Ranger's Revenge (Texas Ranger Jim Blawcyzk Book 7)

by James J. Griffin

  Chapter 10

  The approach of dusk found Jim still quite a distance from his destination, the falls and breaks of the Pedernales River. He was feeling the effects of his wounds and the days of inactivity. Every muscle in his body ached, and a deep weariness was settling in his bones.

  "Siz, I guess it's about time to find a place to spend the night," Jim told his horse. "We've covered a lot of ground today, and I'm feelin' tired. 'Sides, it'll be dark soon, and we won't be able to do any searchin' tonight. I don't want to chance stumblin' onto someone and not bein' ready for 'em."

  No sooner had Jim begun scanning the countryside for a suitable campsite when several shots rang out some distance ahead. Jim pressed his heels into Sizzle's ribs. The big gelding leaped forward in a dead run. Jim reined him in just before they reached the mesquite bosque from which the shots had come. He dropped from the saddle and lifted his Colt.

  "We've got to go in slow and easy," he warned Sizzle, with a soft pat to his muzzle. "So you keep quiet, bud. Stay put until I call you."

  Jim led Sizzle to the thicket and looped his horse's reins loosely around a thick branch. Sizzle would be able to jerk free and come at his rider's whistle. The paint fell to munching on the mesquite pods.

  Jim spied the faint glow of a campfire. He worked his way to the edge of the firelight. Alongside the fire was a peddler's wagon, its team of mules unhitched and hobbled for the night. A scraggly-bearded gunman had his pistol leveled at the wagon's owner, while a second man ransacked the conveyance.

  "Texas Ranger! Don't move!" Jim's voice cut through the still air like the crack of a whip.

  The first gunman shifted his six-gun away from the trader and sent a wild shot in the direction of Jim's voice. Jim fired twice in return, both of his slugs tearing into the outlaw's stomach. The man dropped his gun, clamped both hands to his middle, spun and collapsed.

  The second robber twisted around on the wagon seat. He fired blindly, three times; the slugs shattering brush over Jim's head. Jim fired once. His bullet slammed into the man's chest, blasting him off the wagon. The holdup man hit the ground hard and lay still.

  "Don't move, Mister!" Jim ordered the peddler.

  "I'm not twitchin' a muscle," the man called back.

  Colt still at the ready, Jim stepped into the circle of firelight. He walked up to the first gunman and, with the toe of his boot, rolled him onto his back. The stomach-shot renegade let out one wracking cough, then his breathing ceased.

  Jim moved over to the other robber. His bullet had pierced the man's heart, stopping in his spine. He died before he hit the dirt.

  Jim punched the empties from his Colt and reloaded. He shoved the gun back in its holster.

  "I'm sure glad to see you, Mister," the peddler declared. He was a stocky man somewhere on the north side of fifty. He took out a handkerchief to wipe sweat from his forehead.

  "I figured I was a goner. Those bandits would've killed me once they'd taken what they wanted."

  "It's Ranger, mister, Ranger Lieutenant Jim Blawcyzk. And it's likely they would've shot you," Jim said. "But they won't bother anyone else."

  "Well, I appreciate your handlin' them, Ranger. Saved my bacon. I'm O'Neil St. Onge. You recognize either of those men?"

  "Yep." Jim nudged the body of the first outlaw with his boot.

  "This here's Riley Buxton. He was wanted for robbery and assault. The Rangers have been lookin' for him for quite a spell. And his pardner's Royce Haley. Two more renegades the Rangers can cross off the Fugitive List."

  Jim whistled, and an answering whinny rang out. A moment later Sizzle trotted up to him. The horse nuzzled his face, and dropped his nose to Jim's hip pocket.

  "Not you too." Jim chuckled. "One peppermint-beggin' cayuse is enough. Sorry, but I didn't think to bring any candy along. I'll pick some up first town we hit."

  "That's some good lookin' bronc," St. Onge said.

  "Thanks. You got a shovel in that wagon? Soon as I take care of my horse I'll bury these hombres."

  "I've got several shovels," St. Onge answered. "In fact, I've got just about anything the hard-working rancher, farmer, or cowhand might need. That's my line, traveling from ranch to ranch selling supplies, sundries, and notions."

  "Good. Dig out a couple of those spades while I rub down Sizzle. Long as you don't mind sharin' your campsite, I'll be stopping' here for the night."

  "Ranger, after meetin' those two, I'll be plumb grateful for the company," St. Onge replied.

  Jim unsaddled and curried his horse, then picketed him on a long line to graze. He shook his head as he hammered the pin into the earth.

  "Gotta get used to havin' to tie you when I bed down, Siz. Never had to do that with Sam."

