Lone Star Ranger
Volume 5
A Ranger to Stand With
James J. Griffin
A Ranger to Stand With by James J. Griffin
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2015 by James J. Griffin
Cover design by Livia J. Washburn
Texas Ranger badge image courtesy of the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum, Waco
Author photo credited to Susanne Onatah
All Rights Reserved
Painted Pony Books
www.paintedponybooks.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Lone Star Ranger:
A Ranger to Ride With
A Ranger to Reckon With
A Ranger to Fight With
A Ranger’s Christmas
A Ranger to Stand With
For my brother, William,
and his companion, Joanne.
Prologue
Nearly two months had passed since Christmas. It was now the middle of February. Nate Stewart leaned against the adobe wall of the building behind him. His mind drifted back to everything that had happened to him over the past several months. It had certainly been an eventful time in his life.
Nate’s father had decided to transplant his family from their comfortable life in Wilmington, Delaware, to a hardscrabble ranch outside San Saba, on the Texas frontier. Unlike his older brother, Jonathan, who had taken to cowboy life easily, the transition had been difficult for Nate. He’d hated the isolated ranch, the small cabin which was their new home, the hot weather, Texas, and everything about it. A band of raiders had attacked the ranch, leaving Nate for dead, and orphaning him. It was only good fortune a patrol of Texas Rangers came across him, treated his hurts, and arranged for him to return home to Delaware.
However, Nate’s mind had changed after the attack. He was determined to remain in Texas, and find the men who had murdered his family. That had seemed impossible, until Fate stepped in, and he saved the life of Ranger Jeb Rollins. Jeb decided there was something hidden deep inside the youngster that no one, not even Nate, had realized was there. Call it guts, sand, bravery, courage, or whatever you wished, that one moment convinced Jeb that Nate had what it took to become a Ranger. Of course, since he was only fourteen, Nate was too young—by four years—to become a full-fledged Ranger. So, Jeb planned to arrange with his commanding officer, Captain Dave Quincy, for Nate to be taken on as a camp helper. Instead, Quincy had signed Nate on as a probationary Ranger, skirting the age requirement by listing Nate’s birth date as “unknown”. Quincy’s decision had proved to be the right one when the same band of renegades which had murdered Nate’s family attacked the Ranger camp. It was only Nate’s alertness which had saved the entire camp from being wiped out.
Since then, Nate had learned not only how to survive, but to thrive, on the harsh Texas frontier. He’d learned how to ride a horse, shoot, fight, and how to keep ever ready for danger. He’d been taught by Percy Leaping Buck, the Rangers’ Tonkawa Indian scout, how to track, and how to find food in the often unforgiving Texas wilderness. He’d even nearly been drowned when he fell into rain-swollen Blue Creek and was swept away into the Rio Grande, ending up in Mexico.
Unlike the naïve, scrawny, frightened kid he was when the Rangers found him, he had toughened up. He could stay in the saddle for hours, and go for days on only a few bites of jerky, a couple of swallows of water, and snatches of sleep. He and another young Ranger, Hoot Harrison, had stopped a bank robbery and had helped fight off the same band of outlaws again when they attacked a ranch where Nate and Hoot were visiting. Nate had shot several men, and been shot himself.
Most importantly, as far as he was concerned, he’d finally killed the leader of the outlaw gang which had murdered his mother, father, and brother, and several of his fellow Rangers. The entire outlaw band had been killed during that final confrontation.
After that gunfight, Captain Quincy offered Nate the opportunity to resign from the Rangers and return home to Delaware. Nate turned him down flat. He’d grown to love Texas, and being a Ranger.
Nate smiled to himself at the thought of how much his life had changed.
1
“Ow!” A bullet smacking into the wall, just alongside Nate’s head, sent shards of adobe stinging into his cheek. That bullet brought him back to the present, fast. He leveled his pistol, a big Smith and Wesson .44 American which had belonged to his late brother, as another bullet just missed his ribs. He thumbed back the hammer.
