A Ranger Named Rowdy

by James J. Griffin

  “See Tate, nothin’ to it,” Tim said. “We’re better’n halfway to the top. It’ll be a piece of cake from here on in.”

  Tate muttered something unintelligible, but it was definitely a curse, in fact a whole string of them.

  “What’d you say, pardner?” Tim asked.

  “Oh, nothin’. Just wonderin’ how in the blue blazes we’re gonna get back off this overgrown gopher mound?”

  “Same way we got up,” Tim said.

  Forty-five minutes later, they reached the top of the mesa.

  “Got about an hour of sunlight to look around,” Tim said. “Then we’ll make camp for the night. Unless you want to attempt that trail in the dark, Tate.”

  “Not a chance. I’d gut-shoot you before I’d let you try that,” Tate answered.

  “Then that’s settled. Let’s head over to where I figure that slide is,” Tim said. He put Rowdy back into a walk.

  The mesa was of course not as table-flat as it appeared from below. Rocks and boulders were strewn about haphazardly, and gullies cut through its surface. There was somewhat more vegetation than on the desert floor below, more junipers and a few pin oaks, and some grass along with the ubiquitous cacti. A few Steller’s jays and crows flitted through the brush. Tim and Tate worked their way across the mesa, to where a good chunk of it had split off and fallen. They dismounted.

  “You wait here, Rowdy,” Tim ordered. Rowdy nickered, then fell to pulling on some bunch grass. Tate patted Buddy’s neck, then he followed Tim to the mesa’s rim.

  “Sure is a pretty scene from up here,” Tim said. The lowering sun cast long shadows over the land, highlighting higher spots, throwing canyons and arroyos into darkness. Tim studied the landscape for a good while, then stepped closer to the rim. He looked down to where the rock had split away.

  “Need to get a closer look,” he said. “Tate, you’re gonna have to hold my ankles.”

  “Now I know you’ve gone plumb loco,” Tate answered. “Well, if you fall, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Tim dropped to his belly and, once Tate had a firm grasp of his ankles, edged his upper body out over the edge as far as he dared. It only took him a few minutes to see what he needed.

  “All right, Tate. Pull me back.”

  Once Tate dragged him away from the rim, Tim stood up and brushed dirt from his shirt and denims.

  “Well, you satisfied?” Tate asked.

  “Sure am. Found out what I needed to know. There’s no sign of any blastin’. Those rocks fell on their own.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “As sure as I can be. Now, let’s find a good spot to set up camp. It’s gonna get mighty cold up here once the sun sets. We’re gonna have to build a good fire.”

  Leading their horses, the two men worked their way toward the center of the mesa, where there was a bit more greenery.

  “This is it right here, Tate,” Tim said. “There’s water in that depression, and plenty of deadwood. We can spread our blankets out against that ledge. The rocks’ll hold some of the heat from the fire and reflect it back at us. We’ll be downright cozy.”

  “Just like in a soft feather bed back at Lulu’s place,” Tate muttered. “Well, might as well get settled. I see a long night ahead of us.”

  The horses were unsaddled, groomed, and turned loose to graze. Rowdy wouldn’t stray far from Tim, and Buddy wouldn’t wander out of sight of Rowdy. Besides, there was nowhere for them to go anyway. After their mounts were cared for, Tim and Tate turned their attention to their own needs. A fire was built, then bacon and beans were soon frying in the pan, biscuits rising, and coffee boiling. The storm clouds of earlier had scattered, so the setting sun gilded the sky in spectacular shades of orange, crimson, and gold as it dipped below the horizon while the Rangers ate. Dusk fell rapidly, so by the time they consumed the last of their meal, it was pitch dark. Myriad stars pinpricked the inky canopy of the sky. More wood was thrown on the fire, then Tim and Tate slid under their blankets.

  “I figure we don’t have to worry about any renegade Comanch’ spottin’ our fire up here,” Tate said. “Guess we can sleep without worryin’ about losin’ our scalps.”

  “I think that’s a safe bet,” Tim said. He lay gazing up at the sky, while Tate smoked a final cigarette.

  “Sure is pretty,” Tim observed. “A man can really feel God’s presence up here. Makes you realize how great He is, and how small and insignificant we are.”

