Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  No, that was not enough reason to stay. If that happened, he would simply seek the return of the animal when he came back through, with Mallow in tow. What kind of a man was he, anyway, to feel worse about something happening to his horse than to good people? The question rammed into his mind and made him uncomfortable.

  “Silver Mallow, I will find you. You will pay for Shannon’s death,” he screamed into the graying air to reinforce his commitment to himself.

  The shout echoed through his sore forehead, across his burned shoulder, and down through his pummeled hands. Only the buckskin and his wolf-dog heard the promise, and a stunted oak tree with most of its roots outside the earth, struggling toward water that no longer lived in the streambed. Shrugging his shoulders, he wanted to pull the words back. He was weary from the fight with Red Anklon. It had taken all his strength to prevail.

  Or was the weak feeling from his strange encounter with Jessie Holden? That made him think of the medicine jar and cigars. He shoved his hand into his coat pocket, past the cigars, and withdrew the jar. He glanced at it momentarily and heaved it away.

  How could he let Bea Von Pearce and little Hattie down? How could he ride away from them? What chance did Bea have against men like this? How long would it be before they eliminated the rest of her riders and took the remaining herd? How long before the fearless Charlie Two-Wolves was cut down? What would happen to Bea? To Hattie?

  A feeling of being followed tugged at him. He ducked his head and glanced back. A rider. Barely a shape against the darkening sky. Probably one of Dr. Holden’s men. Maybe Del Gato himself. Or that black shootist. Or did Flanker have something more to say? Carlow dismounted and led the buckskin into the creek bed. After a quick wrap of the reins around the haunting stub of a tree, he pulled his hand-carbine and lay against the bank.

  Chance came beside him, and he told the beast to lie quiet. From a distance, the oncoming rider wouldn’t be able to see anything out of place. Carlow considered using his Sharps but decided against it.

  Only a single rider. He was certain of that now.

  Surely Del Gato wouldn’t come after him on his own. The man killed only for money—and only if he had an edge. Had Mallow somehow doubled back on him? Carlow acknowledged to himself that the outlaw had already outfoxed him twice. This could be a third time. If so, it would be the last. After opening and closing his fists to relieve some of the stiffness, he cocked the hammer of the hand-carbine, reassured by its hard click-click in the unmoving air.

  Minutes passed like shadows across the prairie. Carlow wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. His wound was pounding again, as if to remind him of the last time he was this close to Mallow. He wiped his right palm on his pants to dry it and resumed his grip on the gun. There was still time to get the Sharps from his saddle, but the rider would likely see him.

  Whoever it was made no attempt to hide or to zigzag into a more difficult target. Something about the shape was familiar to Carlow. He squeezed his eyes into narrow slits to add details to the advancing threat. It didn’t appear that the rider was holding a gun.

  The one-handed beggar from Charlie’s saloon!

  What in the hell is that bucktoothed buffoon doing out here? Is he trailing me? For what earthly reason? Carlow started to stand but decided, instead, to fire a warning shot. His gun crashed into the air and the man stopped his horse, wrapped the reins around the saddle horn, and waved with his sole right arm; his left arm rose with it, revealing a scarred stump as his ragged suitcoat sleeve slid away.

  “Ranger, it’s me! Nichols . . . from Charlie’s saloon. I came to find you. Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.” The man’s arms extended in surrender; his front teeth slid below his upper lip and stayed there.

  Angry, Carlow stood at the edge of the creek bed, his hand-carbine at his side. Chance rose beside him, tensed and ready. “Nichols, is it? What brings you after me?” He wanted to ask if the man was following to beg for drinking money but resisted the cruel question.

  Nichols’s face puckered with both disgrace and determination. “It’s something that needed sayin’. To you. Alone. Then I’ll ride on. Been a’feelin’ it since you took on that bunch like you did. Kinda like the wind it is.”

  Carlow studied the horizon to assure himself this wasn’t some kind of diversion to make him vulnerable to an attack. But he saw nothing on the edge of the land as Nichols continued. Questions lingered, though. Who sent this man? Why?

