A Ranger Named Rowdy

by James J. Griffin

  “Rangers, my sons David and Duane. If you haven’t already figured it out, they’re twins. And my daughter, Honoria. Kids, Texas Rangers Tim Bannon and Tate Slocum. You already know Sheriff Little and Deputy Lewis.”

  The youngsters and lawmen exchanged greetings.

  “Rangers, I brought my kids in here for a reason,” Tuttle said. “I built this place with hard work, a lot of sweat, and even a little blood. Some tears too, for that matter. My folks are buried under a cottonwood back yonder. I intend for me’n Amy to be buried next to ‘em when our time comes. This ranch will belong to my kids, and their kids after that. No one is gonna take it from me. No one.”

  “We don’t intend for anyone to take your land from you, Mr. Tuttle,” Tim said. “Nor do we intend to allow anyone to take Diego Santos’ land from him. I understand you both used to be friends, ran your cattle together, fought side by side against rustlers and Comanches, drank together, played together.”

  “That was before he tried to steal my water,” Tuttle said.

  “Which remains to be seen,” Tim said. “But it seems pretty silly to me that two grown men who have been friends and neighbors for years can’t bury the hatchet and become friends again.”

  “That’s what I’ve tried to tell Earl,” Amy said. “But no, not my husband… the stubborn fool. And Diego Santos is just as bad.”

  “Hush, Amy.”

  “I will not hush. I miss visiting with Consuela. I’m also tired of all this fighting. What happens if someone decides to hurt you, Earl, or one of the children?”

  “Duane and I can take care of ourselves, Ma,” David said.

  “Not if someone puts an ambush bullet in your back, son,” Tim answered. “That’s my point, Mr. Tuttle. If this fight continues, the only thing which will come out of it is a lot of heartache and grief. Like I said, no one wins in a range war, except the devil himself. We’re gonna take our leave now. We’re headed to talk to Santos. I’ll be in touch in a couple of days. In the meantime, if I get even a whiff of more trouble, I’ll come down on whoever causes it hard… real hard. Is that clear?”

  “You’ve made your point, Ranger,” Tuttle answered. “But let me tell you, I’m not gonna just sit still while someone tries to take my land.”

  “If anyone does, just let me or my pardner or the sheriff know,” Tim answered. “This is the Rangers’ problem now. Best thing you can do is let us handle it.”

  “Listen to him, Earl. Please,” Amy asked.

  “All right. I’ll go along for now. But you’d best get Santos straightened out, Ranger. Right quick.”

  “Like I said, I intend to be home for Christmas,” Tim said. “I’ll talk with you again soon. Meantime, don’t do anythin’ foolish.”

  “I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” Amy said.

  “Good,” Tim answered. He stood up. “Mr. Tuttle, Mrs. Tuttle, Duane, David, Honoria. Nice meetin’ y’all. Thanks for the drinks and doughnuts. They were real tasty, Mrs. Tuttle. Give me the time I ask, and this will all be settled. Tate, Boyd, Rick, c’mon. Let’s go.”

  “Should’ve warned you Earl Tuttle’s a real stubborn man, Tim,” Boyd said, as they rode away from the Diamond T. “He’s not one to listen to reason. Don’t put much store in what Amy said, either. Tuttle’s not the kind of man to let his wife boss him around.”

  “He’s about what I expected,” Tim said. “Tuttle’s a typical Texan. It takes a tough, stubborn hombre to build a place like he’s got and then hold onto it. I’d imagine Santos is pretty much the same.”

  “Boy howdy, you’ve got that right,” Lewis said. “He’s real thick-headed.”

  “Don’t matter. He and Tuttle are both about to find out I can be just as stubborn. Which way to the D Cross S?”

  “We can take the trail around, or cut across country,” Little answered. “That’ll save us a few miles.”

  “Then cross-country it is,” Tim answered. “Lead the way.”

  ***

  The trip to the D Cross S was through rugged, brush-choked rangeland, cut by arroyos and washes. However, the headquarters of the D Cross S itself was in a small glade. The main house was a sprawling adobe structure with a red tile roof. An arched veranda surrounded the building on all four sides. The walls were thick and the windows up high and small. The structure was built to be warmer in winter and cooler in summer… and for defense against any marauders. Anyone trying to raid the D Cross S would find breaching those thick walls an almost insurmountable task. Unlike at the Diamond T, no one challenged the lawmen as they rode up, reined in, and dismounted. They tied their horses to the rail out front, then Sheriff Little knocked on the thick oak door. A moment later it was answered by a pretty young woman, her olive complexion, raven-black hair, and dark eyes making her Spanish blood obvious.

