A Ranger Named Rowdy

by James J. Griffin

  “Except Tuttle and Santos are both mighty proud and stubborn hombres,” Rick said. “They both claim since God Almighty opened that spring, the creek forms the new boundary, which of course keeps changin’.”

  “That makes no sense at all,” Tim said. “I’m pretty certain God’s got more important things to do than worry about a property line. Boyd, you think mebbe there’s someone else behind this, stirrin’ up all this trouble?”

  “I considered that, but I doubt it, Tim. First of all, no one’s been nosin’ around, or makin’ any offers for either one of those spreads. Second, neither Tuttle nor Santos would ever sell out, particularly Santos.”

  “Boy howdy, that’s for certain,” Rick added. “Their roots are out there on those ranches, and they’re planted deep. Santos’ parents and grandparents, two of his kids who died before they were three, and one of his brothers are buried in a small cemetery on his place. Same for Tuttle. His ma and pa are buried on his spread. No one’s gonna move either one of ‘em off their land. Count on that.”

  “Well then, it appears I’m gonna have to have a good long talk with Mr. Tuttle and Senor Santos,” Tim said. “You think we can ride out there and meet ‘em first thing in the morning?”

  “Don’t see why not,” Boyd said. “You want me to ride along with you?”

  “I’d be obliged,” Tim said. “Like to have Rick along too, if you can spare him.”

  “That can be managed,” Boyd answered. “I’ll leave another of my deputies, Clark Jackson, in charge until we get back. It’s gonna be cold, so let’s plan on fillin’ our bellies with a good breakfast, then ride out after that. We’ll be on the trail an hour after sunup. You really think you can get this whole thing straightened out before someone gets killed? That’s why I asked for Ranger help. As I mentioned, there have been a few more incidents since I wrote Captain Strong. Some of Santos’ and Tuttle’s men have been takin’ potshots at each other. It appears they’re just warnings up to this point. So far no one’s been hit, but it’s only a matter of time before one of those cowboys decides to plug someone. And when that happens, all Hell’s bound to break loose.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen,” Tim said. “I promised my wife and boy I’d be home for Christmas this year, no matter what. Missed the last two with them. So I’m gonna get this whole thing settled in a couple of days, at the most. Tuttle and Santos are gonna come around, even if I have to bend the barrel of my six-gun over their thick skulls to knock some sense into ‘em. And you can bet that big Stetson you’re wearin’ on that!”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear,” Boyd said.

  “Good. Just need one other favor, Boyd.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d like to borrow those files overnight, so I can look ‘em over more closely. Might be something in there we’ve all overlooked.”

  “They’re yours,” Boyd answered. “Anythin’ else?”

  “Yeah,” Tim replied. “I’m plumb starved. Where’s the best place for grub in this town?”

  “That’d be Molly’s Home Cooking Cafe,” Boyd answered. “I’ll tell you what. Lemme take you to the Sierra Blanca Hotel first. You can get your room and clean up some. Then we’ll head for Molly’s. You want to join us, Rick?”

  The deputy shook his head.

  “I’d like to, but I promised Annette I’d be home on time for once,” he said. “Soon as Joe Simms comes in to take over for the night, I’m headed to be with my wife.”

  “I can’t blame you there,” Boyd answered, laughing. “Annette’s sure a lot prettier’n any of us. We’ll see you at sunup, Rick.”

  “See you then. Pleasure meetin’ you, Rangers,”

  “Same here,” Tim answered.

  After arranging for a room at the Sierra Blanca, Tim and Tate had a supper of roast beef, mashed potatoes, and turnips at Molly’s, followed by peach cobbler for dessert. By the time they finished, it was just after sundown. Sheriff Little insisted on paying for their meal.

  “You boys want to have a drink or two before you turn in?” Boyd asked. “We’ll head over to the El Dorado. Frank Casey, the town marshal, should be there. I’d like to introduce you to him.”

  “Dunno about Tate, but I’m bushed,” Tim said. “I noticed the hotel has tubs for hot baths. I’m gonna take a good long soak, wash some of the dust and dirt out of my hide, then hit the hay.”

  “What about you, Tate?” Boyd asked.

  Tate shook his head. “I’m plumb wore out too, Boyd. Ridin’ that train took more out of me than spendin’ three days on horseback chasin’ renegades. That bath sure sounds good. Reckon I’m gonna have one too, then turn in also.”

