Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  The young Ranger decided he could use a few faeries right now, if they carried rifles and could shoot. Or knew how to stop the rain. He had heard those stories and others like them a hundred times from his bear-sized uncle. But right now Kileen was part of a Ranger force trying to break up a band of Mexican rustlers fifty miles away. No closer than his uncle’s so-called wee people.

  Captain McNelly assigned Carlow to bring in the escaped outlaw. Alone. It was definitely a compliment to the young Ranger. His first solo assignment. McNelly had initially considered sending three lawmen but decided he couldn’t spare that many. Kileen had tried to talk McNelly into letting him go with his nephew, but the hard-nosed leader wouldn’t listen.

  In the past, Carlow had always ridden with others, including his uncle and his best friend, Shannon Dornan, who died in an ambush by Mallow’s gang. Sometimes, Kayitah had joined them as a tracker, but he, too, had left this world. Regardless, it was an affirmation of Carlow’s abilities that McNelly sent him by himself. He wouldn’t let the Ranger captain down. Or his uncle. Or his best friend’s memory.

  Apparently a saloon singer, infatuated with the outlaw leader, had orchestrated Silver Mallow’s breakout from the Bennett, Texas jail. There was no proof, only a lot of coincidence. None of Mallow’s arrested gang escaped with him, and Bennett Marshal Moore proudly took credit for their retention, although he had nothing to do with it. Mallow simply decided to leave them behind because it would make his personal escape easier.

  The outlaw had showed remarkable recuperative powers, acting so quickly after the beating received from Kileen and the gunshot from Widow Beckham that had saved both Rangers’ lives. Her surprise use of Carlow’s hand-carbine had delivered a cut along the top of Mallow’s shoulder, forcing him to drop his hidden pistol. His arrest for murder and cattle rustling followed.

  Afterward, the local newspaper had referred to the Ranger-led town posse’s victory at Silver Mallow’s hideout as “The Bennett War”—but only five gang members remained when the posse arrived. Out of town during Mallow’s subsequent breakout, Carlow discovered the outlaw had managed to get away undetected by disguising himself as an old woman, most likely with clothes from the same saloon singer. Trying to help, Widow Beckham recalled seeing an older lady in eyeglasses and long gray hair ride out of town in a buggy. She hadn’t recognized the woman but didn’t think anything of it until she learned of Mallow’s escape.

  Thinking about his uncle made him remember the acorn in his vest pocket. Kileen had given it to him with the observation that carrying an acorn would give him good luck and a long life. Impulsively, he reached into his wet vest pocket to touch the acorn where it was jammed alongside extra cartridges, two pieces of hard candy, and an old silver watch.

  Also in his pockets were two tiny flat stones, darkly stained with long-ago blood, a memory possession. One stone had belonged to Dornan. A large chip was gone where it had deflected a bullet. The other flat pebble was his. They were from a childhood ceremony based on their version of an Indian blood brother ceremony mixed with an ancient Gaelic rite. His Ranger badge was there, too; he never wore it on the trail. Reflection could easily indicate his location.

  Smoke from Mallow’s rifle, followed by the retort, brought him back to the trouble at hand. The white cloud was an instant, quickly smothered by the rain. Almost like it didn’t happen. Mallow was dug in behind a wall of fallen timber several hundred yards away on that yellow hillside. It was a solid position twenty feet above him with a good field of fire. A lot better than mine, thought Carlow. At least his adversary wouldn’t be able to move in easily. The hard crack of a rifle bullet tore through the branches near his elbow, reminding him that closing in wasn’t necessary to ending his life.

  Maybe the outlaw would make a mistake. Carlow felt weak and defenseless. He couldn’t even fire without exposing himself foolishly. His head wound was making it difficult to concentrate, and even the simplest task took immense willpower. He squeezed his eyes to keep the swell of unconsciousness from advancing. To pass out now was to die. As he considered the situation, two slugs bit into the ledge above him and broke up his moment of wishful thinking. The trailing sounds followed by a count. This time Carlow didn’t see the gunsmoke at all. The rain that had helped save him was working against him now.

