Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  After returning the Sharps to its sheath, he untied the other saddle strings from his long coat and eased into it. There was something comforting in the action, even though the garment was thoroughly wet. Readied for riding again, he pulled loose the reins, slipped a boot into the stirrup, and tried to pull himself into the saddle. His body rose, and dizziness again swirled through his head, robbing him of balance and momentum. He fell backward as if pushed and thudded against the rain-soaked ground.

  Dark and blurred images danced within his mind. Silver Mallow was chasing his mother, and Carlow was a small boy trying to stop him with a stick for a gun. Tiny people sprung from out of the mist. They urged the young Carlow onward. When he looked down, his toy was a real weapon.

  Something touched his cheek. It was warm and wet.

  He blinked and was awake. Chance stood over him; the wolf-dog’s tongue across his face had brought him from a netherworld of sickening sleep. He didn’t know how long he had been there, but the swimming in his head had lessened. Rising slowly, he patted the wolf-dog and thanked him. For the first time he was aware that he still held the reins. And the rain had stopped. Completely.

  “Sorry, Chance, Shadow. Guess I wasn’t quite ready for all that.” He stroked the neck of his waiting horse. “Yeah, I was lucky. Old Thunder would be telling both of you that, wouldn’t he?”

  Shadow whinnied and shook his head. Carlow tried to chuckle at the response and couldn’t help but wonder if the horse actually understood. A trickle of blood slid down his eyelid. He wiped the salty moistness away with his coat sleeve, unsure whether it was blood or just water dripping from his hat. He didn’t look; he didn’t want to know.

  A more cautious mount was successful, and he rode back to retrieve his propped revolver and then headed toward a location he’d noted in passing, a half hour before the ambush. It was an unforgiving, elevated rock shelf. The possible camp was nearly hidden from the main trail below by a circle of stunted pines wrapping the base of the rock ledge. He had noticed the shelf because it was a possible place for Mallow to hide. Not finding the outlaw there had reinforced the faulty notion that Mallow was not going to turn and wait.

  As he approached the shelf once more, he realized that it would be preferable to find an area where he could have seen anyone approaching from a greater distance. But it was far safer than camping anywhere near the trail, and he was too weak to look further. Struggling to stay conscious, he managed to picket Shadow in an opening at the back of the rock shelf, a giant vertical crack along the fault of the ridge. No one on the trail below would be able to see the horse. Grass was sufficient to keep him content and quiet through the night. A large natural bowl in the rock held ample rainwater as well.

  But Carlow still felt the need to give Shadow water from his remaining canteen and poured liquid into his hat from which to refresh his horse. It had more to do with assuaging his guilt for pushing the animal so hard than anything else. The hat shook in his hand as he held it for the animal to drink. Vaguely, he recalled having a second canteen but couldn’t remember what had happened to it.

  Chance barked and Carlow filled the hat again to let the wolf-dog share in the water’s goodness as well.

  Apparently this thin shelf hadn’t been used recently. Not even by the unshod ponies whose tracks he had seen earlier the day before. A faint path wandering away from the flattened rock most likely had been created by animals. For the first time in three days, Shadow’s saddle came off. It felt like a boulder in Carlow’s weakened arms, and he dropped it at his feet and let the gear remain there, as if that had been his intent.

  Forcing himself to stay alert, he rubbed the great animal’s back with the damp saddle blanket, pleased to see there were no raw spots. Next he checked Shadow’s legs. Definitely a tenderness in the long tendons in both forelegs. He grimaced at the discovery and knew he had pushed the horse too hard. Hooves were examined for rocks and bruises. He found neither. Carlow’s face was dotted with sweat, yet he was cold. Very cold. Each task wallowed in slow motion in his aching mind.

  Satisfied, Carlow stepped away to an open space and crumpled. He was asleep in seconds, staying awake only long enough to pull the hand-carbine from his holster. Sleep came too quickly for a man who lived with danger, but the bullet crease along his head robbed him of any options. His shoulder, too, was reminding him of the second bullet’s cut.

  Minutes later, his wolf-dog nestled against the young Ranger’s back, having assured himself that the area was safe.