  “I don’t believe in all that stuff,” Tate said. “Man’s here on his own. You make of this life what you can, then it’s over.”

  “You can’t mean that,” Tim answered. “You can’t possibly see all the wonders of this world and not believe in God.”

  “I used to, once,” Tate said. “My daddy was a fire and brimstone Baptist preacher. Scared Hell into me every Sunday, and the other six days besides. My ma wasn’t like him at all. She was a real gentle soul. When she died, despite all my pa’s prayers to save her, I realized there wasn’t no God, least none that cared about us. If He had, He would’ve saved my ma. She died way too young. After that my pa kind of just withered away. He was gone six months after my ma. I’ve got no other kin, so that left me on my own. Been that way for nigh onto five years now. Ain’t no pie in the sky Almighty lookin’ after me. I’m doin’ just fine on my own.”

  “Tate, I’m sorry about your ma and pa,” Tim said. “But whether you believe in God or not, I’m tellin’ you they’re in Heaven with him right now. Lord knows I’m a sinner, don’t get to Sunday Mass anywhere near as often as I should, but I know God will forgive me, if I just ask. And He’s saved my life more’n once. Someday you’ll come to believe too.”

  “And someday Buddy’ll sprout wings and fly,” Tate answered. He took a long drag on his cigarette and tossed the butt away. “Good night, Tim.”

  “Good night, Tate.”

  Tim, as usual, said his evening prayers before dropping off to sleep. This night he added one for Tate, that his young partner would once again find his lost faith.

  ***

  Despite Tate’s misgivings, the following morning the descent from the mesa top was made without incident. He and Tim rode back into Sierra Blanca just before noon. They headed straight for Boyd Little’s office. Luckily, he was in when they arrived.

  “Tim, Tate. Glad to see you back in one piece. You make it to the top of that mesa?”

  “We sure did, Boyd,” Tim answered. “Nothin’ to it.”

  “Except takin’ ten years off my life,” Tate added.

  “Well, at least it didn’t end yesterday by you both fallin’ off a cliff,” Boyd said. “You find what you were lookin’ for, Tim?”

  “Sure did. No sign of any cause for those rocks fallin’ but a heavy rain. Appears no one’s stirrin’ up Tuttle and Santos but their own selves.”

  “You got anything further in mind, or you just gonna try’n talk some sense into ‘em again?”

  “I’ve got a thing or two in mind, yeah,” Tim answered. “Right now we’re gonna take care of our horses, then grab somethin’ to eat. After that I need to stop by the county land office. Need to look at some records. Once I see those, I’ll get a couple of telegrams off to Austin. Soon as I receive answers to those, I’ll be ready to pull in those two.”

  “You want to tell me any more?”

  “Not until I see those records and get my replies from Austin,” Tim answered. “Soon as I do, I can let you know what to expect.”

  “Fair enough,” Boyd answered. “I haven’t eaten yet either. You mind if I come along?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Good. Then let’s eat.”

  ***

  Sheriff Little had a meeting with the town council that evening, and Annette Lewis, the deputy’s wife, was going to be at a church quilting bee, so Rick joined Tim and Tate when they headed for the El Dorado Saloon to relax with a couple of beers before turning in for the night. They had been there for nearly two hours and were nursing
one final beer, while Tim was debating whether to call it an evening or get in on one of the several poker games being played. Instead, they turned their attention to the door when the batwings swung open and a crowd of rowdy cowboys pushed their way into the room. Tim recognized Earl Tuttle’s twin boys, David and Duane, and Mel Harrington, the wrangler who had been standing guard at the Diamond T during their visit. The others were obviously cowboys, most likely all of them Diamond T punchers come into town for a night of fun. It was plain they had already visited several other saloons and were feeling the effects of the liquor they’d downed. They stopped short when they spotted the three lawmen, who stood facing them, their backs against the bar.

  “Son of a …!” the man who had led the group into the saloon cursed. His face twisted with anger. “Of all the rotten luck. Those must be the Rangers who are tryin’ to let your daddy’s land be stolen,” he said to the twins. “Here we come to town to have us a good time, and we have to run into them.”

  “Nothin’s stoppin’ you, Hank,” Rick said. “You just go on about your plans, and don’t let us bother you.” To the Rangers he added, “That’s Tuttle’s foreman, Hank Pardee, along with a bunch of the Diamond T’s hands… and Tuttle’s boys, of course.” More softly he added, “Hank’s got a real nasty temper, and it only gets worse when he’s been drinkin’.”