  “Sheriff Little. Buenas dias,” she said. “Is my father expecting you?”

  “No, he’s not, Maria,” Boyd answered. “But we do need to speak with him if he’s in. These are Texas Rangers Tim Bannon and Tate Slocum. You already know Rick.”

  “My father is here, and of course he will see you,” Maria answered. “Follow me.”

  She led them into a large parlor, furnished with sofas and chairs of rich leather. Spanish tapestries hung from the walls, and Aztec pottery was placed around the room. A fire blazed in the huge fireplace, which took up almost a quarter of one wall.

  “Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Maria urged. “Take off your coats. I will get my father.”

  The men did as she requested, shedding their heavy coats and taking seats. A moment later, Maria reappeared.

  “Gentlemen, this is my father, Diego Santos. Father, Rangers Tim Bannon and Tate Slocum.”

  “Rangers, welcome to my home,” Santos said. “Mi casa su casa, as they say in Mexico. Please, make yourselves comfortable. In fact, we were about to have our noonday meal. You will join us, of course.”

  “Thank you, Senor,” Tim said. “However, this is a business visit, not a social call.” He was a bit taken aback by Santos’ appearance. True, the man had the bloodline of old Spain apparent in his height, stately bearing, and dark features. However, unlike Tim had expected, he was not dressed like a Mexican vaquero. He was in typical cowboy clothes, and the hat he wore was not a high-crowned, broad-brimmed sombrero, but a well-worn, battered brown Stetson. Even the Spanish accent in his speech was barely discernible, and despite his formality in fact Santos spoke mostly in the familiar west Texas drawl.

  “I knew it must be,” Santos said. “I’m certain you’re here about the trouble I have been having with Earl Tuttle. Nevertheless, that is no reason for me to be inhospitable. All of you will eat with us, then afterwards we can talk over drinks and cigars.”

  “I am pretty hungry, Tim,” Tate said.

  “Me too,” Rick added. “My belly’s been growlin’ for an hour now. Thinks my throat’s been cut.”

  “All right,” Tim said. “I could stand a bite too. We’ll eat.”

  “Fine,” Santos said. “Maria, if you would take our guests to the dining room?”

  “Of course, father. Gentlemen, this way.”

  Maria led them down a hallway to a spacious dining room. The furniture it held was all heavy dark wood, intricately carved. On top of a long sideboard were several bottles of liquor. The table was already set with fine china. In contrast to the dark furnishings were colorful striped napkins and placemats.

  “Why don’t you men take the four chairs on the right near the head of the table?” Maria suggested. “My family will take the ones opposite, so we can all converse during the meal.”

  “All right,” Tim agreed. He and his companions took their seats. A few moments later, Santos returned, along with the rest of his family.

  “Don’t bother to get up,” he said. “Rangers, this is my wife Consuela, my sons Miguel and Esteban, and my other daughter Francesca. You’ve already met Maria, of course. Consuela, children, Texas Rangers Tim Bannon and his partner, Tate Slocum. And of co
urse Sheriff Little and Deputy Lewis.”

  Consuela Santos and the rest of her children all had the same Spanish features as Maria and Diego. The Santos family and the lawmen exchanged greetings. Once everyone was seated, Consuela picked up and rang a small silver bell. An elderly Mexican woman appeared at the kitchen door.

  “We’re ready, Aunt Lucia,” Consuela said. To the Rangers she explained. “My aunt has been widowed for many years now. We took her into our home years ago. However, despite our telling her many times she is family, and has no obligations to us, she insists on acting as our cook and serving our meals. We have been unable to change her mind, and she does love to cook. So everything has worked out for the best.”

  The meal started with a soup course, followed by several others. Typical of Mexican cuisine, it was highly spiced by hot chiles, with tortillas in place of bread, and accompanied by refried beans.

  “Our main meal is at midday, not in the evening,” Consuela explained.

  “It is mighty filling, Senora,” Tate said.

