Lone Star Ranger

by James J. Griffin

  “Don’t let Jeb get you riled up, Nate,” Jim advised. “I’ve killed a belt buckle or two in my time, too. Well, soon as we’re done here, I reckon I’d best look up Cap’n Quincy and make out my report. I’ll see you at the bunkhouse.”

  “See you there, Jim.”

  ♦●♦

  Once the horses were rubbed down and fed, the men headed for the spare bunkhouse they were using as a headquarters until spring, when the building would be needed for the spring gather and branding hands. Besides the usual main room with its rows of bunks, two long tables and benches for meals, a few card tables and chairs, and a wood-burning stove, this bunkhouse also had a cook shack in an attached lean-to, a small washroom, another room where gear could be stowed, and a small office for the head wrangler, or the ranch’s segundo. Captain Quincy had taken this for his use. He came out to greet the returning men, then motioned Jim and Jeb into his office. While they made their reports, the others cleaned up, then settled back on their beds.

  “Boy howdy, I sure hope we get to stay here for a couple of days, at least,” Nate said. He was picking up more of the cowboy’s lingo every day. “My saddle sores have saddle sores.”

  “It might happen, but I wouldn’t count on it,” Hoot said. “As long as I’ve been ridin’ for the Rangers, it seems like as soon as we might get a few days off, some new trouble pops up somewhere, and we’re on the way again.”

  George Bayfield, the company cook, stuck his head in from the cook shack.

  “Supper’ll be ready in about an hour, boys,” he said.

  “That sounds good,” Carl called from his bunk. “I missed too many meals this last time out.”

  “Swan, I ain’t been with the Rangers but a couple of months,” Shad said, laughing. “However, one thing I have learned is you ain’t never missed a chance to chow down.”

  “He’s got you pegged, Carl,” Ken added.

  “Quit ridin’ Carl,” George said. “At least he always appreciates my cookin’. He’s not forever complainin’ about it like most of you. Carl, I’ll save you an extra piece of pie.”

  “Thanks, George. I’m grateful,” Carl said.

  George ducked back inside the cook shack. The other men relaxed for the next hour, some dozing off, others mending shirts or darning socks, one or two cleaning their guns, the rest talking about their latest experiences on the trail. When George asked for help bringing out the steaks, boiled potatoes, and black-eyed peas that would be supper, he had no shortage of volunteers. After days or weeks on the trail, eating mostly bacon, beans, and hardtack, a full meal would be a welcome change.

  The men made short work of their suppers. They were working on their pie and coffee, along with cigarettes for many of them, when Captain Quincy banged a spoon against his coffee cup for attention. The room immediately fell silent.

  “Men,” he announced. “I’ve taken a quick look at Jim and Jeb’s reports. It appears you’ve done fine jobs, and I thank you all.”

  “No need to thank us, Cap’n,” Ken said. “It’s all part of the territory.”

  “Nonetheless, I’m grateful,” Quincy answered. “Now, there are still several other patrols out there, as you know. You men have worked hard the past few weeks. I have no specific reports of trouble at this time, so I’m going to allow y’all a week’s rest. That will be rescinded, of course, if any trouble does flare up.”

  “Rescinded? What’s that mean?” Hoot whispered to Nate.

  “It means cancelled, or, in other words, we can forget that rest,” Nate answered.

  “Oh.”

  “However, this time of year, with the weather so uncertain, outlaw activity does tend to die down, so I don’t expect to have to cut your time short,” Quincy continued. “If any of you feel you’d like to ride into Presidio and do some celebratin’, that’s fine, as long as you’re back here in a week. Personally, I’d recommend you just stay here at the Hennesseys’ and rest up.”

  Quincy was answered with a chorus of thanks.

  “You want to head up to Presidio, Nate?” Hoot asked. “See if we can rustle us up some fun?”

  “Nah. I’d just like to hang around here, mebbe get to know Consuela a bit better,” Nate answered. “Unless you really want to ride to town.”

  “Not especially,” Hoot said. “I’ve seen enough of the back of my horse’s ears for now. I’m with you. We’ll just stay right here, and visit with our gals.”

  Jeb wandered over and sat next to them.

  “Nate, since we’re not gonna be doin’ anythin’ for the next few days, this’ll be the time for you to learn the fast draw. Right after breakfast tomorrow suit you?”

