Lone Star Ranger

by James J. Griffin

  “Don’t you give up, Red!” Nate shouted. “I’m not lettin’ you die in that muck, you hear me?” Nonetheless, the situation seemed hopeless. Nate couldn’t get enough leverage to wrench his horse free from the grasping ooze. And by the time he was able to walk back for help, it would be too late. Red would have died of exhaustion, or from injuries as he struggled to break free.

  “Wait a minute. I’ve got it, Red,” he exclaimed. “I’m gonna get you outta there, pal.”

  Nate took his rope, wrapped the end around his waist and tied it tight, then looped it around the boulder.

  “You’ll be out of that mud in a coupla’ minutes,” Nate promised. Leaning back against the rope tied around his waist and looped around the rock, Nate began to pull, every time he felt slack taking a step or two back to keep the rope taut. At first, any movement was almost imperceptible; but inch by inch, Nate began to pull Red out of the sucking mud. Suddenly, Red gave a lunge, when his front feet hit solid ground, still hidden.

  “That’s the boy, Red!” Nate shouted encouragement to his horse, while he pulled even harder on the rope. Red’s front end was clear, his front hooves clawing for purchase, the muscles in his hindquarters bulging with his frantic efforts to burst free. With a final lunge, he pulled himself out of danger. The rope went slack, and Nate, still leaning against it, fell flat on his back. Red shook himself, walked over to Nate, and nuzzled his face. Nate rubbed the gelding’s nose and laughed with relief.

  “That was too close for comfort,” he said. “Lemme get up, and make sure you’re all right.”

  Nate got up, and checked over Red for any injuries. Despite his struggles, the horse seemed unharmed, although he would undoubtedly have some stiff muscles come morning. So would Nate, for that matter.

  “Reckon we were both lucky, horse,” he said. “Neither one of us seems that much the worse for wear. Thank the Good Lord Phil taught me how to use a rope.”

  Nate’s clothes, except for his hat, were covered with mud. His six-gun was clogged, and would need to be cleaned thoroughly as soon as he got back to the ranch. But at least he hadn’t lost it, nor his boots, for that matter. Somehow, they hadn’t been sucked off by the mud, and were still on his feet.

  “I guess we’d better get back, and get cleaned up, Red.”

  Nate recoiled his rope, hung it back from his saddlehorn, and got back on his horse. He put Red into motion. The worn-out gelding, his head hanging low, moved out at a slow walk. Nate murmured a silent prayer of thanks that he, and his horse, had escaped the sticky trap.

  ♦●♦

  “I sure hope we can sneak in without anyone seein’ us, Red,” Nate said, as they neared the ranch. “I don’t want to have to explain what happened.”

  His hope was short-lived, for when he tried to ride behind the bunkhouse without being spotted, George was there, sitting on an overturned washtub and peeling potatoes for that night’s supper. He glanced up when he heard Nate approach.

  “Nate! What the devil happened to you, boy?” he yelled.

  “Red lost his footing. We fell into a little mud puddle,” Nate answered.

  “A little mud puddle?” George echoed. “More like a mud vat. Or mebbe a mud pond. Or an entire mud lake. Yeah, that’s it…a mud lake. I’ve seen buffaloes come out of wallows, and pigs rootin’ around in their sties, covered with less mud than you and your horse. You’re dang lucky it wasn’t quicksand you got yourself into, or your cayuse would’ve been sucked right under, and most likely, no one would ever have been able to figure out why you just up and disappeared without a trace. Well, son, it appears like you’ve got a mite of cleanin’ up to do before supper.”

  “I reckon so,” Nate conceded. “A bit more than a mite, in fact. George, you ain’t gonna tell any of the other fellers about this, are you? Please?”

  “I don’t hardly see how I can keep quiet about it,” George said, laughing. “It’s too good a tale to keep to myself. Besides, there’s no way to keep it a secret. You’ll never be able to sneak into the bunkhouse, get out of those filthy duds, and wash up before someone sees you. And that’s not even mentionin’ your horse and gear. No, I figure this story’s gonna spread like a prairie wildfire, Nate.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Nate answered, miserably. “Well, I guess I’d better get to work.”

