Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  “Now,” Carlow whispered. “Tell them Thresher has a bad stomachache. Must be something he ate.” Turning his head slightly, he said to Nichols. “Will, swing wide and head for the string.”

  “Here’s to strong wolf medicine,” Nichols mumbled, and rubbed his teeth with his tongue.

  “Yeah.”

  The Bar H rider’s too-far-apart eyes glistened. Loudly, he proclaimed, “Ah, Thresher’s got a bad bellyache. Ah, must be somethin’ he . . . ate.” He glanced at Carlow for approval.

  Guffaws from the men around the campfire followed, then a snickering response from the man on the right side: “Probably too much whiskey.”

  Other sarcasms quickly followed from the rest of the group. “Yeah, that’s it.” “Nice going, Thresher.” “You wanna see your maw, Thresher?” “Does it take all o’ ya to take care o’ Thresher’s belly?” The laughter swelled, urged on by the release of whiskey and the longness of the day. “Where’s Lucas, is he sleepin’?” “Naw, he’s got a bellyache, too.” Another round of guffaws followed. “Who’s watching the beeves?” “Who cares? They ain’t going nowhere.”

  Good. Keep laughing, boys. Keep laughing, Carlow thought, and liked the comfort of the Colt resting against his stomach.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  After the initial surprise of the three returning riders, the group returned its attentions to the whiskey and interrupted conversation.

  “Hey, pass the bottle, you silly bastard,” Anklon growled. “You’ve been holdin’ it for an hour.”

  “Hell, I brought it.”

  “An’ I pay your wages. Pass it over here.”

  Anklon stood. “Just a minute.” He was a dominating figure and knew it. His gaze went to Nichols. Did he recognize Will? Carlow’s fingers tightened around his Colt.

  “Hey, are you comin’ in or switchin’ hosses?” Anklon demanded of Nichols.

  Carlow was proud of the way Nichols patted his horse’s head with his right hand holding the reins, said nothing, and kept going.

  “Good. Jamison, Matthews,” Anklon continued, waving his arm in the direction of the men nearest the horses. “Hurry up an’ throw your leather on and get out there.” He turned back to his sitting men. “Where’s that bottle?”

  “Here, boss.” The bearded man with the bottle jumped up.

  So far, so good, Carlow thought. Just a little longer. No one was paying any attention as Nichols neared the string. Was Del Gato really gone? Or was the third man he had seen earlier next to the horses? Only two were visible now and Anklon had said only two names.

  About twenty feet beyond the left side of camp was a gathering of rocks under the protection of the two aging cottonwoods commanding the area. Was it large enough for a man to hide behind if he lay down? Carlow couldn’t tell. Shadows, born from the trees, hovered there, making it impossible to determine anything. If Del Gato was in the camp, that would be the place he would hide; Nichols could see the rest of the back side of the camp, but there was only grass anyway. Then he remembered how easily Two-Wolves had disappeared within the flat grazing land. His chest rose and fell in a nervous response but his attention didn’t stray from the rocks.

  Carlow and the outlaw herd watcher drew nearer the gathered rustlers. Another ten feet, that’s all I need, Carlow told himself. He groaned again, leaning over farther, nearly lying on his horse’s neck.

  A short, spectacled man on the left side of the rustler with the bottle was studying Carlow but attempting to hide his interest by rubbing his face and playing with his glasses. A walnut-handled revolver was carried in a shoulder holster under his left arm. No one else was watching them at all, the young Ranger was certain. So far Anklon hadn’t paid any further attention to the incoming group. It was beneath him to worry about a rider’s stomach.

  The young Ranger kept his eye on the curious rustler as Carlow and the herd watcher reined their mounts eight feet from the fire. Casually the short man stood, pushed his glasses back on his nose, and turned away to head for the horses. He took two steps and spun around, the walnut-handled gun in his right fist.

  The roar of Carlow’s Colt jolted the land. Anklon dropped the just-received whiskey bottle, and the liquid exploded on the already wet ground and splattered across his boots. Carlow’s horse reared at the loud noise. The short man’s back arched, and Carlow’s gun snarled again, this time firing from the side of the horse as it balanced on its rear legs.

