Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  “Hey, Jimmy, ya need whiskey?” yelled the bartender, concern in his uneven voice at the attempt to be intimate, casually calling the polished gambler by his first name.

  The heavyset Southerner nodded his head affirmatively. “Bring a new deck. These are getting a bit worn, aren’t they, Mr. Trevor?” He advised the big cattleman on his left to wait for the new cards, and the man did so without hesitation. “Bring a new glass for Mr. Decker, too. His has your fingerprint on it.”

  Carlow thought the gambler looked like a man who definitely enjoyed the pleasures of each day, whether it be poker, food, whiskey, women, or conversation. A man of breeding, at least compared with himself. All he owned was packed on the buckskin outside—plus his black horse back at the Cradle 6. It didn’t matter. He was doing what he wanted to do; he was what he wanted to be. A Texas Ranger.

  “Hi, honey, what’ll you have?”

  The tall waitress with tired eyes, a thin mouth painted red beyond her lips, and long brown hair stood beside him, smiling. Her perfume was syrupy. Her frilly green dress looked as if she had been in it for weeks, pushing up her bosom and accenting her long legs.

  Before he could speak, she asked, “Would you like to go upstairs?”

  “No thanks, ma’am. Just thirsty. I’d sure go for a beer. Maybe a cigar if one’s to be had.”

  “Sure, sweetie,” she responded with a bemused smile. “Don’t mind Ben. The bartender. He’s smart talkin’ like that to everybody. But he’s right. Every man that’s come in here today I’ve known. Some of them real well.” She winked.

  Carlow’s dark eyes, with thick eyelashes any woman would desire, were at the same time warm and distant. His responding smile was a magnet to the saloon whore. Quickly she returned with the beer and a cigar, stood close to his chair, and leaned over in front of him to place the filled glass on the table. Her right breast rubbed against the side of his face as she first positioned the beer, then laid the cigar beside the filled glass. She gazed coyly upward to make certain he had received an eyeful of her nearly exposed bosom.

  “Now, honey, if there’s anything else you want . . . you just ask,” she said with her best smile. “My name is Lacy.” He smiled again and thanked her. She touched his arm in response as she left, letting a veil of thick lilac perfume settle around him.

  Ignoring the cigar for the moment, Carlow sipped the beer and examined the gray room. Letting himself relax in the chair, he rested his arms on the scratched oak table. He barely heard the Confederate, now into another sad song of lost love, trying to stay with the rhythm of the fiddler. It felt good just to sit on something besides a saddle, even if his time in Presidio had, so far, proved fruitless.

  Maybe Mallow hadn’t even stopped there. If so, he was nearing the Rio Grande by now. The ache in Carlow’s forehead reminded him of the consequences of being surprised again by the outlaw. Where could he have gone, if not Presidio? And if he were in town, where? Was the outlaw just a step ahead? Why hadn’t anyone seen him? Had he made the mistake of assuming this was Mallow’s destination and missed a turnoff earlier?

  His mind rerode the trail from the Von Pearce ranch and made up several possible places where the outlaw could have changed direction. A mind could do that, he reminded himself. See things that weren’t really there. Like Charlie Two-Wolves imagined he saw. His thoughts slipped back to little Hattie and the promise he had made to her. Not quite a promise, he told himself. Not one anybody expected him to keep. That led his thoughts to Jeremiah, Ellie Beckham’s boy. Hattie and Jeremiah had to be close to the same age.

  Riding away from Ellie Beckham had been hard to do. Too hard. He tried to keep from thinking about her because it always made him want to race back to Bennett and into her arms. He had known the perky widow for only a short time. Just hours, actually. But their first kiss was always pushed up against his conscious mind, waiting to take over. Whenever he let her memory come, she was there. Even now, his body savored the feel of her warmth against him.

  He chuckled when he recalled his uncle giving him advice about how to make her fall in love with him. All sorts of charms and chants. All of them involved and complicated. He could remember only one: he was to hold a mint sprig in his hand until it was moist and warm, then take Ellie’s hand. She would follow him anywhere as long as their hands touched the mint. First, though, they couldn’t speak at all for ten minutes. That gave the charm time to manufacture its spell. Maybe he should have tried it, instead of laughing. Of course, he didn’t know where he could find any mint. Neither did Kileen.