  “I just hoped you saved room for dessert,” Consuela answered. “It won’t be as heavy as an apple pie. We’ll be having flan. It’s a kind of custard.”

  “You talked me into it, ma’am,” Tate answered.

  ***

  After the meal, Santos took the lawmen to his private office. As were all the rooms, it was furnished in heavy, dark wood. As had Tuttle at the Diamond T, he offered cigars and drinks. In this case, however, the liquor was a clear, fiery tequila. Tate nearly choked on his first swallow as the tequila burned its way down his throat and into his stomach. He flushed beet-red when the drink hit his belly.

  “Boy howdy, that stuff’s potent!” he exclaimed.

  “But smooth,” Santos said, laughing. “Now that we have our drinks and cigars, let’s get down to the business at hand.”

  “All right, Senor,” Tim said. “I’m gonna tell you the same thing I said to Earl Tuttle over at the Diamond T, and make it short and sweet. Sheriff Little requested Ranger help in gettin’ to the bottom of whatever’s goin’ on between you and Tuttle. The trouble stops, right here and now. I’m gonna be investigatin’ the situation over the next couple of days. I intend to come up with a solution which will put an end to the fightin’, once and for all. It’s up to you and Tuttle whether or not you take it. But I’m not gonna tolerate any more threats, any more fightin’, any more fence-cuttin’ or buildin’ burnin’, and especially no more takin’ pot shots at each other. Do you understand me, Senor Santos?”

  “Perfectly,” Santos replied. “However, the trouble is not of my making. Earl Tuttle started it when he tried to claim some of my land, and the new creek. And I will not be run off land which has been in my family for generations, indeed since before this country of ours existed as an independent state. And I am an American and a Texan, not a Mexican.”

  “Which is exactly what I told Tuttle,” Tim answered. “I also told him the same thing I’m tellin’ you now. I’m not takin’ sides in this dispute. I’m gonna be fair to both of you. But if you two clowns end up startin’ a range war, or worse a border war, over somethin’ that should be able to be fixed over a couple of drinks, I’ll come down on both of you, real hard. And like I also told Tuttle, I missed the last two Christmases at home with my wife and boy. I intend to with them for Christmas this year. If I miss that because of you and Tuttle, I’ll make your lives as miserable as I can. And that’s a guarantee. So for the next few days, while I’m here performing my job, there’d better not be one hint of trouble. Not one.”

  “I assure you there won’t be any from the D Cross S, Ranger Bannon,” Santos promised.

  “Good. Tuttle made the same promise. I’ll be holdin’ both of you to it. Tate, finish your drink. There’s a lot more we have to do before dark. Senor Santos, thanks for the meal. It was delicious. You’ll be hearing from me in a few days.”

  “Fine, Ranger. Let me show you out.”

  A short while later, Tim and his partners were riding away from the D Cross S. On the northern horizon, storm clouds were gathering.

  ***

  After leaving the Santos ranch house, Tim had Sheriff Little show him the stream which had formed after the landslide the year previous. The ride across the D Cross S was pleasant. As Boyd assured them would happen, the temperature had risen into the fifties, and the snow was long melted away.

  “There it is, Tim,” Boyd said, when they reached the stream. “Sure don’t look like much, does it? But in a country as dry as this, any dependable source of water is more valuable than gold or silver.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t,” Tim said. Indeed, the creek was little more than a foot deep and a few feet wide. But its water was clear and sweet, not at all the usual alkaline liquid of this territory.

  “You mind takin’ us to where it starts?” Tim asked.

  “Not at all,” Boyd answered. He turned Goldie northward, with the rest of the men strung out behind. A short time later, they reined up at the base of a large mesa.

  “That’s the creek’s source,” Boyd said. He pointed to a gash in the mesa’s wall, where a huge section of rock had come crashing down, exposing the underground spring which now fed the stream. “That big hunk of rock fell, and suddenly Tuttle and Santos had themselves a creek.”

  “Any way up that mesa?” Tim asked.

  “I dunno,” Boyd admitted. “Never tried to find one. Why?”

  “I’d like to get up there, take a look around,” Tim said.

  “You think mebbe that landslide didn’t happen on its own, but had a little help… mebbe from some black powder or dynamite?” Rick asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I am darn curious to have a good looksee from up there,” Tim answered. “I can get a good idea of the lay of the land from up top, too.”