  “Anybody else want to die this morning?” Nichols’s voice was clear and eager, his Winchester pointed at the two men near the horses, then at the rest around the fire. The barrel rested on his left forearm. “Give me a reason, boys. Any one at all. Especially you, Red.”

  Anklon’s hand stopped halfway to the star-handled pistol holstered at his waist. He had already forgotten about the whiskey. His cheeks flushed in rage. Who did these fools think they were messing with? Did these three idiots think they could steal the cattle? He hadn’t yet recognized either Nichols or Carlow.

  Both rustlers nearest Nichols raised their hands quickly. He tried not to pay attention to the frightened horses pulling against their tie ropes, whinnying and kicking. Some were upset by the gunfire; others were simply agitated by the responses of neighboring horses. A long-legged bay reared, snapping loose its tie rope. Aware of this new freedom, the animal wheeled and ran toward the horizon with the lariat’s end skipping along the ground.

  In the pasture, the seven closest cattle raised their heads to assess the situation. When nothing further disturbed them, all but one returned to grazing; the remaining cow continued its examination. Finally satisfied, the animal bellowed its dislike and turned to find its calf.

  At the campfire, a balding cowboy with a long reddish birthmark below his right ear glanced in the direction of Nichols, and his face showed the shock of recognition. He whispered to the taller man next to him.

  Carlow’s horse returned to the ground, stomping its forefeet and snorting. It wanted to run from this awful noise, but the thing on its back pulled on the reins and told it to be still. Carlow slid his boots back into the stirrups after removing them in case he needed to jump free if the animal reared again.

  “I’m Ranger Time Carlow, and you’re under arrest for rustling and murder,” Carlow said, trying to decide whether it would be better to dismount or stay in the saddle. He held the Colt with his right hand, reining the horse with his left. The horse hadn’t settled yet, but dismounting now could give the rustlers a momentary edge.

  Red Anklon’s face dawned with crimson rage as realization reached his mind. This wasn’t some goofy hold-up attempt. No. This was that damn Ranger again! How could this be happening a second time?

  Everything in the big rancher wanted another opportunity to fight the young, confident Ranger who had embarrassed him in front of everyone. His forearms flexed against the leather coat sleeves. But a flicker of doubt caught the corner of his mind. Involuntarily he looked down at the dried blood spots decorating the front of his jacket. His face and body ached from Carlow’s blows. No. This man couldn’t beat him again. The saloon was a fluke. He hadn’t expected a kick in the groin. If the Ranger tried it again, his leg would be snapped in two.

  Dr. Holden told him the Ranger had outgunned Mitchell after he had drawn on the young lawman and then stared down Del Gato into disarming. The halfbreed said he wouldn’t face Carlow for any amount of money, only backshoot him. The tall foreman had the realization that this was a man to walk around. But why was he there? Now? He was supposed to be chasing an outlaw into Mexico. That was the strategy. He hadn’t liked it when Dr. Holden told him, wanting permission to kill the cocky Ranger. The physician thought it was smarter to get him out of town; killing a Ranger would only bring more Rangers.

  This disruption in their plans angered him as much as seeing Carlow again. This was supposed to be easy. No one would care what happened to the widow or her ranch. Anklon and his men were to take the Cradle 6 herd, and the physician and Viceroy would finish off
the widow and that fool Indian who worked for her. Dr. Holden would produce a deed to show she had sold the ranch to him. She would sign it eagerly to protect her granddaughter from harm. After the signing, all would be killed anyway. Only Anklon knew Viceroy would be blamed for the murders. He was to pick one of his men to serve as an additional witness to attest to seeing the black man flee from the Von Pearce home.

  Anklon’s coiled defiance was obvious to Carlow; Dr. Holden’s men were in varying stages of surrender and surprise. The bearded cowboy who had handed the whiskey bottle to Anklon stood beside him now, examining the ground as if trying to figure out how to retrieve the lost fluid from the broken glass and wet earth.

  Watching the rustlers for any wrong movement, Carlow ordered the herdsman at his left to dismount and stand with the others. The rustler’s long face was a single stretched-out grimace as he swung down. He mouthed, “They made me do it,” as he walked toward Anklon, leading his horse. Swallowing his fear, he stood next to the tall rancher, but not too close. His wide-apart eyes blinked and sought the ground, the fire, anything but Anklon.