Nate and the small group of Rangers he’d been assigned to had come upon a band of fourteen men attacking an isolated rancho, hard on the Mexican border, about twenty miles south of Presidio. Riding heedlessly into the midst of the bunch, the Rangers quickly dispatched six of the men with bullets in their chests. What they hadn’t realized until too late was the gang had seven more members, who had remained hidden in a canyon, watching in case anyone did happen to come along and interfere with their plans. They intended to kill all the inhabitants of the rancho, loot and burn the place, then run off the livestock, driving it across the Rio Grande into Chihuahua. This group had swept in behind the Rangers, and gotten them pinned down. Now, Joe Duffy was lying stretched out and unmoving in the dusty front yard, blood pooling around his head. Along with the downed Ranger were the bodies nine or ten outlaws, as well as three of the rancho’s vaqueros. Nate was caught between a horse trough and the stable’s wall, while Hoot, Dan, and Jeb had taken cover behind the pillars of the main house’s arched veranda. Slowly, the accurate fire of the Rangers, along with that from the house, had taken its toll on the raiders. Four more lay dead, two more had ridden out of the fight, slumped over in their saddles, badly wounded.
Nate took careful aim at the man shooting at him, lining up the barrel of his six-gun on the man’s middle. He pulled the trigger, fired, and the man fell back on his butt, with a loud grunt. He sat there, doubled over, one hand pressed to his gut, moaning. Seeing yet another of their number fall, the remaining outlaws turned their horses and galloped away, with Ranger bullets hurrying them along. Nate jumped up from his hiding place. When he did, the man he had just shot raised his pistol and pointed it at Nate’s chest. Before he could thumb back the hammer and pull the trigger, Jeb’s gun blasted. His bullet tore into the outlaw’s chest, slamming him back, dead.
“Reckon that’s the last of ’em. We’ll catch up with those others that ran later. Dan, you check on Joe,” Jeb ordered. “Hoot, help me’n Nate make sure there’s no fight left in any of these hombres. Nate, let’s check on that last one. You forgot to make certain he was finished, kid.”
Nate shook his head. “I’m sorry, Jeb. I thought for certain he was done for. I nailed him dead center.”
“Let’s just see about that,” Jeb said. “And you’d be even sorrier if he’d plugged you, just because you got careless.” They reached the body of the outlaw. The dead renegade was lying on his back, his eyes staring unblinkingly into the blinding midday sun. A bloody hole, where Jeb’s bullet had struck, was just to the left of the center of his chest. His belt buckle was badly dented, stark evidence of where Nate’s bullet had hit.
“See, Jeb. I told you I got him dead center,” Nate grumbled.
“Yup, you certainly did,” Jeb answered. “And that’s the problem. You aimed at his belt buckle, did
n’t you?”
“Yeah, I did,” Nate said. “I’m just doin’ what you taught me, to aim at the middle of the target.”
“Yup, but you don’t aim right at a man’s belt buckle,” Jeb said. “If an hombre’s wearin’ a thick metal buckle, like this one is, your bullet’ll likely knock him down, but it probably won’t finish him, or even knock him out of the fight. So, you aim just above the buckle. A bullet through the guts there’ll sure enough put a man down for keeps.” Jeb paused, and grinned a wicked grin. “Of course, if you think the other man’s gonna beat you to the shot, and you don’t have time to get your gun up high enough, then you plug him just below his belt buckle. You can also do that if you’re just feelin’ particularly ornery, too. Even if your shot doesn’t kill that man, he’ll wish it had. I reckon you learned a lesson here today, Nate.”
“I guess I did,” Nate answered, chagrined. “I’d imagine I nearly got myself killed, too. Reckon I have to thank you for savin’ my life, Jeb…again.”
“Por nada. Don’t mention it,” Jeb answered. “You’re still young, and even though you’re becomin’ a fine Ranger, you’ve still got a lot to learn. Just remember what happened here today, and you’ll be all right.”
They turned at a groan behind them. Joe Duffy, with Dan’s help, had sat up. Blood trickled from a long bullet slash along his forehead.