  Cruel, festering dreams descended upon Carlow, resembling his minutes of unconsciousness back at the ambush. They rushed him mentally to a world of strange conflicts and stranger presentations of people known and unknown.

  Sometime during the night, a lone rider retraced Carlow’s trail. He stopped his horse where the ascent to Carlow’s encampment began. Listening for long minutes without moving, he started to dismount. An unseen growl from the shelf above made him hesitate. Silver Mallow rubbed his aching shoulder and touched his swollen face, recoiling at the pain. He thought the young Ranger had to be dying but wasn’t certain enough to move closer. After all, Mallow had expected to find Carlow’s body when he circled around to come up behind him. The anticipated enjoyment of putting more bullets into Carlow became a bitter disappointment as he discovered Carlow had been strong enough to ride away.

  Facing that wolf-animal with Carlow in the dark wasn’t a good idea, either. Cursing softly, Mallow assured himself that his adversary could no longer be a danger and disappeared into the night, returning along the same trail. He wanted to laugh but the ache in his face wouldn’t let him. He cursed again; this time it was directed at the big Ranger. Then he wondered why Kileen wasn’t with Carlow, and that did prompt a tightmouthed snicker. It was all he could do without pain.

  A breeze nudged Carlow awake, but only briefly. Did he sense something on the trail below? Chance had moved away from him. Only his low growling defined his presence. The beast stood at the edge of the shelf, staring down into the night. The soothing, rhythmic sounds of his horse grazing nearby encouraged Carlow’s tired mind to continue its rest.

  In the pinkish sky, a weakening, but nearly full, moon was defending its position but could not last much longer. Dying leaves sang their morning songs. Tiny things whispered. An owl was making a dawn search for small animals making their last mistake. A prairie sparrow welcomed the young lawman from its perch on a low tree branch.

  Only part of him knew he lay on a wide rock ridge away from the trail; the rest was down in the dream life. It was not the thick sweetness of deep sleep, rather just the relaxation of guardian nerves. He was awake yet not alert; he was alert yet not awake. His head and shoulder ached, and he wondered why. Disoriented, he had no idea of where he was or what day it was. He was weak, dizzy—and ravenous.

  Warmer winds pushed the dampness away, at least for now, but his body was chilled, even with his long trail coat on. He didn’t remember going to sleep wearing it—or his boots. Rubbing his hand across his mouth, Carlow sat up and was surprised to see he held his sawed-off Winchester. Had it sneaked into his hand during the night? A sickening dizziness revisited, and he reholstered the gun and lay back down to let the disabling spell have a chance to leave.

  Slowly he tried again to sit up. He studied the horizon for signs of a rider he didn’t expect to see and didn’t. Was there a man at the base of the ridge last night? His mind refused to remember and didn’t connect the thought with Silver Mallow. After a few minutes of clouded contemplation, of trying to get his mind focused, Carlow finally stood. Darkness swooped across his eyes. He swallowed repeatedly to hold back the urge to vomit. His body began to shake uncontrol lably, and he struggled to retain his balance. He turned to run away from the awful trembling and fell.

  When he awoke once more, the day was well along; the sun had taken a commanding position in a sky inclined to deliver more rain. For the first time, he discovered his pants and leggings were more mud-covered than not.
Staring at the mostly dried marks, he recalled the ambush for the first time and looked around frantically, swinging his gun in each direction. Then he remembered where he was and why.

  Tentatively he tried to stand again, thought better of it, and crawled toward his saddle and gear. He pulled his remaining canteen from beneath the rig. Where was his other canteen? Why wasn’t it with his gear? After taking a long, slow drink, he removed his kerchief, wet the cloth, and tied it around the thundering wound on his forehead. Chance wandered over to him, more concerned about breakfast than his master. Shaking slightly, Carlow took off his hat, rumpled from sleeping with it on, and poured water into the crown for the wolf-dog. Chance lapped it eagerly. He looked around to see Shadow had water in the rock bowl and that grass remained.