  “You’re stoppin’ us, deputy,” Pardee said. He spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the sawdust-covered floor. “Just the sight of those two plug-ugly Rangers there makes me want to puke! And their stink is enough to make a pig farmer cry.”

  “You’d best watch what you’re sayin’, Hank,” Rick warned. “You could be bitin’ off a bit more’n you could chew.”

  “We’re not worried about a couple of yella-bellied Rangers, are we, Dave?” Duane asked his brother.

  “We sure ain’t,” Duane answered. “Heck, we’ve got ‘em so scared they’re shakin’ in their boots. They’re so afraid they haven’t even opened their mouths. They’re lettin’ the lousy deputy do all their talkin’ for ‘em.”

  “Oh, I’ve got plenty I can say to you and your friends, boys,” Tim said. “Just that it ain’t worth the bother. Now why don’t all of you do what Rick said. Have your drinks, play some cards, get yourselves some women if you want. But don’t even think of startin’ somethin’ you won’t be able to finish.”

  Behind the lawmen Ed Sweeney, the owner of the El Dorado, slid a sawed-off shotgun from under the counter and placed it on the bar.

  “There’ll be no gunplay in here, fellers,” he warned.

  “We ain’t gonna need any guns, Ed,” Pardee said. “We’ll tear these lawdogs apart with our bare hands.”

  “I wouldn’t advise that,” Tim said.

  Pardee and his companions laughed.

  “The Ranger sure talks big, don’t he, boys?” Pardee said. To Tim he continued, “Mister, there’s ten of us and only three of you.”

  “Those odds seem about right to me,” Tim said. “Only problem I see is there’s one extra man. How about you two?”

  Tate and Rick nodded their assent.

  “Odds might be a little short, Tim,” Tate said. “Should be a few more of ‘em to even things up a bit, and give ‘em a fightin’ chance. Far as the extra man, you’re in charge here, so I figure it’s only fair he’s yours. Rick?”

  “Yeah, I reckon,” Rick agreed. “Tim, the odd man out’s yours.”

  “All right,” Tim said. “Pardee, this is your last chance. Either take your boys and get out, or else you’re all under arrest… you bunch of mangy lop-eared slinkin’ coyotes.”

  With a collective shout, the Diamond T cowboys charged the lawmen. Pardee headed straight for Tim, who braced himself against the bar and kicked Pardee in the stomach, stopping his onrush and driving him backward. He crashed into two men behind him, and all three toppled over. Another cowboy slammed a hard right to Tim’s jaw. Tim shook off the blow and sank his fist into the man’s gut. When he doubled over, Tim brought his knee up into his chin, snapping his neck back. The cowboy dropped, out of the fight. Pardee and the two men he’d knocked over had regained their feet. More wary now, they advanced on Tim, looking for an opening.

  Alongside Tim, Duane and Dave had pounced on Tate. Duane dove at the young Ranger, slamming his back against the edge of the bar. When Tate arched in agony, Dave punched him hard in the belly. He landed three blows before Tate, struggling to pull air into his lungs, bent over, wrapped his arms around Dave’s waist, and drove him to the floor. They rolled away from the bar until they hauled up against a post, Tate on top. He slammed a left into Dave’s face, then Duane grabbed Tate’s shirt, pulled him to his feet, and punched him in the jaw. Another of the Diamond T cowboys smashed a fist into Tate’s ribs. Duane got back up. He, his brother, and the third man began pummeling away at the young Ranger, attempting to overwhelm him by sheer numbers.

  Mel Harrington and the two remaining cowboys went after Rick Lewis. Harrington punched the deputy twice in the chin, then Rick ducked under his third blow and hit Harrington in the stomach. The wrangler backed away, retching. Rick parried a blow from one of the other cowboys and flattened his nose with a powerful right. The third hit Rick in the face, and when he staggered backwards slammed blows to his chest and belly. Rick twisted aside just in time to avoid a finishing punch to the point of his chin. Instead, the blow slid along his jaw. Rick kneed the cowboy in the groin. He dropped to his knees, howling. His two companions grabbed Rick and dragged him down. They landed in a tangled heap.