  He dismounted, and led Red inside the stable. He put him in a stall and stripped the gear from him. After giving the sorrel some hay, he found a bucket and several rags. He went out back to the trough and filled the bucket, then came back to Red. While his horse munched on the hay, Nate scrubbed the thick mud from his hide, as best he could. Once that was finished, he took out Red’s currycomb and dandy brush. He brushed him thoroughly, then got a hoof pick and cleaned out his hooves.

  “I’ll turn you out a bit later, Red,” Nate promised the horse, with a pat on the shoulder. “Gonna wash some of the mud off your saddle, then try’n clean up myself.”

  Red nickered, then went back to working on his hay. Nate soaked another rag, and used that to wipe his saddle. Luckily, except for a few splatters, it was mostly the fenders, stirrups, and cinch straps which were thickly coated with dried mud. Even the saddle blanket sported only a few spots. Nate took that to wash in the trough, then drape over the fence to dry.

  Once his horse and gear were cared for, Nate turned his attention to himself. He decided not to go into the bunkhouse washroom to clean up, since that would leave a trail of mud through the entire building, and dirt he would have to clean up all over the washroom. Instead, he figured he’d clean off as much as possible in the trough behind the stable. He took a bar of soap from his saddlebags, two more rags, and headed outside.

  Once he reached the trough, Nate removed his hat and bandanna, unbuckled his gunbelt and set it aside, then peeled off his mud-caked shirt. For just a brief moment, he thought about taking off his mud-caked denims and drawers, but quickly discarded that idea. All that would have to happen would be for one of the women on the Circle Dot E to happen by while he was standing there in his birthday suit. That would be embarrassing, to say the least…not to mention it would land him in hot water with Captain Quincy, and the Hennesseys. No, he’d have to wait until he was safely inside the bunkhouse to pull off his pants.

  Nate ducked his head in the trough, to soak his hair and wet his face and neck. He took the soap, lathered up, and scrubbed himself off. The trough was in the shade most of the day, so the water it contained was still relatively cool. It was refreshing on Nate’s skin on this sweltering day.

  Some of the soap got into Nate’s eyes, causing them to burn. He ducked his face in the trough once again, trying to stop the stinging. When he straightened back up, he felt two arms wrap around him, and two hands placed on his chest. A pair of soft lips nuzzled his neck.

  “Guess who?” a voice whispered.

  “Clarissa?” Nate exclaimed, not quite believing his ears.

  “That’s right.” Clarissa turned him to face her. “I’ve been waiting to get you alone for a long, long time.”

  “But, but you can’t,” Nate sputtered. “This isn’t right. You’re Hoot’s girl.”

  “Henry doesn’t have any claim on me,” Clarissa answered. “I’m no one man’s girl.” She lifted her face to his. “And right now, at this moment, I’m your girl.”

  “But, Clarissa, I can’t do this to my best friend.”

  “He doesn’t ever need to know, unless you tell him.”

  She kissed Nate full on the lips.

  “Nate!” Hoot came out of the stable, then stopped short. He dropped the shovel he was holding and charged his friend. “Just what are you doin’?”

  “Hoot, it wasn’t me—” Nate’s protest was cut off when Hoot lowered his shoulder and rammed it into the pit of Nate’s stomach, slamming him back against the stable wall and driving most of the air from his lungs.

  “Henry, stop it!” Clarissa cried, to no avail. Stunned, Nate hung against the wall, helpless as Hoot shot t
hree quick punches to his gut; then, as Nate jackknifed, hit him as hard as he could, squarely on the point of his chin. The blow straightened Nate and bounced the back of his head against the wall. Nate sagged to the ground, curled up on his side and holding his middle. Hoot picked up the shovel he’d dropped and swung it over his head, ready to bring it down on the back of Nate’s head and smash in his skull.

  “Henry, I said stop it,” Clarissa repeated, grabbing him by the arm before the blow could be delivered. “I think you’ve done enough. Let’s go. Now. I mean it.”

  “All right,” Hoot said. “But he had no right to be kissin’ on you.” To Nate, he snarled, “If I ever see you anywhere near Clarissa again I’ll finish what I started here. I mean it, Nate. You just stay away from her. And steer clear of me, too. You think you’d be satisfied with that Mexican hot tamale you’ve been kissin’ on, but no, you had to go and try’n steal my gal, too. C’mon Clarissa, let’s get outta here.”