  But he could tell Mallow had moved. Twenty yards to the right. Carlow’s answering fire was probably not close; Mallow would have rolled away as soon as he shot.

  Another bullet clipped a rock beside his arm. Screaming its metallic song, the slug disappeared in the opposite direction. Carlow crawled frantically away from the tree and alongside a rain-swollen knoll for cover. Every advance pounded at his brain, and he bit his lower lip to keep from yelling out. He could only wait for the white smoke from Mallow’s continued firing to know where he was. If the rain took that knowledge away, he could only hope Mallow didn’t become lucky. An eerie silence wrapped around the area as no more shots came.

  “I rode into an ambush,” Carlow snarled angrily, “just like some damn greenhorn.” Captain McNelly—and Thunder—would be ashamed, he thought.

  Only his movement toward the rolled-up trail coat had saved his life. The thought sent a shiver through his body. He was the one who was lucky. Very lucky. Maybe Kileen was right. Maybe he did have invisible helpers protecting him. Somehow he had never wanted to challenge the idea by thinking about it too much. There were many things a person didn’t understand in this world, especially things of the spirit. Certainly he had seen things that couldn’t be explained by anything that made any sense. At least not to him. Maybe it was smart to be a little superstitious. Kileen said this feeling came from seeing miracles that occurred in everyday life and not recognizing them as miracles. Maybe so.

  He was soaking wet and dizzy. His head swam with an ache that wanted to send him to sleep. Staying put wasn’t a good idea. Eventually Mallow would close in and finish him. Or try to. Darkness was only hours away, and it would help the outlaw, not him. Carlow wished Kileen were here, right now. What would he do? The answer was obvious: the savvy old street-fighter would figure out some way to take the fight to his enemy.

  Kileen’s booming, joyful voice came again to his mind with the same advice he’d given so often: “Me lad, be fakin’ the jab, fakin’ the jab—and movin’, always movin’, then when he’s come to expect yer journey—boom, ye let ’im have it with yer bloomin’ right. From the tips o’ yer toes, it does come. Oh, ’tis not a sight for the women or the troubled, aye, ’tis not.” Kileen was right. It was time to change the fight.

  Four more shots clipped along the top of the knoll, each about two feet from the other, as if someone were lining up rows to plant. The shots weren’t close to Carlow. Maybe Mallow didn’t know where the young Ranger was and just sprayed the area for “possibles.” Or was it a way to lull Carlow into exposing himself? If he wanted to put Mallow on the defensive, Carlow’s only real option was to get the Sharps from its saddle sheath.

  Shadow stood, grazing, only fifty feet away. It seemed like fifty miles. Was it possible to get there unseen? The northern edge of the thicket might protect him for the first twenty feet, if Mallow didn’t happen to move into a position where he could see where Carlow was going. That was certainly possible. But if Mallow did, he would then be in a position to shoot Carlow regardless. The last thirty feet would be open, flat land. Maybe Mallow wouldn’t be expecting him to go there. Maybe. The rain would help him. This time.

  The best way to get the rifle would be for Shadow to come to the young Ranger. Normally the black horse would do so eagerly when he called, but this wasn’t normal. Carlow figured his violent dismount, coupled with the gunshots and the storm, had scared the animal. Horses were skittish by nature; as a species, they had survived centuries by running. Whether imagined adversaries or real, it didn’t make any difference; they ran. Shadow was also inclined to be stubborn when he was very tired. Still, it was worth trying—and better than exposing himself to Mallow�
�s likely gunfire.

  Anything was better than staying where he was and letting Mallow make all the decisions for him. Carlow drew his Colt and used three rocks to prop the gun against the top of the knoll with a bit of the barrel showing. Just enough that it might look as if he remained there, at least from a distance. The trick probably wouldn’t fool Mallow long, but it might keep him thinking for an extra minute or two. That might be enough. He slid new cartridges into the hand-carbine and began his ascent along the edge of the knoll toward Shadow.

