my other one. You lookin’ for some fun?”
“I sure am, honey. Tim, that all right with you?”
“It’s fine, Tate,” Tim answered. “Just don’t stay out too late, and don’t make a lotta noise when you come back to the room. I’ll probably be sleepin’, and wouldn’t appreciate bein’ roused.”
“All right, Tim. Liz, let’s go.”
Tim smiled as he watched Tate and the saloon girl work their way through the crowd and toward the stairs. He understood Tate’s need for some fun, and his desire to be with a woman. After all, he himself had been a young Ranger like Tate once. With the ever-present rigors and dangers of a Ranger’s life, a man had to unwind and let off steam every once in a while. Oftentimes a few drinks, perhaps some gambling, and a visit with a woman were the only ways. But now Tim was pledged to Melinda. Despite the stirring he felt in his groin at the undeniably attractive Dahlia’s invitation, he would never be unfaithful with her, or any other woman. Besides, when he returned home after weeks on the trail, it only made his and Melinda’s lovemaking that much sweeter, more passionate, more intense. Tim knew what he had at home, and wouldn’t chance spoiling that for anything, or anyone.
Tim’s reverie was interrupted by a woman’s scream, followed by a man’s threat. A bearded, drunken cowboy had grabbed Liz’s arm and yanked her away from Tate. He was pulling her toward the door.
“I said you’re comin’ with me, woman,” the cowboy said, with a curse. “That kid ain’t nowhere near hombre enough for you. I’m the kind of man you need.”
Tate stood with his hand just above the butt of the Smith and Wesson American he wore on his right hip. He flexed his fingers.
“Let go of the lady,” Tate ordered. “You heard what she said. She’s not goin’ with you.”
“Better leave us be, young’un, less’n you want a bullet in your guts,” the cowboy snarled. “I said she’s leavin’ with me, and I ain’t takin’ no for an answer. No snot-nosed kid’s gonna stop me, neither.” He shoved Liz aside. She fell to the floor, sobbing.
The crowd had parted, seeking cover from the potential paths of flying bullets wherever they could. Some had fled outside, others were hiding behind turned over tables or pillars. They had left Tim a clear shot at the cowboy’s ribs.
“Hold it right there, Mister!” Tim ordered. “Texas Ranger. Let the lady go and walk out of here before you make it worse for yourself.”
Tim’s hand hovered over the heavy Colt Peacemaker on his left hip. With his right, he slipped his badge out of his shirt pocket and pinned it to his vest. The threat of sudden and instant death was apparent in his cold blue eyes.
“I’m a Ranger too, Mister, in case you’d like to know,” Tate added.
The cowboy looked from Tate to Tim and back again, uncertainty in his eyes now. It was plain if he went for his gun and tried for Tate, Tim would kill him, even if he managed to down Tate. If he spun and tried for Tim, Tate would be sure to put a bullet through his ribs. He stood there, hand still ready to grab for his gun, quivering with anger and frustration.
“Aw, the devil with her. She ain’t worth it,” he cursed. He turned and started for the door. He was halfway there when he spun back, grabbing for his gun.
Tate fired, his bullet catching the cowboy in his left shoulder, spinning him around. Tim shot at the same time, his slug slamming into the man’s hip. With a cry of agony, the cowboy dropped to his face. Tim walked up to him and kicked his gun away, then rolled him onto his back.
“Someone get the doc,” he ordered.
“I’ll do it,” one of the spectators volunteered. He sprinted out the door.
“Reckon you… you done kilt me, Ranger,” the cowboy stammered.
“I don’t think so,” Tim said. “But you’re gonna be laid up for a spell, that’s for certain.”
“Reckon I was pretty… stupid… tryin’ to outgun two… Rangers.”
“I’d say so,” Tim agreed. “Next time you get drunk and think about doin’ somethin’ dumb, you might want to recollect what happened tonight. He glanced at Tate. “You all right, pard?”
“I’ll be okay,” Tate said.
The batwings swung open and a Fort Worth city marshal entered. He carried a shotgun, which he held at the ready.
“All right, don’t anybody move,” he ordered. He looked from Tate, to Tim, to the cowboy on the floor. “What happened here?”
Tate indicated Liz, who had come to her feet.
“That hombre there tried to take the lady out of the saloon, against her will. When I tried to stop him, he threatened to
go for his gun. My pardner there took a hand. Hombre thought better of tryin’ to go up against two guns, but then changed his mind and drew on us. We both shot him.”
“That’s right, Marshal,” Liz said.
“You hush up for now, Liz,” the marshal ordered, then continued to Tate, “What’s your name, Mister?”
“Slocum. Tate Slocum. I’m a Texas Ranger.”
The marshal looked to Tim for confirmation.
“That right?”
“That’s right, Marshal. I’m Ranger Tim Bannon. Tate’s my ridin’ pard. We’re on our way to Sierra Blanca. Have an overnight layover waitin’ for tomorrow’s El Paso bound train, so we thought we’d kill some time and relax with a couple of drinks. Things happened just like Tate said.”
“Marshal Al Colton. Reckon you two are in the clear.” He glanced at the downed cowboy, who had now passed out from pain and loss of blood. “Anybody happen to know his name?”
“He’s Frank Cook, from the Diamond T,” someone answered.
“Good. Couple of you help me carry this man to Doc Patterson’s,” Colton ordered.
“I’m right here, Al.” A middle-aged man, who wore thick spectacles over his hazel eyes, hurried in. He carried a medical bag. He knelt alongside Cook for a cursory examination.
“He’ll live, but he’s going to be crippled up for quite some time. In fact, he may never be able to use that shoulder again. Let’s get him to my office so I can get to work on him.”
The wounded cowboy was carried out, the blood-soaked sawdust swept away, and business at the Driftin’ Drover soon returned to normal.
“Tate, I’m callin’ it a night,” Tim said. “You comin’ along?”
Liz had her arm wrapped around Tate’s waist.
“If it’s all the same to you, Tim, I’d like to finish my plans with Liz here.”
“That’s right, Ranger,” Liz added. “I’d bet Tate saved my life. The least I can do is thank him properly.”
“And I’ll reckon you know how to do just that,” Tim said, with a chuckle. “All right, Tate. I’ll see you in the morning. Like I said before, just don’t disturb me when you come in.”
A Ranger Named Rowdy Page 2