  Taking Clarissa by the arm, Hoot turned and stalked away, leaving Nate lying there, barely conscious. Nate attempted to push himself up, but fell back and lay there, groaning, with blood dripping from his chin, a lump rising on his jaw, and feeling like his belly’d been trampled by a herd of wild horses.

  ♦●♦

  Nate stumbled into the Rangers’ bunkhouse shortly before suppertime. His hat was askew, he had his shirt and bandanna draped over one shoulder and his gunbelt over the other. He staggered a bit as he walked toward his bunk.

  “Nate, what the heck happened?” Jeb exclaimed. “George said you’d gotten yourself into a fight with a mud puddle, and the puddle won. He sure never said you’d gotten the stuffin’s beaten out of you. Who did that to you?”

  “I was cleanin’ the muck off Red, and he got mad. He pinned me against the back of his stall,” Nate answered.

  “Red did that to you? I can’t hardly believe it,” Dan said. “That horse loves you, and trusts you. He’d have no call to do that. Besides, those scrapes and bruises don’t look like they came from any horse’s hoof, or from being banged against a wall. They look like they came from a fist. Why don’t you level with Jeb?”

  “Keep outta this, Dan. I told y’all exactly what happened,” Nate insisted. He tossed his shirt and bandanna on the floor, and threw his gunbelt on his bunk. “I was combin’ the mud outta Red’s tail. I must’ve pulled it too hard, and that hurt him, so he fought back. That’s all. Now, just leave me alone, all of you. I want to get out of the rest of these dirty clothes, wash up, and get to bed.”

  “Not quite so fast there, kid,” Jeb answered. “You’d better let me tend to your hurts. They look pretty bad. Hoot, you mind givin’ me a hand fixin’ up your buddy?”

  “Sorry, Jeb.” Hoot shook his head from where he was lying on his bunk. “I’m plumb tuckered out, and my back’s hurtin’ from shovelin’ manure out of the stalls most of the afternoon. Besides, you don’t need my help tendin’ to a few cuts.”

  Jeb looked from Hoot, to Nate, and back again. Both had their jaws set stubbornly, neither looking at the other.

  “All right, Hoot,” he said, with a shrug. “Joe, would you mind if I ask you to help out?”

  Joe was at one of the tables, playing a game of solitaire. He threw down the jack of diamonds he held, pushed back his chair, and stood up.

  “Not at all, Jeb,” he said. He shot Hoot a hard look. “That’s what pards are for, to look out for each other. That’s the only way we can survive out here, watchin’ each others’ backs. I’ll help patch Nate up.”

  “Thanks, Joe. Go to the cook shack and get some hot water from George,” Jeb said. “He’s got the bandages and salve in there, too. Nate, you come with me.”

  “You don’t need to be makin’ such a fuss over a couple of little bumps,” Nate protested.

  “Nate, you heard me,” Jeb snapped. “Now, either you walk into the wash room on your own two feet, or I’ll drag you in there, if I have to. Which is it gonna be?”

  “All right.” Nate gave in. “I’ll go, but I still say you’re makin’ a big deal out of nothin’.”

  He headed for the wash room, with Jeb holding his arm to steady him. When they passed Hoot’s bunk, he turned onto his belly, and buried his face in his pillow. Nate kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.

  “Sit down, Nate,” Jeb ordered, once they reached the wash room. He took a basin from the washstand. Nate slumped into a chair.

  “You might as well pull off those muddy boots while we’re waitin’ for Joe,” Jeb suggested.

  “Okay.” Nate bent over to pull off the boots. When he did, a wave of dizziness swept through him. He had to swallow hard to keep down the bile rising in his throat. He did manage to get the boots, and his socks, off, then leaned back in the chair, gasping for breath.

  “I thought you said you weren’t hurt bad, son,” Jeb said. “Seems to me you’re hurtin’ a lot more’n you’re lettin’ on.”

  “I’m just a bit sore, that’s all,” Nate insisted. “And hungry. Once I get some food in my belly I’ll be fine and dandy.”

  “You’d better let me be the judge of that,” Jeb answered.

  Joe came into the washroom, carrying a pitcher of steaming hot water, a tin of salve, and a stack of clean bandages.

  “Here you are, Jeb,” he said. He handed the pitcher to him. Jeb poured some of the water into the basin, dipped a cloth into it, and used that to wipe the blood from Nate’s chin.