  From a squatting position, he emptied his filled saddlebags to determine what food might be there. He pushed aside a backup Smith & Wesson revolver, a bent tin cup, a box of cartridges, three pieces of rock candy, and a rolled-up strip of leather. He wasn’t interested in the tin plate or the small pot for making coffee or cooking, either, at the moment. In the pile were other things: a well-used cleaning kit for his weapons, a leather bag jammed with tinder and matches to help assure the starting of a fire. The set of army binoculars he’d bought from a green army lieutenant in Waco. One tightly rolled collarless shirt. A leather sheath with paper and a pencil. A rapidly depleting grain sack for his horse was there, too.

  Foodwise, his supplies yielded a can of peaches, another of peas, half a potato and an onion, a fat sack of coffee and a thin one of dried beans, and a rolled-up cloth containing strips of jerky. His Apache friend, Kayitah, had taught him to pack away any edible or medicinal wild plants he came across as he traveled, but he hadn’t done so in his hurried need to catch up to Mallow. Only a fistful of crumbled cattails remained.

  He turned his head to retrieve the jerky and around him everything was suddenly blurry. Someone put a hand on Carlow’s shoulder. It was his uncle, and the big Ranger wanted to show his nephew something across a mist-laden Irish moor. Carlow saw a long walkway lined with stone walls wandering toward the sea and fading eerily into the mist rising from its green waves. Clumps of fog broke off and drifted toward him along the passage. Or were they ghosts of Celtic warriors? Kileen pointed out a leprechaun outside his stone-and-thatch cottage. Before Carlow could ask a question, his uncle left to talk with the young Ranger’s mother at the far end of a dissolving mist. A yell to them to help him didn’t get their attention. Instead they strolled further into the mist.

  He jerked awake.

  Carlow gradually realized he had passed out on top of his food and gear. Slowly and carefully he stood, allowing his head to adjust to the movement. This time the dizziness was less intense. He tried walking toward his grazing horse and the steps became easier. His hat again was a container for canteen water his horse gratefully accepted, even with the rock water so close. Chance didn’t wait for another turn, lapping up some of the rainwater instead. Once again, Carlow realized he had lost one of his canteens. However, this time, his mind told him it probably flew off when he was ambushed. Maybe it would still be there.

  Shadow needed rest more than food, Carlow knew. A renewed wave of guilt passed through him as his eyes took in the horse’s flank and saw the red searing of a bullet. “Damn!” he muttered out loud. “How did I miss that?”

  Shadow’s head rose to determine the concern.

  No wonder Shadow had run, he thought, and patted the horse’s neck to reassure him. After the horse finished drinking, Carlow pulled the kerchief from his head to wet it again with canteen water. Only a few drops remained so he staggered to the pool of rainwater and soaked the cloth. Returning to the quiet horse, he carefully cleaned the mount’s bullet burn. There was no sign of infection. Shadow flinched when he first touched the wound but quickly understood what his master was doing and returned to grazing.

  “I’m sorry, Shadow, I pushed you too far. Too far. You need rest—but I can’t give it to you just yet. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  Chapter Four

  After returning the wet kerchief to his head without worrying about its being clean, he decided to build a small fire. Dry tinder from his pouch immediately became a tiny, rich blaze. Thanking Kileen for the savvy, he laid a pattern of gathered small twigs and branches upon the small flames. Smoke would disclose his location. But hunger and the cold within his body had taken away any such worry. Gradually the small fire took hold and warmed his body; so did coffee from his small cooking pot.

  Hot food sounded mighty good. He hadn’t eaten since he’d gnawed a little jerky at midday the day before. After pouring the remaining coffee into his cup, he drew the Comanche war knife carried in his legging and sliced the remaining potato half into small chunks. He decided to add the onion and peas to the mix. With a little water, he began frying the assembly in the same pot used for the coffee. He laid slices of jerky on top to warm them. It felt good to busy himself with the cooking, even if he wasn’t particularly good at it. A jab of the knife into the wet ground served to clean it, and he wiped it off on his leggings and returned the blade to its sheath tied inside.