  “All right,” Boyd said. “I’m gonna wander over to the El Dorado anyway. I’m a widower, lost my Amanda three years ago, and my kids are grown and gone, so the house can get mighty lonely. I’ll let Frank know you’re in town, and will look him up first chance you get.”

  “Appreciate that, Boyd,” Tim said. “Good night. We’ll see you in the mornin’.”

  “G’night, Tim. Night, Tate. See you tomorrow.”

  “G’night, Boyd,” Tate said.

  Tim and Tate spent over an hour in their baths, soaking in the hot, soapy water, letting it sooth the aches out of their muscles. They washed thoroughly, scrubbing off grit and cinders from the train, along with accumulated trail grime and dirt. Refreshed, they toweled off, redressed, and headed upstairs to their room. Fifteen minutes later, both men were sound asleep.

  5

  A slight weather disturbance had left a thin coating of snow on the ground overnight, which sparkled like diamonds under the early morning sun. The horses stamped impatiently as the men saddled and bridled them, the cold, crisp air making them eager to run. The warm breath from both men and horses’ nostrils turned to steam, coating the horses’ muzzles, Boyd’s beard, and the several days’ growth of whiskers stubbling Tim and Tate’s faces and jaws with frost. Saddle leather, stiffened by the cold, creaked as the men saddled up and mounted. The jingling of spurs and the rattling of bits rang through the air as the quartet of lawmen rode out of Sierra Blanca, headed first for Earl Tuttle’s Diamond T, then Diego Santos’ D Cross S. Like the others, Rick Lewis was also well mounted, on a buckskin gelding he called George.

  “It’s pretty frigid now, but it’ll warm up considerable before long,” Boyd noted. “Sierra Blanca sits at an elevation of just over forty-five hundred feet. One thing about this high desert territory, the temperature can swing thirty or forty degrees in a day, sometimes more. This snow’ll be gone before noon.”

  They held their horses to a walk for a mile, letting them buck to work out the kinks and burn off some of their edge, then allowed them to gallop for a mile or so, until they wore off a good bit of their excess energy and gladly settled to a steady lope.

  “I ain’t never been in this part of Texas before,” Tate said. “Sure is pretty.”

  “You’ll see a lot of Texas as a Ranger,” Tim answered. In his career as a Ranger, he had ridden most of the Lone Star State, and never ceased to be amazed at its vastness and the variety of its landscape. Texas had more changes in climate, more differences in its geography than most countries. Tim had been to the Gulf Coast, with its sandy beaches, palm trees, lush vegetation, and salt-tanged air, then north to the level, almost featureless plains of the Panhandle and the Llano Estacado or Staked Plain, so named because the early Spanish padres, in their quest to bring the Faith to new lands, had to drive stakes into the ground along their route to avoid becoming hopelessly lost, so devoid of landmarks was the region. Tim had seen the beauty of the Hill Country north and west of San Antonio in the spring when the bluebonnets were in bloom, and the rugged fastnesses of the Guadalupe Mountains, as well as the forbidding canyonlands of the Big Bend. Now, here in far West Texas, he and his companions were riding through high, semi-desert land, mainly a level to rolling plain, cut by dry washes, gullies, and arroyos, interspersed with jagged mountains and mesas. The vegetation w
as sparse and tough, suited to the tough conditions of the region. Much of it was thorny; sagebrush, mesquite, various types of cactus, and an occasional juniper or other small tree able to tolerate the dry climate. In some of the higher mountains there would be pines and firs, but down here dryland plants ruled. To the southwest, between Sierra Blanca and the Rio Grande, the Quitman Mountains formed an almost impenetrable barrier. Just west of town was Sierra Blanca Mountain, from which the settlement had taken its name.

  “Cold’s got the horses really full of themselves. At this pace we’ll be at the Diamond T in little more’n an hour,” Boyd said. “Dunno what kind of a welcome we’ll get. Earl’s been pretty jumpy since all this started.”