“Joe!” Jeb exclaimed. “We thought for certain you were a goner. Looks like you sure fooled all of us. Thank the Lord for that. How bad you hurtin’, pardner?”
“It ain’t all that bad,” Joe answered, trying, but failing, to keep the pain from his voice. “I’ve had hangovers lots worse’n this. This ain’t nothin’ but a…” Joe’s voice trailed off, and he grimaced.
“Don’t try pullin’ the wool over my eyes, Joe,” Jeb told him.
“All right. I’ve got one whale of a headache, and I’m bleedin’ like a stuck pig,” Joe answered. “But my skull’s too thick for a bullet to puncture. I’ll be fine, after a bit.”
“I’m gonna get some bandages and salve from my saddlebags, so I can patch you up,” Dan said. “You gonna be okay until I get back?”
“I reckon I can manage,” Joe said.
“Good.” Dan headed for his horse.
The occupants of the house had come outside, and were helping Hoot check the bodies of the fallen outlaws.
“Any of those hombres still alive, Hoot?” Jeb asked.
Hoot shook his head. “Nary a one. The three vaqueros are dead, too.”
“That’s a plumb shame, about the vaqueros, that is,” Jeb said. “No one’ll miss those renegades. They got what they had comin’ to ’em. I reckon the ones who got away won’t stop runnin’ until they hit New Mexico Territory.”
The owner of the rancho came up to Jeb. He was carrying a rifle, its barrel still warm.
“Senor, I am Don Carlos Castellon, the owner of Rancho Santiago,” he introduced himself. “Mi familia and I are most grateful for your help. We couldn’t have held off those banditos without your assistance.”
Like most Texans of Spanish ancestry who lived along the Mexican border, Castellon’s speech was a mixture of formal Spanish-accented English and the informal twang of the native Texan.
“Sergeant Jeb Rollins. Pleased to meet you, Senor Castellon. We were just doin’ our job,” Jeb said. “And luckily, we were in the right place at the right time.”
“Nevertheless, we are thankful. Don’t concern yourselves about getting rid of the bodies of these raiders. We will drag them into the canyon, and leave them for the scavengers. Bring your wounded friend inside, where my wife can care for him properly. And you and your companeros will spend the night, of course. Tomorrow, we will bury the bodies of my vaqueros. And please, call me Don Carlos.”
“As long as you call me Jeb. We don’t want to put you out, Don Carlos.”
“Nonsense. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, those raiders would have destroyed our rancho, and no doubt murdered us all. You must be tired, and your wounds should be tended to. I can see the young man with you has also been injured,” he said, indicating Nate.
“He’s right, Nate. Looks like you’ve got a pretty good cut on your cheek there,” Jeb said. “Reckon you should get that taken care of. Okay, Don Carlos, we’ll spend the night. But we’ll stay in the bunkhouse. We don’t want to be in your way.”
During the excitement and fear of the gun battle, Nate hadn’t realized the adobe chips which struck his face had dug into his flesh far more deeply than he had thought. He touched his fingers to his right cheek. They came away sticky with blood. His cheek began to burn.
“Excellent,” Don Carlos replied to Jeb. “However, as my guests, you will spend tonight in my hacienda. Don’t argue, Jeb,” he continued, when Jeb started to object. He called to one of his vaqueros, who hurried over to him.
“Pedro!”
“Si, Don Carlos?”
“Our Ranger amigos will be spending the night. See to their horses.”
“Of course, Don Carlos.”
“Pedro, we’ll go with you, and get our gear,” Jeb said.
“You mind gettin’ our stuff for us, Jeb?” Dan asked. “I’d like to get Joe inside. He’s bleedin’ pretty heavy.”
“Sure, you go on ahead,” Jeb told him. “We’ll be along, quick as we can.”
“Follow me, Senores,” Pedro said. Jeb, Hoot, and Nate got their mounts, along with Joe’s and Dan’s, then trailed behind Pedro. He led them into a spacious, airy stable, built, as were most structures in this arid land, where wood suitable for building was scarce and expensive, of adobe. Adobe was also favored because its thick walls made structures cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter. The Rangers’ horses were led into stalls, untacked, groomed, and fed.