  “You’ve got a pretty good cut here, Nate,” he said. “I don’t think it’ll need stitches, but you might end up with a scar. You’re gonna have quite the lump on your jaw, too. You might have trouble chewin’ for a spell. I’m gonna wash the cut out now.”

  Jeb dipped the soap in the water, and rubbed it on the cloth to work up a lather. Nate winced when Jeb pressed the cloth against his chin, and the harsh soap stung the open wound.

  “I’m sorry, Nate,” Jeb said. “I know it stings like the devil, but there’s an awful lot of dirt in that cut. I’ve gotta get as much of it outta there as I can.”

  He finished washing out the wound, dried it, and coated it with salve.

  “There’s no way to put a bandage on that, Nate, short of tyin’ your mouth shut,” he said, with a chuckle. “Now, there’s probably some folks who’d be glad to see you gagged, but I’m not one of those. As long as the salve covers that cut, you should be fine.”

  “Thanks, Jeb,” Nate said. “Can I get up now?”

  “Not quite yet,” Jeb answered. “I need to make certain you don’t have any cracked ribs. It looks like your gut took quite a poundin’ when—well, when your horse lit into you. Your belly’s already turnin’ several nice shades of black and blue.” He looked hard at Nate while he emphasized the words “your horse”.

  “He’s got a nice lump raisin’ on the back of his head, too, Jeb,” Joe said, from where he stood behind Nate. “It’s big as an egg, and I reckon it’s gonna get even a bit larger. I’ll get some cool water from the springhouse so we can put a compress on it. Be right back.”

  “All right, Joe.”

  While Joe went for the water, Jeb poked and prodded Nate’s middle, pressing hard on his ribs. Nate winced whenever he hit a particularly sore spot, but, luckily, there was no sharp pain whenever Jeb pushed on a rib.

  “It seems you’ve only got some real bad bruises, Nate,” Jeb said. “But you’ll need to be careful for a couple of days, just in case I missed somethin’.”

  “I will be,” Nate assured him.

  Joe returned, holding a bucket of water, which he handed to Jeb. Jeb took another clean cloth, soaked it, then pressed it against the lump on the back of Nate’s head.

  “Hold that there for a few minutes, Nate,” he ordered.

  Nate kept the compress in place for almost ten minutes, until his arm grew tired.

  “You can remove that compress now,” Jeb told him. When he did, Jeb studied the lump.

  “There’s a bit of a cut there,” he said. “I’m gonna cover it wit
h salve, then wrap a bandage around your head. It’ll only have to stay on for a couple of days. I’ll change it tomorrow.”

  “Okay,”

  Jeb soon finished treating the last of Nate’s injuries.

  “I’m about done here,” Jeb said. “I reckon you’ll want to finish washin’ up. Joe’n I’ll leave you to that.”

  “Thanks, Jeb. You too, Joe. I appreciate everythin’ you’ve done.”

  “It’s nothin’,” Jeb said.

  “I’m still grateful.”

  “You might want to be more careful around your horse from now on,” Joe said.

  “My horse? Oh. Yeah, my horse,” Nate echoed. “I reckon you’re right. I’ll remember that.”

  “Joe, let’s go outside for a smoke, while Nate washes up,” Jeb said.

  “Outside? It’s pretty hot out there. Why not just have a smoke right here?” Joe asked.

  “I’d like to get some fresh air,” Jeb answered, giving Joe a meaningful look.

  “Yeah. Now that you mention it, I reckon I could use some fresh air, too,” Joe answered. “Let’s go.”

  He and Jeb went outside. They each stood with one foot braced against the bunkhouse wall while they rolled and lit quirlies.

  “What do you think really happened to Nate?” Joe asked. “He sure didn’t get those hurts from any horse.”

  “I dunno for certain,” Jeb said. He took a drag on his cigarette. “But I’d bet my hat Hoot’s involved, somehow. That’s why I didn’t want to talk inside. It sure ain’t like Hoot, not wantin’ to help, especially refusin’ to help Nate. They’ve been friends practically since the day Nate and I rode into camp. You hardly ever see ’em apart. Somethin’ just doesn’t add up.”

  “Yeah. And did you see how neither of ’em would look at each other?” Joe said. “Didn’t say a word to each other, neither. And Hoot’s knuckles are all scraped up. Somethin’ sure went sour between those two, all right. You reckon we’ll ever find out what it is?”