  “That’ll suit me just fine,” Nate agreed.

  “Good. Hoot, I’d like you to come along too,” Jeb said.

  “I was already plannin’ on it,” Hoot answered. “You don’t think I’m gonna miss this, do you?

  Jeb chuckled. “I should’ve figured as much. Now, I’m gonna get me some shut-eye. See you in the mornin’.”

  “See you, Jeb.”

  ♦●♦

  The next morning, after having their breakfast, Jeb, Nate, and Hoot gathered their six-guns, Jeb a box of cartridges, and walked toward an arroyo that cut across one corner of the Circle Dot E, not far from the buildings.

  “What’cha up to?” Josiah Hennessey called after them.

  Josiah was the youngest of the Hennessey children. He was only seven, while his older siblings were all in their teens—Luke, his nearest brother in age, being sixteen. Since the Rangers had arrived at the Hennessey ranch, Josiah had developed a serious case of hero worship for the rugged lawmen.

  “We’re headin’ over to the arroyo, to teach Nate the fast draw,” Jeb answered.

  “Can I come along and watch?” Josiah pleaded. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do. My brothers are out lookin’ for strays, my pa’s busy in his office, and my sisters ain’t no fun.”

  “Sure,” Jeb agreed. “C’mon.”

  “Oh, boy. Just let me get my gun.”

  “Well, you’d better hurry,” Jeb told him.

  “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Josiah promised. He ran back to the house and returned a moment later with an old Colt stuck behind his belt. The firing pin had long since been worn off, but as far as Josiah was concerned, he’d killed an awful lot of outlaws and renegade Indians with that old gun.

  “I’m ready, Ranger Jeb,” he said.

  “Then, let’s go,” Jeb answered. “We’re burnin’ daylight.”

  With Josiah tagging along, they reached the arroyo a few minutes later.

  “Josiah, you sit on that rock, where you can watch, but won’t be underfoot,” Jeb ordered the boy.

  “Sure, Ranger Jeb.” Josiah scurried over to the rock and plopped himself down. “This all right?”

  “That’s fine,” Jeb assured him. He turned to Nate. “Nate, I’ve got somethin’ else I want to teach you, before we start your fast draw lessons,” he told him.

  “I’m ready for whatever you want to throw at me,” Nate answered.

  “We’ll see,” Jeb answered. “First, both you and Hoot, empty your pistols. Make certain there’s no live bullets left in the chambers.”

  “All right,” Nate said. Hoot was already punching the bullets out of his gun. Jeb also emptied his six-gun. He opened the box of cartridges he’d brought, took out a handful, and passed the box to Hoot.

  “Take a bunch of those and stuff ’em in your pocket, then load your gun. Nate, you do likewise.”

  “Sure,” Hoot said, with a grin. He’d had this same lesson from Jeb when he’d joined the Rangers, and knew what was coming. He took a handful of cartridges from the box, then passed it to Nate, who did the same.

  “Guns all loaded?” Jeb asked, a moment later.

  “Yep,” Hoot said.

  “Mine too,” Nate added.

  “Good. Now, Nate, these bullets we’ll be usin’ today are blanks. And we will be drawin’ and shootin’ at each other. That’s the
best way to learn. But, just because they’re blanks, that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous. A blank cartridge still holds a full charge of powder. The only difference is, instead of a lead slug, it’s got a wad of paper or cardboard. But there’s still enough power behind it to put a hole through a tin can at ten feet. When we’re practicin’, you’re gonna feel it when you get hit by one of these slugs. Okay?”

  “I reckon,” Nate said. “Can’t be any rougher than learnin’ how to knife fight from Hoot.”

  “You’re about to find out, pard,” Hoot said.

  “Enough jabberin’,” Jeb said. “Nate, time for your first lesson. I want you to stand, facin’ me, about six feet back.”

  Nate backed away six feet. “This all right?”

  “That’s fine. Now, for this lesson, you’re the Ranger. I’m an outlaw you’ve just caught. Pull out your gun and cover me.”

  “Okay.” Nate lifted his gun from its holster and pointed it at Jeb’s chest.

  “Good. Now, order me to hand you my gun, butt first.”