“Sorry, Red,” Nate apologized to his horse, when the sorrel nuzzled his hand, looking for a piece of leftover biscuit. “I’ve got nothin’ left to give you. Mebbe come mornin’. You just chow down on your supper, and get some rest.”
Red snorted, then buried his muzzle in a manger full of oats and began munching. Like Nate’s pistol, rifle stock, and spurs, Big Red had also belonged to his brother, Jonathan. Satisfied their mounts were set for the night, the three Rangers headed back for the house.
The bodies of the outlaws had already been loaded into a wagon, to be hauled away. The three dead vaqueros had been placed on the veranda and covered with blankets. Don Carlos was praying over them. When he saw the Rangers approaching, he murmured a final prayer, then made the Sign of the Cross.
“Julio, Hector, and Miguel were fine vaqueros, and good friends,” Don Carlos said. “They shall be greatly missed.”
“I’m sorry, Don Carlos,” Jeb said.
“It would have been much worse if you hadn’t arrived when you did. Please, let’s go inside so you can take clean up and take some refreshment. Your young friend also still needs his injuries tended to,” Don Castellon answered. He opened the door, and motioned the men inside.
“This way, por favor.”
Don Carlos led them down a long corridor, to the kitchen at the back of the house. Two women were tying a clean bandage around Joe’s head. Another was at the stove, and yet another taking dishes from a dark walnut cupboard.
“How you doin’, Joe?” Jeb asked.
“With these pretty senoritas fussin’ over me? I’m doin’ just fine,” Joe answered, grinning.
“He will recover quickly, with a bit of rest,” one of the women assured Jeb.
“Yeah. He don’t need me anymore,” Dan said.
“Jeb, allow me to present mi esposa, Maria,” Don Carlos said. “The others are mis hijas, Luz, Estrella, y Inez.”
“I’m pleased to meet y’all,” Jeb said, removing his hat. “I reckon we should introduce ourselves. I’m Jeb Rollins, and these men here are Hoot Harrison and Nate Stewart. You’ve already met Joe and Dan.”
Hoot and Nate nodded to the women. All of them had the dark features typical of their Spanish her
itage. And all of them were extremely pretty.
“Nate, please take a seat in that chair,” Maria said, indicating a heavily carved walnut chair next to Joe. “I will wash and dress your injury. Once that is done, Inez will show you to your bedrooms. Estrella will bring soap, water, and towels so you may wash. Supper will be ready in about two hours. I would think you might like to take a siesta until then. We will call you once the table is set.”
“Gracias, senora,” Jeb answered. While Don Carlos might have given the Rangers permission to call him by his first name, Spanish custom and Western propriety dictated that any married woman of Spanish ancestry be called “senora”, except by family or close acquaintances.
“De nada,” Maria answered. Once Nate was seated, she placed a bowl of hot water, soap, and a clean cloth on the table next to him. She used those to wash out the cuts on his cheek.
“You are fortunate, senor,” she said. “The cuts, although they bled quite freely, are not very deep. I will not even place any salve over them, until you are ready to leave in the morning. Tonight, leaving them exposed to the air will help them dry out, and hasten the healing process.”
“Gracias, senora,” Nate said, once she was finished. He stood up, just as three men entered the kitchen. From their bearing and appearance, it was plain they were the Castellon sons.
“Padre, the bodies of those forajidos have been disposed of,” the eldest said.
“Good, good,” Don Carlos answered. “Rangers, permit me to introduce mis hijos, Diego, Benedicto, Juan, y Pablo. Ninos, Rangers Jeb Rollins, Joe Duffy, Dan Morton, Nate Stewart, and Hoot Harrison.”
Greetings were exchanged, hands shaken.
“Now, all of you out of my kitchen,” Maria ordered.
“You’d better listen to mi madre, Rangers,” Benedicto said, with a laugh. “My father may be the rey of the rancho, but in this hacienda, mi madre is the reina. And she is an absolute, undisputed monarch.”
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