  “You know, you can’t see the wind—only what it does to trees an’ such. You started that wind in me.” Nichols made no attempt to lower his arm or move his horse closer. It didn’t look like he was feeling the effects of his earlier whiskey. He appeared calm—and sober. Even his exposed teeth gave him a look of concentration.

  “Who sent you after me? Holden? Dillingham? Flanker?”

  “Nobody sent me. I’m tellin’ you why I came. With . . . with the Cradle 6, I once rode. Proud of it, too. Until this hateful day.” Nichols pointed with his right hand at the empty left sleeve. A sob followed, a long-held cry that rang down along the flat prairie, out toward the coming storm.

  “You used to work for the Von Pearces?”

  “Yes, sir—an’ as good a cow man as there was around here. Ask anyone about Will Nichols.” His eyes glistened with lost pride. “Until Anklon and the fine doctor and Del Gato—and Mitchell, and some others . . . they caught me alone. A year and three months back, it was. A year, three months, and six days.”

  Carlow was immediately more interested.

  Sobbing, Nichols pushed the sleeve back to reveal a scarred-over stump that ended inches below his left elbow. “They held me down and the good doctor cut off my hand. He used my own brandin’ iron . . . to burn the bleedin’ to a stop. A warning, he said. Leave the Von Pearces or lose the other. A favor he done me, he says—by not cuttin’ away my good right arm.” He choked back old terror and continued, “Or lettin’ me bleed to death. Red and his men were laughin’. Laughin’. An’ watchin’. Watchin’ an’ laughin’. I can still see them laughin’ an’ watchin’—when I sleep.”

  Carlow eased the hammer back in place and holstered his hand-carbine. It gave him something to think about instead of the cowboy’s awful story. He saw his own reddened hands and thought how quickly Nichols would trade places.

  Nichols’s entire face was frozen as he continued his recounting of the loss of his hand, explaining how Red Anklon had dragged his severed hand away on a rope behind his horse. He stopped and swallowed away another sob, straightened his back, and described the widow’s reaction when he returned. She was crying and wailing, but she had kept Charlie Two-Wolves from going after them. He would never forget that the Indian wrangler had been ready to die to avenge him.

  Carlow’s shoulders rose and fell. He had judged the young man wrongly. Whatever else he might be, Will Nichols had seen more than most at his age.

  Nichols’s lone hand went to his face to hide the anguish bursting from his body. “I didn’t stay. I couldn’t. Wouldn’t let her touch me, either. Or Charlie. I was afraid of my shadow. Thought everybody was comin’ for my right arm. Hid in a barn. Outside of town. Almost died, I reckon. A Russian fella found me and took pity. Nursed me back to walkin’. Yeah, he did that. A saint, he was. Been drinkin’ ever since, though—to make me forget how I ran. An’ they kept laughin’. Until today.”

  Carlow didn’t know what to say. A soft “I’m sorry” stumbled from his mouth.

  “Don’t say that, Ranger. You made me know what I must do. Back to the Cradle 6 I’m goin’. You gave me the belly for it. I swear by my sweet mother’s grave, I will die beside Widow Von Pearce and the red man. Yeah, I will stand.” He held up his shortened left arm along with his clenched right fist. This time it was a reinforcement of his commitment.

  Carlow thought the man in front of him looked years younger. His face glowed with determination; guilt and shame were gone as if peeled like the shell from a cracked nut. Without being asked, Nichols proceeded to t
ell Carlow of the situation. It was similar to what Flanker had already told him. Only different. This was personal—and more horrifying.

  Nichols thought it was only a matter of days before Holden took over the widow’s ranch, too. They would drive off or kill the remaining handful of Cradle 6 riders, then Charlie Two-Wolves. Next he expected the town to hear that Mrs. Von Pearce was quite ill and Dr. Holden was going out to treat her. The doctor wouldn’t be able to save her and would express his great regret. Of course, he would poison her. Probably little Hattie too.

  “Why are you telling me this, Nichols?” Carlow asked, and swallowed. “I have orders to catch a murderer. He was in town. At the whorehouse. I shouldn’t have trusted that woman who owns it to tell me the truth. I must keep after him. I can’t help Bea. Wish I could, but I can’t. Surely you understand. Can’t Marshal Dillingham help?” He knew the answer before the words took shape.