  With a sip of his beer, the thought occurred to him that he should visit the town physician. Mallow might have sought him out for medicine. It would give Carlow a chance to evaluate Dr. Holden for himself as well. Maybe he should go there under the pretense of getting something for his head wound.

  “Hey, we don’t want no one-armed beggars in here. Go away!” The big-nosed bartender waved a towel in the direction of a staggering man just entering the saloon. With him came narrow lances of gold from the sun nearing the horizon, after fighting a losing battle with the day’s grayness.

  The bartender’s harsh command broke Carlow’s daydreaming and he looked toward the saloon entrance. What a pitiful sight the beggar made in the doorway. His suitcoat was torn and awash in mud, straw, and worse. Carlow couldn’t tell how much of the man’s left arm was missing; his coat sleeve was simply empty at the cuff.

  With heavy sideburns trailing from a filthy light brown flag of hair, the beggar stood weaving; his bloodshot eyes avoided meeting anyone’s stare. Buck teeth forced their way past his upper lip and into the day. A floppy-brimmed hat covered most of his upper face, making his hawk nose appear even sharper, with a reddish tint from too much drinking. What passed for his shirt was a torn, once-red undershirt. Deep wrinkles in his Levi’s looked like stretched-out coils, carrying months of constant wear.

  The young Ranger couldn’t tell how old he was, either, but guessed close to his own age. He tried not to stare at the forlorn-appearing man but was drawn to the deep sadness that oozed from his body. He assumed the beggar had once been a cowhand, by the looks of his bowlegged stance. Probably his hand was lost in a ranching accident; he appeared too young for the war, but one couldn’t be certain.

  Swaying slightly, like a sapling being tested by spring breezes, the drunken man looked around the room to discover whom the bartender was talking about, then resumed his stagger toward the bar. His glance caught Carlow’s eyes and scurried away.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Hey! Dammit, I said get out. Your kind ain’t welcome here,” the bartender demanded again, slapping the towel against the bar.

  The words angered Carlow. His eyes searched the room to see how others might react and caught those of the fat gambler across the open space. Shards of graying, yellow light passed Carlow’s face on their way to the floor from the saloon’s only window.

  “That’s all right, Ben. He’s a friend of mine. Yo-all give him what he wants. Put it on my bill,” the thick-bellied gambler yelled out, and returned to his cards.

  Behind the bar, the bartender swallowed and his complexion lightened. “O-oh, I didn’t know, Jimmy. I-I’m sorry. W-what can I help you with, sir?”

  “Whiskey. Your good whiskey.”

  The bartender lifted a bottle from under the bar and waved it in syncopation with the Confederate’s song. Like a cattle dog spotting a stray calf, the one-handed man hurried toward him. The combination of eagerness and drunkenness caused him to bump against the pinched-faced clerk eating alone.

  His contact came exactly at the moment when a large bite of steak reached the clerk’s open mouth. The piece of meat bounced off his plate and wobbled across the table. Watching it, the clerk tried to decide if he should be angry or act as if nothing had happened.

  “Oh, I-I didn’t see you move. Sishsorry.” The beggar made a jerky bow, rubbed his buck teeth with his tongue, and continued toward his objective.

  With a look of
relief in his eyes, the clerk mumbled that it was nothing and stabbed the wayward morsel with his fork. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching before shoving it into his mouth.

  The bartender filled the glass with whiskey and left it on the bar for the advancing beggar. The spectacled businessman and the German moved aside to allow the man to reach the bar. Both noticeably distanced themselves four feet from him as he settled against the countertop.

  After downing the drink in two long swallows, he waved at the bartender for another and yelled out to the Rebel musicians, “H-heyish, c-can you s-sing ‘The R-Rose of Alabamy’?”

  Someone at the bar groaned; another glanced furtively at the well-dressed gambler. At his card table, the fat man ignored the groan but his eyes wandered to Carlow. The young Ranger nodded his appreciation.