  “Sure. Listen, Mister, take out your gun, slow and easy, and hand it to me, butt first,” Nate ordered. “No false moves, or I’ll drop you right where you stand.”

  “Okay. Okay, Ranger. You’ve got me, all right. I’ll go peaceable like. Just don’t shoot me,” Jeb pleaded. He took the gun from his holster, then held it out to Nate, butt first. When Nate reached for it, Jeb, whose trigger finger, unnoticed by Nate, was in the trigger guard, spun the gun level, thumbed back the hammer, and pulled the trigger. A wad of cardboard slammed into Nate’s stomach, with enough impact to drive him backward and double him over. Gasping for breath, Nate fell to the dirt.

  “And you just got yourself plugged in the gut and killed, Nate,” Jeb said. “That’s called the road agent’s spin. No one knows for certain who first came up with it, but it’s cost many a lawman his life. You never, ever ask a man to hand you his gun butt first. It’s a sure way to get killed. Either tell him to unbuckle his gunbelt and drop it, or take his gun out of the holster with two fingers, then drop it. Unless, like what just happened, you want a bullet in your stomach. Lesson learned?”

  “Lesson learned,” Nate said. “I don’t reckon I’ll ever forget it, neither.”

  “That was the idea, kid,” Jeb answered. He grabbed Nate’s hand and pulled him to his feet. “You ready to learn the fast draw now?”

  “I sure am,” Nate said.

  “Good. The first thing to remember is, just like you never ask a man for his gun butt first, you never go after a renegade with your gun still in its holster. You pull out that gun, then you go after him, so you’ll most times have him covered before he can try to plug you. If Cap’n Dave, Lieutenant Bob, me, or any of the other men ever see you goin’ after an hombre with your gun still in its holster, you’ll be finished as a Ranger. Comprende?”

  “Comprende,” Nate said.

  “Okay. Now, that said, gunfights do happen, although not nearly as often as they appear in the dime novels,” Jeb said. “Another thing to remember, which you already know, is that six-guns ain’t all that accurate beyond thirty or forty feet, so, if you can’t avoid a showdown, you want to make certain you’re close enough to hit your opponent.”

  “But that means he’s also close enough to hit me,” Nate objected.

  “That’s true enough,” Jeb conceded. “However, if you take the first shot from too far away and miss, it’s most likely the man facin’ you will put a bullet in you before you get the chance to pull the trigger again. So, it’s best to make sure you’re in range, or at least close enough to be fairly certain of your shot. And I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, but I’m goin’ to. You don’t aim for the head, or the legs, or the arms, when someone is shootin’ at you. You go for the biggest target, the chest or belly. And if there’s any chance that man can still use his gun after you’ve shot him, you shoot him again. Don’t, and you could both be dead…or him pull through, while you’ll be six feet under. You always make certain he’s dead, or out of the fight.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that, with Ranger Belt Buckle Killer there,” Hoot said, laughing.

  “Not now, Hoot,” Jeb scolded. “This isn’t the time for foolin’ around. Nate, time for you and me to face each other over loaded guns. You ready? If you are, we’ll separate by about twenty feet.”

  “I reckon,” Nate said. Despite the fact he had been in several gun battles, and had killed the man who had led the gang responsible for the murders of his family, the only other time he’d ever faced a man over a gun was during a bank robbery in San Saba. Despite the fact no gunplay had taken place, once the holdup men were safely behind bars, Nate had gotten so frightened he’d had to rush to the outhouse, on the double. Even now, after months with the Rangers, he still had self-doubts about his ability to handle himself in a one-on-one gunfight. As he walked slowly away from Jeb, sweat popped out on his brow, and his palms grew damp with perspiration.

  “That’s good,” Jeb called, when they were about twenty feet apart. “Now, your holster is right about where you want it, just a tad below your waist. You want to crouch, just a bit, your feet spread slightly. Some men like to turn a bit sideways, to make themselves less of a target. I don’t, because it seems to me it’s a bit slower draw, standin’ that way, plus it just feels like it takes a split second longer to line up your target. Now, get yourself set. When you think you’re ready, you hold your hand just over the butt of your gun. Let me know when you’re set.”

  Nate put himself into a crouch, his feet spread. He placed his hand just above his Smith and Wesson’s butt.