  Will Nichols stared at the young Ranger for what seemed like minutes to Carlow. “Dillingham? He’s about as useful as tits on a boar. More afraid than I was.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I didn’t expect you to do anything. Really. Guess you being a brave man an’ all, I just wanted you to know. About me. Didn’t expect you to stop bein’ a Ranger.” He glanced at his right arm still held high. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll be ridin’ back now.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Why didn’t you talk to me in town?”

  “Well, I was gonna, but you went into Holden’s store,” Nichols explained, looking away. “I was afraid of his wife seeing me. Then you rode out.”

  “I see.” Carlow started to ask why he didn’t come to him when he was in the hotel but didn’t. It didn’t matter. The man had been through a lot—and fighting himself was the worst of it. He knew that feeling. “What do you know about Mrs. Holden?”

  Nichols’s face brightened for the first time. He lifted his chin and shook his head. “A grand sight, she is, that’s for sure. Makes a man want to do it himself, just thinkin’ about her.” His chin lowered as he licked his front teeth and stared at Carlow. “But wicked as the night is long or my name isn’t William Frederick Nichols. She’s every bit as mean as he is. Full of spirits and witchcraft, she is. Her brother’s Red Anklon, the man you whipped. Next to her, he’s a puppy dog. Hear tell she’s especially wild when the moon’s full. Like it will be tonight.” He looked up as if expecting to see the moon in the darkening sky. A shiver that worked through his frame followed.

  With his eyes upward, he continued with his recounting. Jessie Holden was with the physician and his henchmen when Nichols’s hand was severed. She had wanted to kill him as a sacrifice to the moon and was quite upset when her husband wouldn’t let her. The bucktoothed cowboy shivered again at the recounting and returned his gaze to the young Ranger.

  Another terrifying story of her violent nature was connected to one of Holden’s ranch conquests. Nichols told about her conducting a seance two years ago for a German couple who owned the farm adjoining the Cradle 6. They had a pond almost as big as the Von Pearce watering hole. The couple lost a son they loved dearly and wanted desperately to believe she could reach him. She had been telling them that for a long time, and they finally agreed to do it. During this spiritual encounter, they were murdered; Jessie Holden claimed it was Comanches. An ear from each was cut off and never found. On their still faces were some strange symbols made from their blood. She said the Indians thought she was holy and left her alone. The land was now part of the Bar H.

  Impatience was growing within Carlow as the one-handed cowboy continued. The young Ranger already knew about Dr. Holden’s treachery and that he wanted Bea’s ranch, but he couldn’t resist asking, “How do you know this? Were you there?”

  “ ’Course not,” Nichols snapped. “Herman Von Pearce himself told me. He and the missus were friends with those folks, being German an’ all.”

  “How did Herman know?”

  For the first time, Nichols eyed the young Ranger with suspicion. “Their sons came for him. Told what happened.”

  “What happened to . . . them?”

  Chance moved to Carlow’s side, nuzzled his leg, and left to examine Nichols, who was intent on completing his assessment. “Hanged. For rustlin’.” He explained a bill of sale for the family’s ranch showed up and the sons were arrested and hanged for attempting to steal what were now Dr. Holden’s cattle. “Nobody really cared, I guess—’cept Herman. An’ they got him.” Nichols concluded, “I don’t know anything about the other ranches the doctor took.”

  “Sounds like Herman Von Pearce knew his land—if Holden wants it so bad.” Carlow glanced upward at the darkening sky; only his observation was about rain. Mallow’s trail would soon be washed out; he would have to assume the outlaw was headed for Mexico and resume his search in the closest border town—as a civilian. For the moment, he rationalized that it was important to know more about the Holdens. When he returned from Mexico with Mallow, he would check into the situation with the Cradle 6 ranch.

  “He sure did. He was a studier, he was. Tough too. But a good man to work for. Tough but damn fair, he was.” Nichols folded his arms to hide the missing hand. As if anticipating the question, Nichols said, “The good doctor likes to do things so they look right. In case any real law comes around.”

  Carlow’s mouth twitched; he was “real law.”