  They rode on mostly in silence. Tim, as was his habit from years as a Ranger, studied the land carefully as they went along, not only to note any landmarks, any particular reason a person might want to keep a certain piece of land for his own, but also to look for any spots where an outlaw might lie in wait, ready to ambush and rob any unsuspecting passerby, or gun down a pursuing lawman who got careless. He noted with satisfaction that Tate did the same. The boy would need to develop all the senses a Ranger had to use to survive, both the land and the renegades who frequented it. The trail climbed slightly but steadily as they neared their destination.

  “That’s the gate to the Diamond T just ahead,” Boyd announced as they rounded the base of a low mesa. He pointed out a wooden archway across the trail, with a diamond symbol and a capital T formed out of cottonwood branches. “We’ll be ridin’ up to the house soon. I reckon Earl will be in. Not much work to do around a ranch this time of year, except for repairs and making sure the cows stay fed and drive ‘em to shelter in a canyon if the weather turns real bad.”

  “It’s about time,” Tate muttered. “I’m freezin’. Can’t hardly feel my feet. Hope there’s some coffee on the stove.”

  “There will be,” Boyd assured him. “Most likely biscuits keepin’ warm too. Amy, that’s Mrs. Tuttle, is a fine cook.”

  Despite being bundled in heavy sheepskin coats, flannel shirts, and denims, with long woolen underwear beneath, their bandannas pulled up over their noses, mouths, and ears, and two pairs of socks on their feet, all the men were feeling the biting cold. It would indeed be pleasant to get into some shelter and warm up with a cup of hot coffee.

  When they drew nearer to the gate, they could see a sentry standing guard. He held a rifle across his chest, but at the riders’ approach he pointed it at them and called out a challenge.

  “Hold it right there, less’n you want a bullet right between your eyes. Who are you, and what’s your business here?”

  “Ol’ Earl must be gettin’ even jumpier than I realized, if he’s set a guard,” Boyd said to his companions. “That’s Mel Harrington, his chief wrangler. Man’s a real good shot with a long gun.”

  “I said state your business. If you ain’t got any reason to be on Diamond T land, you’d best keep on ridin’,” the sentry ordered. Louder, Boyd called back to him.

  “It’s Sheriff Little, Mel, along with Deputy Lewis. Got a couple of Texas Rangers with us. They want to talk with your boss for a spell.”

  Harrington knew the sheriff’s voice.

  “All right, Sheriff, ride on in. Slow and easy. Keep your hands away from your guns, all of you.”

  “Will do.” Little put his horse into a walk, the others following. Harrington apologized when they reached him.

  “Sorry, Sheriff. I didn’t recognize you bundled up as you are. Boss is up at the house. Go right ahead.”

  “I would’ve thought you’d know my horse, Mel, bein’ as you’re a wrangler and all,” Little said.

  “There’s more’n one golden-hided cayuse in Texas, Sheriff,” Harrington answered.

  “I reckon you’re right at that,” Little answered, grinning. “We’ll see you on the way out.”

  “Later, Sheriff.” Harrington resumed his post while the lawmen continued on. A few minutes later they reined up in front of the Diamond T ranch house, a rambling structure of cypress logs, no doubt freighted in at great expense. They dismounted and tied their horses to the porch rail. When they climbed the stairs, the door opened. The owner of the Diamond T stood there, his hand on the butt of the six-gun he wore.

  “Sheriff Little. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Earl Tuttle asked. He was a big man in his mid-fifties, barrel-chested and lantern jawed, with steel-gray eyes and hair that had faded from black to the same color.

  “Got a couple of Texas Rangers want to talk with you, Earl,” Boyd answered. “Mind if we come on in outta the cold?”

  Little shrugged. “I reckon not. C’mon in and set a spell. We’ll go down to my office. Amy!”

  “Yes, Earl?”

  “We’ve got company. Sheriff Little, Deputy Lewis, and a pair of Texas Rangers. You mind bringin’ us some coffee?”

  “Not at all.”

  Tuttle led the lawmen down a long hallway and into a room decorated with Indian artifacts and Navajo rugs. “Find yourselves a chair and shed those coats,” he said. “Any of you care for a cigar, or mebbe some whiskey to warm you up? Got a fine Chambord brandy here you might want to sample. It’ll chase the chill from your bones.”

  “I’ll take both,” Boyd said.

  “Just a brandy for me, thanks,” Rick answered.

  “None for me, thanks,” Tim said. “Coffee’ll do just fine.”

  “I’ll try both also,” Tate said.