  “It’s gonna be dark soon,” Boyd said. “Couple of hours, three at the most.”

  “I know,” Tim said. “Listen, you and Rick head back to town. Tate and I are gonna try’n find a way up that mesa.”

  “Tate and I? I don’t recollect volunteerin’ to break my neck climbin’ those rocks,” Tate said.

  “You turnin’ back on me?” Tim asked.

  “Nope. Just not relishin’ the thought of ridin’ Buddy clean over a two hundred foot drop.” Tate gave a shudder.

  “Don’t worry. Rowdy won’t go where he can’t get out of,” Tim said. “Sheriff, you and Rick go on home. We’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”

  Boyd looked at the sheer cliffs of the mesa and shook his head.

  “If you don’t break every bone in your body, like Tate said. Well, reckon it’s your funeral. C’mon, Rick, let’s go. Tim, Tate, we’ll see you tomorrow… I hope.”

  “You will, Boyd,” Tim said. “Manana.”

  “Manana.”

  The sheriff and deputy turned their horses back toward town.

  “Tate, time to find our way up that mesa,” Tim said. “Let’s go.” He and Tate allowed their horses to drink their fill while they filled their canteens Once the horses’ thirst was quenched, they splashed them across the shallow creek. Tim headed directly for the jumbled rocks which had fallen from the mesa. He studied the water flowing from beneath them.

  “Sure is a big pile of rocks,” Tate said.

  “It sure is,” Tim answered. “Glad we weren’t under there when they came crashin’ down. Now we need to find a way to the top.”

  “Sure don’t seem to be any,” Tate said.

  “There’s usually a way up the sides of a mesa,” Tim said. “Sometimes you’ve gotta look real hard to find it, sometimes you have to make your own, and most times you’ve gotta pick your way real careful. Sometimes you have to leave your horse behind and go on foot. Main thing is not to get yourself into a corner you can’t get out of… which is how I pretty much work as a Ranger anyway. If you do, you’re liable to end up dead.”

  “That’s a real comforting thought,” Tate answered.

  “Isn’t it?” Tim said,
grinning. “Well, we sure ain’t gonna reach the top just settin’ here. Let’s go, Rowdy.”

  He put the big paint into a walk and turned right along the mesa’s base. They had gone about a quarter of the way around it when Tim pulled Rowdy to a halt.

  “There you are, Tate. There’s our trail.”

  He pointed to a narrow shelf which slanted its way up the mesa’s side.

  “That?” Tate answered, skeptically. “Even a goat wouldn’t try that thing. And it appears it stops less’n halfway up the side.”

  “We’re not goats… we’re men,” Tim said. “Besides, we won’t know unless we give it a try.”

  “Not sure if you’re a man or a stubborn jackass,” Tate retorted. “And that’s insultin’ the jackass.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate your confidence in me,” Tim said. “You can just wait down here if you’d rather. C’mon, Rowdy, let’s go.”

  He urged Rowdy onto the path.

  “Oh no, you’re not leavin’ me behind,” Tate said. “Reckon I’m as loco as you are.” He put Buddy’s nose a few feet behind Rowdy’s tail, where his grulla could take confidence from Tim’s gelding, yet still see where to place his feet.

  Rowdy and Tim had a bond equaled by few other equines and humans, a total trust in each other. Tim pretty much gave the horse his head, letting him pick his way up the rocky slope. In several places the trail got so narrow Rowdy could barely plant all four feet on solid ground. In others loose rock and gravel sent Rowdy’s hooves slipping, threatening to spill him and his rider to the ground far below.

  “How you doin’ back there, Tate?” Tim called.

  “I’m just hunky-dory,” Tate answered.

  “You don’t sound it,” Tim said. “How’s Buddy?”

  “A lot happier’n I am, that’s for certain. He’s not lookin’ at that dead end up ahead, like I am.”

  “It’s not a dead end,” Tim said. “Rowdy’s too smart a cayuse to get himself into a trap like that. He knows there’s a way to the top. He’ll find it.”

  Sure enough, when they reached what appeared to be a sheer wall rising straight up, the shelf switchbacked. Rowdy worked his way carefully around a large boulder, beyond which the shelf widened and leveled off a bit. Buddy, snorting his displeasure, but unwilling to be left behind, followed.