  “That’s why he’s taking his time with the Cradle 6. Don’t want anybody talking. Keepin’ his crazy wife under control on this one. Nothing will point to him doing anything wrong. Just a doctor takin’ care of others.” He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “He even had a story in the newspaper about how he bought the Germans’ place to give their remaining son a chance to start over, instead of struggling on alone. Said he saved my life by taking off my hand. Gangrene.” He bit his lower lip and continued, “By the time you get back, Widow Von Pearce will have sold out to him. Or it’ll look that way. Nobody will be left to argue about it. We’ll all be dead.” He raised his chin and the protrusion of his upper teeth settled over his lower lip once more. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky. But it don’t matter. I ain’t runnin’ no more.”

  Eagerly he told about Jessie Holden’s having a seance the past summer for the mayor and his wife and two other couples. This time she only scared them by bringing the ghost of the mayor’s first wife to talk with them. Nichols chuckled and explained that the mayor ordered Marshal Dillingham to tell Jessie not to do any more seances, but the lawman was afraid of what she might do to him and didn’t tell her. He had heard that story in a saloon; he didn’t remember which one, though.

  Nichols’s face curled into a frown. “Might be her that the doctor sends to see the fine widow. To speak of things nice and soft. But it will be poison she brings. Or a sharp knife. Mark my words, Ranger. But they’ll do it over my dead body—an’ Charlie’s.”

  “I think you’re right about her being evil. A real shame, isn’t it? So much beauty wrapped around so much bad.” Carlow shook his head.

  “Yeah. Makes ya wonder about what the Devil himself looks like.”

  Carlow was surprised at the difference in the man. He looked tired, almost spent, but he appeared cold sober and bursting with determination.

  Nichols leaned forward in the saddle, unwrapping the reins as he did. “I feel sorry for the fella you’re chasin’. Silver Mallow, isn’t it? Never did see any man fight like you did. Damn, no man ever laid out Red Anklon before this day, I can tell you that. But you’d better know Mrs. Holden, his sis, will want you to pay dearly for it. Good thing you’re ridin’ on, I reckon.”

  “I got lucky, Will—an’ Silver Mallow’s already come close.” Carlow touched the crusted-over wound on his forehead. “I have to find him. Those are my orders. But I’d be after him anyway. He murdered my best friend.”

  Nichols nodded. “Never had a friend like you . . . Carlow, isn’t it?”

  “Carlow it is. Time Carlow.” The young Ranger studi
ed the beggar with growing appreciation.

  “Time? That your pappy’s name?”

  Carlow chuckled. “No. My mother thought it meant something else. She was . . .”

  “Irish.”

  “Careful how you say that.”

  Nichols sat up straight in the saddle; his right hand retreated to his heart. “Hey, I didn’t mean nothin’. My best ridin’ pard on the Cradle 6 was a Mi . . . Irish. Before they shot him. O’Brien. Jamie O’Brien.”

  Chance yipped for attention, rubbing his huge head against the Ranger’s leg affectionately.

  “Damn, you know ridin’ with a wolf makes you one scary hombre. Don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that.” Nichols moved his right hand from over his heart and pointed toward Chance

  Carlow looked down and scratched the wolf-dog between its ears. “Scary, huh? How about that, Chance?” He glanced up at Nichols. “He’s only part wolf.”

  “Part’s enough. I ain’t scary, but I’m better than I look,” Nichols said, staring down at himself. “They’ll have an extra gun at the ranch. If not, I’ll take what I need from one of Holden’s men.”

  “Like you almost did in the saloon?”

  Nichols shook his head, and a smile came out of the motion. “Saw that, did you? I was gonna shoot the doc—right then an’ there—but I lost my nerve.”

  “I’d say you were playing it smart. You would have died before you took three steps.”

  “You would’ve shot me?” Nichols’s face was rigid. His Adam’s apple skirted up and down his throat searching for a place to hide.

  “Del Gato would have.”

  “B-but you took his guns.”

  Carlow’s smile was mostly chagrin. “He had a third. Didn’t see it until he sat down. A Sharps short gun.”

  Nichols looked away for a moment, then turned back.

  A question struck Carlow. “Say, where’d you get that horse?” As the words found life, he wished he hadn’t asked. It was like telling Nichols that he knew he didn’t have any money.