  “Good.”

  Tuttle took a decanter and four glasses from a side table, filled the glasses half-full, and passed three of them to Boyd, Rick, and Tate. He picked up a humidor from his desk, opened it, and offered cigars to the sheriff and young Ranger. After those were lit, he settled behind his desk.

  “Gentlemen, now I’m ready to ask why you are here, not that I haven’t already figured that out. I assume it’s about the trouble between the Diamond T and the D Cross S.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Tuttle,” Tim said. “I’m Tim Bannon, and my pard here is Tate Slocum.”

  Tate nodded at the rancher. “Mighty fine liquor and cigar. Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying them,” Tuttle said. “But let’s get back to the business at hand.”

  “All right,” Tim said. “We’re here at Sheriff Little’s request. He wants to put an end to this situation before it explodes into a full blown range war. No one needs that. We’re here to talk with you and then we’re heading to meet with Diego Santos.”

  “There’s no need to talk with that Mexican,” Tuttle said. “He’s the one trying to grab off my land.”

  “I’m certain he’ll say the same thing about you, Mr. Tuttle, that you’re trying to steal his land,” Tim replied. “As far as him bein’ Mexican, his family’s been here a lot longer’n any of us. He’s as much a Texan as you are, mebbe more so.”

  Tuttle started to reply, but was interrupted when his wife came in. Amy Tuttle was tall, willowy, with green eyes, and her blonde hair was just touched with gray. For a woman in her early fifties she was still a very attractive lady. She carried a tray which held a steaming coffee pot, several cups, and a pile of hot, sugar-dusted doughnuts.

  The lawmen all stood up.

  “Please, don’t get up,” she said. “I’m sorry to break in. I have your coffee, along with some doughnuts I just finished frying. I’ll just leave them here for you.”

  She placed the tray on the table.

  “Thank you, Amy,” Tuttle said. “Would you do me a favor?”

  “I’ll try. What is it?”

  “Send the kids in, will you? And then come back yourself.”

  “All right, Earl.”

  “Now, where were we?” he said, after Amy departed.

  “You were sayin’ Santos is tryin’ to steal your land,” Tim said.

  “That’s right. This all started over the creek last year. That water’s mine. It flowed onto Diamond T range first. Then Santos diverted it onto his land.”
/>   “That’s not what Sheriff Little says,” Tim replied. “He tells me Mother Nature keeps changin’ the course of the creek.”

  “With Santos’ help. Boyd, I’m surprised at you, stickin’ up for Santos.”

  “I’m not sidin’ with either of you,” Boyd answered. “Just giving the Rangers the facts as I see ‘em.”

  “That’s right,” Tim confirmed. “Mr. Tuttle, I’m not here to take your side, or Santos’. As far as hashing over what I’ve already learned from Sheriff Little yet again, there’s no point in that. I’m gonna talk to you, then Santos, and do some investigatin’ of my own. That will take me only a couple of days. Once I’m finished, then I’ll make some recommendations. It’ll be up to you and Santos whether you want to take ‘em. But I promise you, they will be fair.”

  “What if I don’t take ‘em, or Santos doesn’t?”

  “That’s your prerogative,” Tim said. “But if your fightin’ leads to a range war, or trouble between Anglos and Mexicans, there’ll be a lot of bloodshed on both sides, which means nobody wins. And I’ve got a personal stake in this. I was away from home the last two Christmases, and I promised my wife and son I’d be with ‘em for Christmas this year, no matter what. I won’t take it kindly if you or Santos don’t listen to reason, so I end up missin’ Christmas with my family again. And as long as Tate and I are here, if any more trouble is stirred up, by you and your men or Santos and his, don’t matter to me which, I’ll toss whoever’s behind it in jail for a long spell. You can rest assured of that.”

  Amy knocked softly on the door frame.

  “Earl. The children and I are here.”

  “C’mon in, honey.”

  Amy entered, trailed by three children, identical twin boys and a girl. The boys, in their early twenties, looked exactly like their father, with the same husky build and gray eyes. Only their hair was different, a light sandy color. They were dressed in cowboy garb, but unlike many twins not alike. One had on a green shirt and butternut pants, the other a red checked shirt and denims. The girl was a couple of years younger, blonde and slim like her mother, only her eyes were a light blue.