  Jim sighed deeply as memories of his days on the trail with Sam flooded back. Sizzle came up behind him and buried his nose in Jim's back, knocking him flat on his face. He nuzzled the back of the prone Ranger's neck.

  "All right, let me up, doggone it," Jim yelped, laughing despite himself.

  Once Sizzle was settled, Jim and St. Onge buried the two dead outlaws in shallow graves. Rocks were mounded over the graves to discourage scavengers. Jim said a short prayer for the men's souls.

  "I was just about ready to cook my supper when those desperados rode up on me," St. Onge said as they walked back to the fire. "You ready for some grub?"

  "I'm more than ready," Jim answered. "Haven't had any chuck since this morning."

  "Then if you'll rustle up some more firewood I'll start the beefsteak and biscuits."

  Both men worked quietly, remaining silent while they ate their meal. Once they were finished and lingering over mugs of black coffee, St. Onge finally questioned Jim.

  "Lieutenant, you said your name was Blaw...?"

  "Bluh-zhick," Jim answered. "It's Polish. Just call me Jim. Most folks do."

  "It's easier, that's for certain," St. Onge agreed.

  "What about your name? O'Neil St. Onge? That's pretty unusual," Jim said

  "True. Most folks drop the "O" and just call me Neil. My mother was from Ireland, and my father was a Quebecois. So I'm half-Irish and half-French. I'm never certain whether I want to fight or make love." The peddler laughed.

  "That can be a problem." Jim chuckled. "Neil, maybe you can help me."

  "After you saved my hide? Anything in my stock is yours, Jim."

  "Well, I need a new hat," Jim answered, "but that can wait a bit. No, I've got a few questions for you. I'm on the trail of a gang who shot a man and his young boy, then beat and violated his wife and rustled his horses. I've got a lead they might be holed up somewhere along the Pedernales. There would've been six or seven men, and they'd be drivin' a herd of sixteen paint horses and a pair of matched palomino draft horses. Did you happen to meet up with a bunch which might fit that description?"

  "I can't say as I have. I do quite a bit of trade all through this territory, but I haven't run across an outfit like that."

  Jim dug in his pocket and came up with the scrap of cloth and strands of hair he'd taken from Julia's hand. He showed them to St. Onge.

  "You didn't sell anyone a shirt to replace a torn one this color, did you? Or see a man missin' a hunk of sandy hair like this?"

  "No, I didn't. Wish I had, and could tell you who bought 'em. But I haven't."

  "How about any of the ranches where you've stopped over the past week or two? You see any paints, especially a blocky tobiano buckskin with a lot of white on his hide?"

  "Couple of places along the Pedernales had some paints in their corrals. Nearest one's about fifteen miles upstream from the crossing at Johnson's Settlement. Other one's about five miles beyond that and across the river. Sorry I can't be of more help, Jim. But at least you've got one thing in your favor. Paints aren't all that common around these parts, since most cowpokes don't like those Indian ponies. That should narrow your search some."

  "You've been a lot of help, Neil. I'll start at the spreads you just mentioned. Even if neither
of 'em are the place I want, maybe they can point me in the right direction."

  "I sure hope they can."

  "I'll see." Jim shrugged. "I'm gonna get an early start in the morning. Meantime, you said you've got anything a cowpuncher needs in your rig. That include a Stetson in my size?"

  "It sure does. C'mon over to the wagon and pick one out. By the way, I also carry several kinds of candy. I believe I heard you tell your horse you'd buy him some peppermints?"

  "Here I go again. I can't win." Jim laughed. "All right, dig out some of those."

  Jim picked out a new cream-colored Stetson and a light tan shirt. Along with Sizzle's peppermints and some licorice for himself, he took some grain for the horse and two boxes of .45 cartridges.

  "How much do I owe you, Neil?" he asked.

  "Not a dime, Jim, and don't argue with me!" St. Onge answered, when Jim began to splutter a protest.

  "But this stuff cost you considerable," Jim said.

  "Not as much as a bullet in my middle would have. Maybe those bullets you just bought will bring down the men who attacked you and your family. That'll be payment enough for me, knowin' in some small way I helped bring them to justice."

  "You knew?" Jim exclaimed.

  "Not at first. But it wasn't hard to figure," St. Onge explained. "It's in your eyes. Besides, you're riding a paint. I just put two and two together."

  "Well, I'll be doggoned! Neil, I'd appreciate it if you didn't let anyone know we'd crossed paths."

  "I never saw you, cowboy." St. Onge grinned.

  "Gracias. Now I'm gonna call it a night. See you at sunup."

  "I'll be awake. Always was an early riser," St. Onge said.

  Jim checked on Sizzle one last time, giving the paint a peppermint. Sizzle crunched down on the treat, and nuzzled the back of Jim's neck. He placed his lips to Jim's nose in a horse "kiss".