  Nichols pointed at three riders sitting together on logs around the fire. “That’s Baldy Demetrie an’ Wallace Hutton an’ that third one with the stovepipe chaps, he’s Morgan Lewis,” Nichols said. “Sorry to see you boys ridin’ for the wrong brand. What did Mrs. Von Pearce ever do to you, except give you a steady job an’ good food?”

  “What the hell does a one-handed drunk know?” Baldy Demetrie waved his arms defiantly.

  “I know the difference between workin’ and stealin’.”

  “Big deal.” Demetrie spat, glancing at his two Cradle 6 friends for support. Both nodded slightly.

  “Big enough to hang for,” Carlow said, his eyes holding the bald man apart from the other two.

  With his hands outstretched and away from his holstered gun, Anklon slowly rose. He acted as if the herdsman now standing beside him didn’t exist. He was at least two inches taller than any of his men and proud of his stature, equating it to authority. His gravelly voice was laden with contempt.

  “I’m getting real tired of you, Ranger boy. I don’t know what you’ve been eatin’, but we’re just cowhands here. Hard-workin’ cowhands.”

  “Sounds like you’ve still got a problem with truth, Red.”

  “What’d you say, you scrawny son of a bitch?”

  Carlow’s Colt was pointed directly at Anklon’s head. “I said you’re a liar and a thief who just stole his last cow. Unbuckle the gunbelt.”

  At the horse string, Nichols snickered and glanced at his own left arm.

  “Come on, Ranger boy. Just you an’ me,” Anklon sputtered.

  Carlow’s face took on a savage smile that matched his eyes. “The problem with you, Red, is that you actually believe being big makes you good. I saw what you could do in the saloon. It wasn’t much.” He waved the pistol at the rest of the outlaws. “They know it, too. Right now the only thing I want from you is to tell me where Del Gato is. An’ Jessie Holden.”

  “They ain’t here.”

  Carlow’s attention remained on the shadows dancing around the rocks at the far edge of camp. Could Del Gato have seen them coming and hidden? Why would he do that? Or is he already back there and just dropped down, just in case? Carlow wished he could remember if he saw a man standing near the rocks earlier. If he was, I would be a perfect target now. The only thing saving me is that Nichols would get him if he shot me. And Del Gato doesn’t like those kinds of odds. His mind had discarded the idea of Jessie’s being there, but he reminded himself that she was as dangerous as Del Gato.

  With that thought, Carlow decided to dismount and swung off to the right quickly, instead of the normal left, letting his horse shield him. The sudden movement caught Anklon off guard. His hand had only decided to move when Carlow’s gun reappeared from under the horse’s neck. The young Ranger’s body and head remained mostly hidden.

  Nichols should be able to see if anyone was hiding near the remuda, Carlow thought. Only grass was there. No rocks. No mounds. No trees. Carlow wanted to yell to him about searching the high grass but didn’t.

  “Red, I can take off your gunbelt after you’re dead, if that’s how you want it.” He continued to point his Colt at the tall rancher.

  Anklon’s hands went to his belt buckle, then hesitated. “How you figure on stopping all of us? That one-armed drunk ain’t gonna be much help.”

  “Well, you won’t be around to know what happens. I’ll shoot you first,” Carlow said. “But I figure there might be two or three of your boys standing when it’s over.” He paused. “Will, put your first shot into this tall piece of crap, too. All right?”

  “I can’t wait. I’ve heard his laugh for too damn long.”

  Anklon’s eyes widened. His gaze took in Carlow’s holstered hand-carbine for the first time, then Nichols’s readied Winchester.

  “Now, come over here and stand. In front of me.” Carlow motioned with his gun to indicate where he wanted Anklon.

  “Why?”

  “In case you’re lying again. Del Gato will have you to aim at.”

  With a sarcastic snort, Anklon ambled to the spot Carlow had indicated. It unnerved him when he realized Carlow had switched the Colt to his left hand and now held the cut-down Winchester in his right—and he hadn’t seen the transfer. Carlow’s horse stood, groundtied, beside him; Carlow’s left boot held the reins against the earth, just in case.