  Only the song of rain trailed him as he crawled, staying close to the vertical slope of the land swelling and then along the back side of the bunched-together thicket. Sweat mixed with rain splatters streaked the young Ranger’s tanned face. His brain wobbled and ached. A stray blood finger from his forehead salted his eye. If Mallow guessed his actions, he would be an easy target just on the other side of this last bedraggled bush, where the land opened up. The closer he got, the more apparent it was he couldn’t get to Shadow. Even if he surprised Mallow, the outlaw had plenty of time to adjust and kill him as he ran. His hopes for getting the big gun lay with Shadow’s inclination to obey his command. But would Mallow guess the significance of the movement and kill his horse before Shadow could return to cover?

  Carlow’s faded shirt sleeves were becoming stiff with clay smudges from the soggy ground as he crawled. So were his pants and Kiowa leggings. The bottom fringe on the lower leg wraps was tangled up with moist clay. Even the two eagle pinfeathers that dangled from the top of each legging were streaked with mud. His knife carried an elongated clump of mud that covered all of the bone handle exposed above the leather’s end. His right fist held the readied hand-carbine, using the stock as support in his advance and to keep his hand away from the mud so his shooting wouldn’t be hindered by its stickiness. His left hand was a fist against the ground; it was just a little better than using his open hand.

  Nightfall was slowly taking command of the land, flowing unabated from the west. The rain had lost some of its anger after the initial rush, settling into a steady shower. Shadows were swallowing the earth as fast as the storm had charged across the land. Their growing blackness offered patches of momentary protection, along with the blurring of the rain itself. Protection he would need as soon as he left the thicket. Everything around was heavily silent, except for the rain’s chatter. A crease between the last two bushes offered a good place to observe the distant wooded area without revealing himself.

  Through the hazy rain, Carlow studied Mallow’s last position for signs. Where was he? Lots of men had died simply by being too eager to assume their enemy hadn’t expected a certain move. That thought was pure Kileen. Patience was one of the traits of a great Celtic warrior, his uncle said. Carlow had learned the lesson well. He thought of this as he stared at a dark shadow seeping toward his horse. Should he try to make a run for it?

  No, it was time to believe in his horse. Clearing his throat of the anxiousness that had settled there, he whispered, “Shadow, come here, boy. Come here.”

  Shadow’s head came up and looked in Carlow’s direction. Talking quietly to the tired horse so the animal wouldn’t shy away, he called once more to Shadow. First, the horse’s ears became alert, and that was followed by his black head shaking up and down. Carlow held his breath. He wanted to yell his command but knew he could not. Every sound would carry in the wet twilight; even his whisper might be heard farther than he wished. His fear returned that Mallow might shoot his great horse.

  “Come on, Shadow, come on, boy,” he whispered, and glanced away at the ridge where Mallow had been. Should he fire several rounds in that direction to keep the outlaw pinned down? He dared not. Shadow had bolted once; more gunfire surely would send him away for good.

  With reins dragging on the muddy ground, the animal hesitated, and for an instant, Carlow thought the horse was going to run farther away. But a soft whinny preceded his turn and Shadow trotted toward him. Forgetting the danger, he jumped up and grabbed the loose reins with his left hand, holding the hand-carbine with his right. He glanced furtively at the hillside, leading the horse behind the bushes and back far enough to keep him away from Mallow’s possible line of fire.

  In the relative safety behind the knoll, Carlow took a deep breath, patted Shadow’s neck, thanking him, and holstered the sawed-off Winchester. With a determined scowl, he moved swiftly to the saddle sheath. Too swiftly. He became dizzy and fell to the ground. The rain followed, creating a small puddle around his face.

  Chapter Three

  Moments later, Carlow refound his equilibrium and returned his attention to the big gun. He loaded the single-shot rifle from a pouch of ammunition tied to the trigger guard. He tried to keep the rain from reaching the cartridges by holding his hat over the loading. Cocking the big hammer was an important statement in the thickening gray. Everything around him was soaked with heavy air and tension. Pushing his hat back on his head, Carlow wrapped Shadow’s reins around a big rock and returned to the bushes. The hat’s return made his head ache even more.

  Mallow hadn’t fired for almost a half hour. Was he moving closer?

  There! Movement. The rain hid specifics but couldn’t cover up the sensation.