  His attention returning to the table, the gambler declared, “I’ll play these.” Without turning from the table, he said a little more loudly, “And Ben . . . tell that singer of yours to do that song. Ah, the ‘Rose of Alabamy’ one. I’m in the mood . . . for that.” He glanced back at Carlow, and the young Ranger grinned. The gambler’s matching grin followed, taking over most of his wide face as he drawled, “I’ll see that an’ raise you ten. Jenkins, don’t play with your cards like that. It makes me nervous.”

  After lighting his cigar and taking a long, satisfying pull of smoke, Carlow heard Chance bark from outside. More of a threatening growl. Chance growled again, long and deep in his throat. Maybe someone was messing with his horse! Before he could move, the wolf-dog yelped. Somebody was trying to hurt him! Maybe someone thought a wolf had come to town.

  As the young Ranger sprang from his chair with the cigar in his teeth, two men entered the saloon. Both wore belt guns. Carlow stopped next to the table. They were quickly followed by two more. Both cloaked in shadow. A shorter man with long blond hair. And a huge brute of a man.

  One of the first two searchers, a slump-shouldered man with thick eye spectacles and an overgrown mustache cutting his face in two, spotted him. The man’s eyebrows twitched nervously, then he hunched his shoulders to shake off the emotion. He said something to the darker man beside him.

  The halfbreed grinned a mouthful of big teeth, bright against his skin, in response to the slump-shouldered gunman’s comment. But the smile didn’t reach the coldest eyes Carlow had ever seen. The halfbreed’s eyebrows were plucked clean like a Cheyenne warrior’s, giving him an even more sinister appearance.

  The young Ranger had known the look before, and it loosened experiences that weren’t helpful now. A shiver ran down Carlow’s back.

  Both men instinctively separated from each other with several side steps, allowing the two behind them to come forward.

  Carlow watched the positioning without, at first, comprehending its significance. Then it hit him: they were there for him. But why? They were complete strangers. They couldn’t be friends of Silver Mallow’s—or could they? Could he have paid them to attack him?

  From the shadows strode the blond man, only a few inches beyond five feet, with a jutting chin and prideful chest. Carlow sensed he was the leader of the group. Not the big man next to him. A leader used to having his way and liking it. Small men often made dramatic leaders, he knew. Grant himself wasn’t very tall. Neither was “Little Phil” Sheridan, nor even the legendary Jeb Stuart. The small man wore a black suit and a black hat. The hat brim bequeathed darkness about the man’s face, leaving only an angular shape to the pale skin and piercing light blue eyes. His blond hair was more white than yellow and fully covered his ears.

  Many a woman would have yearned for locks so grand. Even in the room’s consuming gray, the golden mane gave the appearance of a halo encircling part of his head. But it wasn’t a color that came with aging; this man was fully in his prime.

  This had to be Dr. Remington Holden. It had to be.

  Carlow knew this wasn’t a happenstance gathering, either. These were Dr. Holden’s men. And they would kill. Anytime Dr. Holden said. The young Ranger had been in too many fights not to catch the signals.

  At the bar, the drover’s whispered conversation to the German beside him snapped through the forced stillness. “What’s Doc doin’ in hyar? Yah figger he’s after some whiskey to put in his medicine bottles?” He chuckled and chewed vigorously on his tobacco. “Colonel Red Anklon’s with him. Runs the doc’s big spread east o’ here, ya know. Wonder what’s up?”

  “Ja, an’ that be Del Gato. Schlecht. Schlecht. He ist var bad man,” the German immigrant observed, and quickly drank the rest of his whiskey.

  “I heard tell Colonel Anklon kilt a cowboy—with his fists.”

  “Ja. That be so.”

  Drawing on the cigar, Carlow let the smoke drift across his face. It quieted his insides. He needed to think. He was cold inside. So cold. He was often this way before a fight. Kileen said it was a gift from the other side. Kayitah told him it was his spirit helpers joining him. Carlow felt unclothed without his guns. Why had he been so intent on observing a local ordinance that he didn’t have to obey? How foolish it now seemed. “Bad luck,” Kileen would mutter if he were there.

  Dr. Holden was made even shorter by his closeness to the massive man beside him. Standing well over six feet and on the heavy side of two hundred pounds, Colonel Anklon wore a buckskin jacket highlighted with beadwork and a wide-brimmed hat with a matching beaded band. His forearms stretched the leather to its limit. A pistol, holstered at his waist, carried a silver star embedded in the walnut handle. He was an impressive-looking man and was well aware of it.