  “Hey Tim,” Tate shouted. “I can’t tell which one is which I’m fightin’ here.” Tate had knocked one man unconscious, but now twins Duane and Dave were taking turns at the young Ranger, rushing in then backing out, landing jabs which were beginning to wear Tate down.

  “Can’t help you,” Tim yelled back. “I’m kinda busy here.” Pardee and two of the three men who had come at Tim were still in the fight. Tim grunted when Pardee landed a hard blow low in his belly, sinking his fist wrist-deep into Tim’s gut. Tim jackknifed, turned, and dropped to his back. He brought both feet up into the pit of one cowboy’s stomach and slammed him into a table, which collapsed under the man’s weight. The cowboy landed on his back, rolled onto his belly, attempted to push himself up, then crumpled to his face.

  “Gotta finish this now,” Tim muttered. He rolled away from a kick Pardee intended for his ribs, grabbed Pardee’s ankle, and twisted it. Pardee fell onto his back. Tim dove on top of him, smashed two punches to his face and another to his throat. Pardee’s eyes glazed and his body went slack as he lost consciousness.

  Tim’s last attacker pulled him upright. He hit Tim in the mouth. Tim shook his head, spit out a mouthful of blood, and landed four quick lefts and rights to the man’s stomach, followed by a tremendous uppercut to his chin. The cowboy dropped like a poleaxed steer. Tim sagged against the bar, gasping.

  Rick Lewis stood over the three Diamond T men, including Mel Harrington, who were lying at his feet, all out cold. Rick wiped blood from his chin, looked at Tim, and grinned crookedly. His swollen jaw wouldn’t allow him to smile otherwise.

  Dave Tuttle was lying on his back where he had fallen to Tate’s punishing fists. A final grunt came from Duane Tuttle when Tate put all the strength he could muster behind a punch that seemed to start from the floor and drove so hard into Duane’s belly it lifted him a foot in the air as he folded over Tate’s fist. He dropped like a rag doll, landed atop his brother, shuddered and lay still. Tate staggered back to join Tim and Rick, who were leaning against the bar, dragging air into their heaving chests. All three were battered, cut, and bruised, their clothes in tatters. The bystanders looked in disbelief at all ten Diamond T men lying sprawled in the sawdust, unmoving.

  The batwings burst open and a man wearing a marshal’s badge came in, carrying a rifle.

  “What the devil happened here?” he asked.

  “Hank Pardee and his boys made the mistake of tryin’ to take on the Rangers an
d Rick there,” Ed Sweeney said. He nodded at the lawmen.

  The marshal looked around the room, then his gaze settled on Rick.

  “That right, Rick?” he asked.

  “Sure is,” Rick said. “Tim…”

  “That’s right, Marshal,” Tim answered. “They’d had a few too many drinks, and came in spoilin’ for a fight.”

  “I’d say they got one, and then some,” the marshal said. “I’m Frank Casey. Reckon you’d be Tim Bannon. Sheriff Little told me about you. You want to press charges?”

  “I am, and my pard’s Tate Slocum. Far as pressin’ charges, no. We’ll get outta here before those boys wake up. When they do, just send ‘em on their way. I reckon they’ve had a bellyful of fightin’ for awhile.”

  “All right, Ranger.”

  “Tate, Rick, let’s go clean up.”

  Rick headed for home, while Tim and Tate went back to their room, washed up, and treated their hurts as best they could. They fell into bed, where despite their aches would soon fall asleep, and not awaken until well after the sun came up.

  5

  Two days later, Tim’s investigation was complete. He’d examined the land records in question, made some other inquiries, and received his replies from Austin. Now, it was just a matter of summoning Earl Tuttle and Diego Santos to a final confrontation. Either they would accept Tim’s findings, or a full scale range war was likely to explode, engulfing a good chunk of the Big Bend on both sides of the Rio Grande. Tim had requested both men meet him at ten a.m. in Boyd Little’s office. At this point it was merely a matter of waiting to see whether they showed, and if they did, that they would agree to Tim’s proposal.

  “You reckon both of ‘em’ll show up, Boyd?” Tim asked the sheriff, with a glance at the Regulator clock on the wall opposite Little’s desk. It read ten minutes to ten. “It’s gettin’ kinda late.”