  Through the wetness, Carlow picked up motion more than definitive shape. Mallow was on horseback and escaping over the hillside. Carlow could only guess the outlaw had lost his nerve once his ambush attempt had failed. Maybe Mallow didn’t realize how close he had come. Surely he hadn’t seen him get his horse and the big gun. No, that would have brought immediate gunfire. Maybe he thought Carlow was dead.

  Carlow’s anger swelled within him, and he flicked up the sight on the Sharps and aimed at the distant movement passing like blurred vision against the lighter ground. He would shoot for the man’s middle, but not his horse. He didn’t have any intention of tracking an unhorsed man in this darkness, especially this man. He wiped away the water reaching his eyes and the action made him stagger. He swallowed and steadied himself.

  Slowly his finger tightened on the steel trigger. The boom of the Sharps was hard against the silence. And harder against his shoulder. Carlow always liked the angry action of this weapon. The hostile kick was smothered by practiced placement against his shoulder. Even so, he felt the impact and the biting jump in his hands. He missed, and the dark shape continued its path.

  Mallow was nearly to the top of the ridge.

  Carlow ejected the large shell and entered another. He fired once more at a place where the movement danced lightly against a row of oak trees. The distance was beyond logic but he had to try. Nothing. Carlow knew he had missed again. The blur of horse and rider became only black rain as Mallow disappeared over the ridge.

  Carlow fired again, more out of frustration than for any tactical advantage. It just felt good to shoot. Nothing in the dark land moved now. All was still, except for the rain telling him “you missed, you missed, you missed.” He began to retrieve the empty cartridges for reloading later. At least he had given Mallow a scare. The outlaw would know he had failed to kill him.

  Behind Carlow came a noise. He whirled to meet it.

  The suddenness brought dizziness to his head, and he thought he was going to retch. He grimaced to stay alert, pointing his Sharps in the direction of the sound. Had Mallow fooled him into thinking he was leaving? Should he drop the empty rifle and grab his hand-carbine?

  Chance appeared from around a low rock formation, his long tail wagging happily. The wolf-dog was thoroughly soaked

  “Well, howdy, boy, I thought you might’ve run off,” Carlow managed to mutter.

  Weakness flooded his mind and body and he slumped to the ground. The wild wolf-dog came to him and licked his face. Carlow patted the animal. “We’d better find a place to hide for the night, my friend. We’ll backtrack. Mallow might try again.” He rubbed his hand over the happy beast’s nose and across his dark head, bringing water with the movement. Chance licked Carlow’s other hand, the one holding the S
harps. “Yeah, I’d better start thinking that way, shouldn’t I? Almost rode us into one. Good boy. Let’s go get Shadow. He’s ready to get out of here, too.”

  A shiver ran down Carlow’s back. He remembered his uncle saying that meant someone had stepped on his grave. He looked around and tapped his rifle three times on a large, square rock, then muttered thanks to the “gods of the land” and acknowledged to himself that this wasn’t the moment to be skeptical about things unseen. Was there anything else he should say or do? For the first time, he noticed the moon in the soaked sky was heading toward its full circle. If his uncle were here, Kileen would declare, “Much to be wary about with the moon, me lad, ye be knowin’ that. Don’t be pointin’ at it. The man there gets angry—at bein’ pointed at.”

  Carlow’s usual response would be that he didn’t like being pointed at either. His grin would follow.

  But that wouldn’t be the end of it. Kileen would rub his unshaven chin and announce, “ ’Tis a good time to be killin’ the pig. When the moon is becomin’ her full se’f, makes the fryin’ bigger.” He would then take a long breath as if preparing himself for a most serious statement. “ ’Course, the moon in her full can make a man crazy, ye know. Best not to tempt her.”

  With the recollection in his eyes, Carlow looked up at the moon again, half a grin on his tanned face. His uncle was the most superstitious man he knew. Many Irish had tendencies to believe in, or at least talk about, things beyond their control, but Kileen was certain of every one of them. Sometimes, Carlow wondered how he made it through the day with all the interlocking and contradictory superstitions he followed.