  Memories of his late friend and fellow Ranger, Shannon Dornan, seeped into his mind unexpectedly. Dornan was the one who always handled the cooking chores, preparing food as meticulously as he did most things. Of course, his late friend was greatly influenced by the immigrant Irish family that raised him in matters of perfection. Everything counted; everything was counted. His real family died in a Kiowa raid when he was four. His meticulous approach led to a fascination with superstitions and myths and, therefore, to keen interest in everything Kileen had to say. Carlow shook his head, recalling the concerns and rituals Dornan—and Kileen—had about certain foods. His best friend had been killed during a Mallow gang ambush and that fact alone was enough to drive Carlow after the escaped leader. Silver Mallow would pay; he would not be allowed to escape.

  Bread, butter, salt, eggs, milk, onions, cabbage, and even Christmas pudding came to his mind as he pushed the collection of frying food around in the pot. He remembered Kileen and Dornan admonishing him not to break a Christmas pudding into parts when it was taken from the oven. Such a breakage was an evil omen and meant death to one of the heads of the household. Vaguely he recalled teasing them that the way around the bad luck was to announce—before taking out the pudding—that the dessert was already separated for eating. Neither seemed convinced.

  There were many more superstitions about food, but he couldn’t recall them at the moment. Or didn’t want to make his mind work that hard. Occasionally he had questioned both men about how they were able to get through the day with so many restrictions. Right now he would have listened to anything just to hear Dornan’s voice again. But that wasn’t to be—and the man responsible rode ahead, hoping to kill him, too.

  Of course, Dornan would never have put food in the cooking pot without cleaning it first. Carlow figured since he liked the taste of coffee, it shouldn’t affect the meal negatively. Besides, it was quicker. He was also certain Dornan never would have cooked this mixture for breakfast—nor any other meal, for that matter. But he was hungry, and it seemed like a reasonable approach.

  Dornan and Carlow had grown up together. The hatred toward the Irish didn’t register on them until they were in their early teens. Then it hit hard—but they hit harder. Few who knew them as wild youngsters would have guessed they would both eventually become lawmen. But everyone knew they could fight. And liked fighting.

  Carlow missed his friend greatly, and that loss gnawed at him when he least expected it. The image of a dead Shannon Dornan lying in a pool of his own blood followed the warm memories, and he jerked backward, almost knocking over the pot. He stood, shaking and trying to put the horrible picture back into the hole in his soul where it was kept.

  As hungry as he was, food was quite hard to keep down, and he decided the mixture wasn’t one he would make again. Even Chance avoided ever
ything given to him on Carlow’s plate, except the jerky. The young Ranger saw the can of peaches among his gear and decided it would taste better than his cooking. The can was opened with his Comanche knife; its contents downed in minutes. Half of a peach was offered to Chance, who sniffed it cautiously, then devoured the sweet fruit.

  Carlow decided the heaviness in his stomach was best handled by keeping busy. With his fork, he squashed the cattails from his saddlebags into the same pot, added some water, and worked to turn the plant heads into a poultice. He couldn’t remember if Kileen added anything to them or not but poured in some remaining coffee from his cup for good measure.

  Applying the warm mixture to Shadow’s wound was more about comforting himself than about helping to heal the wound, because the gooey mixture wouldn’t stay in place on the horse’s flank, either sliding to the ground or remaining on his fingers. After several attempts, he decided it wasn’t worth doing and threw away the rest of the so-called medicine. Shadow was glad to see him quit as well, turning his head toward his injured flank to investigate, then lying down on his side and rolling.

  The young Ranger curled up again to rest for a few minutes before riding on. His trail coat and clothes were damp and the warmth of the new day felt good and caring. Even if the sky remained gray. But he didn’t know about any of it for two hours. Once again, his dreams were a tortuous mixture of known and unknown people, familiar scenes and those known only in his imagination. Kayitah entered his nightmare to tell him to think, then rode off on a skeleton horse. Mallow himself followed, dragging a dead Dornan behind his own skeleton horse. Carlow awoke, sweating and fighting off the mental images.

  He decided it was time to move on and began to repack his gear. Every move seemed slow, like he was watching himself from somewhere else. After readying his supplies, he saddled Shadow, explaining the need to move again, and rode out. He worked his way along a path most men would not have seen from only a few feet on either side even in daylight.