  As ordered, Anklon stopped three feet from the young Ranger and stood directly in front of him. He wanted to take two steps closer, to get Carlow within range of his fists, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. He stopped where he was told, facing Carlow. A curling smile tried to hide the lack of courage, as if daring Carlow to order him to turn around. It was safer than challenging the young Ranger to let him step closer.

  “Can you shoot a man when he’s looking at you, Ranger boy?”

  “You’d be a long way from the first, Anklon—and you’re starting to annoy me.”

  The big man’s Adam’s apple jerked up and down. In a blur, Carlow moved forward, jammed the nose of his hand-carbine into the man’s stomach and stepped to his left, pointing with the Colt.

  “You—with the beard,” Carlow said, his revolver singling out the curly-bearded rustler who had been standing next to Anklon and was the owner of the broken whiskey bottle. “Let’s see if you know how to tell the truth. Where’s Del Gato?”

  The outlaw’s chest rose and fell. “Del Gato rode off—to town an hour ago. Maybe longer.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Well, I’m sure he rode off then—and that’s where he said he was going. Him and Mrs. Holden,” the man said, his eyes averted. “But I don’t know for sure. I ain’t his secretary.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Guarded chuckles followed the bearded rustler’s remark, but a faint gurgle stopped them. It came from the grass ten feet from the horse string and was immediately cut off by the sounds of shuffling feet. Carlow’s Colt shifted toward the noise, as did Nichols’s rifle. Carlow’s hand-carbine punched farther into Anklon’s stomach. He advised Anklon that if he even flinched, he was gut-shot.

  Anklon grunted his understanding.

  A rifle shot exploded from the middle of the undisturbed grass. The bullet sailed ten feet over Carlow’s head but he ducked instinctively.

  From where the gunshot came, a lanky outlaw staggered to his feet, his just-fired rifle sliding from his twitching hands. Around his neck was a bright crimson ring. Nichols’s gun rose to respond, but he didn’t shoot. Behind him another horse broke free of the remuda and galloped away, then another.

  The hidden gunman held out a shivering hand, hesitated, and gurgled something that sounded like “Rose Marie.” Then he collapsed headfirst onto the wet earth.

  Nichols was stunned.

  Carlow’s eyes immediately sought the rocks where he thought Del Gato’s attack would come from, if it did. How could I have been so
wrong? Maybe he isn’t here. Like they said. Him and Jessie. His gaze returned to the grass where the hidden gunman had been as Two-Wolves stood with a bloody knife at his side.

  At that instant, Anklon grabbed for Carlow’s hand-carbine with both hands, shoving it away from his stomach. The gun went off, spitting dirt toward the fire and the closest rustlers as Carlow’s left-fisted Colt came down on the side of Anklon’s head with enormous force.

  Anklon’s eyes rolled skyward, and he collapsed at Carlow’s feet.

  A growl behind the sitting men came like an extension of the young Ranger’s blow. Snarling savagely, Chance ran toward the remaining seated rustlers. Two jumped up to get away. The third, Baldy Demetrie, jerked his right hand from under his vest and tried to join their escape. His hidden gun popped from his hand and thudded against the log before sliding to the ground. The wolf-dog sprang toward him and sharp teeth sank into the man’s lower arm.

  Shouting his pain, he stumbled and fell with Chance’s jaws clamped firmly around his forearm.

  “That’s enough, Chance. Let him go. Let him go. Good boy, Chance,” Carlow said. An unexpected shiver down his back reminded him of how close he had come to being killed twice in a matter of moments. I wasn’t even looking in the right place either time, he told himself.

  “Ty!” Nichols’s voice was filled with sudden fear. “Stampede!”

  Behind Carlow was a thunder that made sparks jump from the fire as the earth began to tremble. The additional gunshots had sent tremors through the herd. Every steer, every cow, an entire wall of beef was running. Half of them toward the camp.

  Dropping his Colt, he grabbed for the reins of his horse with his boot holding them in place. He held the leather as the animal’s head came up and half jumped, half swung into the saddle, with the horse already running. Neither boot was in a stirrup. Off balance, he grabbed for the pommel with his left hand and fought to stay upright, waving the hand-carbine in his right for balance. For a breath, he thought the cinch would snap with his off-balance weight pulling against the saddle. His left arm strained to hold him in place; his legs squeezed the flying horse. In seconds he was upright. His right boot slipped into the iron stirrup, then his left.