  “I’m ready,” he called.

  “All right. Three things to remember, all equally important,” Jeb answered. “First, always take the fraction of a second you need to make certain of your shot. A lotta times, it’s not the man who pulls the trigger first who wins a gunfight, it’s the one who takes the time to make certain of his shot.

  “Second, never fan the hammer. That’s the fastest way to get yourself killed, by sprayin’ bullets all over the place while the man you’re facin’ takes careful aim and plugs you plumb center.

  “And third, it’s usually hard to figure out exactly when a man’s gonna go for his gun. Some men will flex their fingers, others might twitch, some will smile; others, you can see it in their eyes. But mostly you can’t tell, at all. Keep that in mind. Now, for the first couple of lessons, I’m gonna make things a bit easier on you. I’ll count to three, then we’ll go for our guns. And if you get hit, go down. I’ll do the same if you get me. I try to make these lessons as real as possible. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “Good. One. Two. Three.”

  Both men grabbed for their guns. Nate felt his lift smoothly from his holster. He had it almost level when Jeb’s shot hit him in the left breast. He grabbed his chest, and spun to the ground.

  “You got him, Ranger Jeb!” Josiah shouted, excitedly.

  “You all right, Nate?” Jeb called.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Nate answered, pushing himself to his feet.

  “Good. And for your first try, you didn’t do half-bad,” Jeb encouraged him. “You almost beat me. Let’s go again.”

  “I’m ready for you this time, Ranger,” Nate said, with a wicked grin.

  “Okay. One. Two. Three.”

  Again, both men grabbed for their guns. Again, Nate felt the impact of a slug hitting his chest. But this time, as he went down, he saw Jeb grab his belly, and jackknife to the ground.

  “Appears to me you both done kilt each other,” Hoot called. “I reckon he got you, Jeb.”

  “He did, Ranger Jeb,” Josiah added. “I saw it. He got you right in the guts. You’re dead.”

  “I reckon he did,” Jeb answered, as he rolled onto his back, then sat up. He rubbed the sore spot on his belly where Nate’s slug had hit.

  “Let’s go again, Nate. The only way to develop a consistent fast draw is to practice.”


  “All right, Jeb.”

  For the next thirty minutes, Jeb and Nate blazed away at each other. While Jeb won most of the fights, Nate beat him to the draw several times.

  “You don’t have to worry about your draw, Nate,” Jeb told him. “You’re faster’n a lot of men, and more accurate than most. However, we’re not done yet. I want you and Hoot to face each other. That’ll give you a feel for how another man might act in a showdown.”

  “All right,” Nate said.

  Hoot jumped to his feet.

  “I’ve been lookin’ forward to this all mornin’,” he said. “Ain’t no man alive who can take me over leveled six-guns.”

  “You’ve been readin’ too many dime novels, Hoot,” Jeb said.

  “Mebbe so, but I’m still gonna outdraw and gun down that there Nate hombre,” Hoot retorted.

  “We’ll see about that,” Nate shot back. He pulled out his gun, then shot Hoot in the ribs. Hoot grabbed his side, hollering.

  “You weren’t supposed to draw until we were both ready, ya idjit!”

  “Just takin’ Jeb’s lesson to heart,” Nate answered, as he slid his gun back in its holster. “Always come after a renegade with gun drawn. And shoot him before he has the chance to shoot you.”

  “We’ll just see about that,” Hoot snapped. “Go for your gun.”

  He grabbed his own pistol, and shot Nate three times, just above his belt.

  “Now, who’s faster?” he shouted, as Nate fell.

  “That don’t prove a thing,” Nate said. “Except you’re a no-good gut-shooter.”

  “Yeah, but I’m still standin’, and you ain’t,” Hoot retorted.

  “If you two are through clownin’ around, I’d like to get back to Nate’s lesson,” Jeb said. “Nate, get back up.”

  “All right,” Hoot said. “I’m ready.”

  “So am I,” Nate added, as he regained his feet.

  “Good. Then both of you get out there and get to work,” Jeb ordered. “We’re not quittin’ until all of these blanks are gone.”

  ♦●♦

  As Jeb had ordered, Nate and Hoot drew on each other until all of the blank ammunition was used up. They proved evenly matched, with Hoot having a slight edge.