  “They be wantin’ that kid Ranger, I reckon.” The drover finished his statement by launching another stream at the spittoon. He missed and looked around to see if anyone noticed.

  “Mein Gott! I must be going home. Ja, I must.” The German hurried toward the back door.

  The drover watched him go, relieved the German’s exclamation wasn’t about his missing the spittoon, and spat again. Most of the stream hit its mark. Nodding approval, he ordered another drink.

  The dark gunman called Del Gato smiled widely again and said something Carlow couldn’t hear, speaking through clenched teeth. Dr. Holden nodded and stepped forward, waiting until all eyes were on him.

  “Gentlemen, forgive this intrusion. While I personally do not find such places comforting, I do understand other men’s needs—and weaknesses.”

  At the far end of the bar, a bald man asked the cowboy next to him what was meant by the statement. The wiry cowboy shrugged and muttered, “He’s a’sayin’ we’re weak cuz we like drinkin’, smokin’, card playin’, an’ pokin’.”

  The bald man rubbed his chin. “Well, I reckon he’s right.”

  Comfortable with attention focused on him, Dr. Holden took in the room with his gaze, reinforcing the moment. With his arms fully outstretched, he said in a loud, clear voice, “Please go on with . . . your pleasures. We will only be a minute with some unpleasant business. Colonel Anklon, if you please, sir.”

  Smiling wickedly, Anklon stepped up beside the doctor. “You there, are you riding that Cradle 6 buckskin?”

  Carlow hadn’t moved. He fought back the growing fear of facing four men unarmed except for the knife in his leggings. Surely they wouldn’t attempt anything here, with so many witnesses. Their objective must be to scare him into leaving town. He took a deep breath to push away the nervousness. Would they think his long coat hid a gun?

  “Afternoon, gentlemen. Obviously you have me mistaken for someone else,” Carlow responded, “and I don’t take well to questions like that from a stranger. I suggest you take your act somewhere else.”

  His words stung. They had expected him to be afraid, getting caught alone and unarmed. But showing fear wouldn’t help him. Inside he was crawling with bugs. Bea’s supper was not far down his gullet and inching up.

  “You telling us that ain’t a Cradle 6 hoss outside? The buckskin with the yappy wolf?” Anklon demanded, pulling himself up to his full height and
further dwarfing the blond physician.

  A sinister grin eased its way across Dr. Holden’s face.

  Maybe they thought he had stolen it or hurt the old woman. Carlow’s answer was more emotional than he wished. “I’m Time Carlow. A Ranger with Captain McNelly’s Special Force. I’ve got a bill of sale for the buckskin. Bought it from Mrs. Von Pearce just today. It’s in my saddlebags.”

  Without saying another word, Anklon started walking confidently closer to the young Ranger, hands swinging easily at his sides. In midstride, he stopped as the significance of Carlow’s words hit him. For the first time, he saw the badge pinned to Carlow’s shirt. The two henchmen fanned out beside him as Dr. Holden disappeared purposely into the shadows.

  Like a gunshot, Chance came charging inside and headed for the slump-shouldered man. The wolf-dog was bleeding behind his ear. Turning around at the sound of Chance’s deep growl, the man swung his leg to kick the advancing animal.

  “Don’t touch my dog!” Carlow’s command was instant and hot, followed by a demanding “Come here, boy.”

  Chance swerved to avoid the man’s boot, then trotted proudly to the young Ranger’s side, wagging his tail as if nothing had happened. Carlow’s quick look told him the wound around the wolf-dog’s ear was slight. He saw the slump-shouldered man’s eyebrows twitch once more, followed by the hunching of his shoulders to remove the nervousness.

  “Which one of you bastards hurt my dog?”

  “Not Del Gato,” answered the halfbreed through a toothy grin. “Only men I hurt. I eat dogs—and wolves.”

  “I did it. I’ll kill him . . . later. Only good wolf is a dead one.” The answer spewed from the slump-shouldered man. He glanced at Del Gato for approval, then pushed his glasses back up his nose. His eyebrows twitched, but this time he swung his shoulders from side to side and rolled the fingers of his right hand into a fist and opened them.