  "You get some rest, pal," Jim said to the gelding. "I've got a hunch we've a long trail ahead. In fact, I'd bet a hat on it."

  Jim gave the horse a final pat on the shoulder, then returned to the fire. He spread out his blankets, pulled off his boots and gunbelt, and stretched out. Jim said his evening prayers, and drifted to sleep.

  Chapter 11

  Two hours after sunup the next day found Jim on the north bank of the Pedernales. The first ranch St. Onge had mentioned was the Box Q, run by an elderly rancher and his wife, their six sons and their wives, and their children. They had indicated they'd seen no sign of the missing horses.

  After leaving the Box Q, Jim rested until late afternoon, then waded Sizzle across the shallow rapids of the river. In this section the Pedernales wound between rolling land and grassy flats, which were interspersed by pink granite outcroppings and broken by occasional groves of mesquites, cedars, or oaks. This was ideal grazing country, as well as a location with numerous hiding places for rustled livestock.

  Once he' d crossed the river and ridden upstream for six miles, Jim left Sizzle hidden in a mesquite thicket. The Ranger covered the last mile on foot, taking advantage of the dense scrub along the riverbank to reach the second ranch unseen. A soft involuntary whistle escaped from his lips when he saw several of his horses bunched in a corral.

  "This is the place, all right," he muttered to himself. "Not much cover past here, though. And it sure won't be easy to get into that place. That cabin's built like a fort. I'll wait until after dark to hit these hombres."

  The main building was a sturdy log structure, shaded by several large live oaks. It sat in the middle of a clearing. Off to the left stood a good-sized stable and several corrals.

  Jim bellied down to study the terrain. He waited to see if any of the outlaws would show themselves. By the time he backed away from the ranch, he'd determined four or five men were in the well-built cabin.

  After spending the rest of the day napping until dusk, then having a cold supper of jerky and hardtack, washed down by river water, Jim rode back to the horse thieves' hideout. He stopped Sizzle just inside the edge of the sheltering brash and tied him loosely to a post oak. He gave the young horse a peppermint, then took a spare bandanna from his saddlebag and tied it around the horse's muzzle. "I'm sorry to do this, Siz, but I can't take any chances on your callin' out and givin' me away," he said. "Wait here until I whistle for you."

  Jim left his Winchester in the saddle scabbard, since the rifle would be too awkward to easily maneuver through the dense underbrush. He checked the loads in his Colt, replaced it in his holster, and began working his way through the scrub, aided by the dim light of a waning gibbous moon.

  Once he reached the edge of the brush, Jim stopped to again look over the ranch yard before making his final approach. He was about to begin crossing the yard when the cabin door opened and one of the men stepped out. The man headed to one of the trees and stood facing it while he relieved himself.

  Jim slid his Bowie knife from its sheath on his belt. He readied the knife for a throw as he stared at the outlaw's broad back, a perfect target in the dim moonlight. He hesitated.

  "It'd be real easy to kill that hombre while he's standin' there peein'," Jim thought. "All I gotta do is put my knife in his back."

  Jim raised the Bowie, drawing his arm back to fling the heavy-bladed weapon. He stopped with his hand at shoulder height, ready to complete the throw. Despite what the renegades had done to his family, Jim couldn't bring himself to down the man in front of him without warning.

  "Texas Ranger!" Jim said. "Don't move. Get your hands up."

  The man jumped in surprise, then whirled, hand dropping to the gun on his hip. Jim threw his Bowie, the knife catching the outlaw in his stomach. With a scream the outlaw fell back against the tree, and slid to the dirt.

  The cabin door flew open, a man stood in the doorway six-gun drawn. Backlit by the dim light of a lantern inside, he made a clear target.

  "Texas Ranger!" Jim shouted. "Throw down that gun!"

  The man answered with a bullet which burned along Jim's ribs.

  Jim returned fire, his slug taking the silhouetted outlaw in the side. The man jackknifed, exposing another figure behind him. Jim fired again, this time hitting his target in the chest. The man slammed backwards.

  Crouched low, Jim raced for the cabin, firing as he went. One of his bullets ripped into the shoulder of a third renegade, spinning him to the floor. Seeing his partners downed, the remaining man threw his gun out the door and raised his hands over his head.

  "Don't shoot, Ranger. I quit!"

  "Then get over next to your compadre and stand hitched."

  Jim kept his gun leveled at the man's stomach. He stalked up to the cabin, pausing to check the gut-shot man lying across the sill. The man was unconscious, his breathing ragged. Blood was pooling under his body. He didn't have much time.

  Jim checked the second man he'd shot. This renegade was lying on his back, already dead.

  The other wounded outlaw was propped against an overturned table, holding his bullet-shattered shoulder.

  "Are they dead?" the unhurt horse thief asked.

  Jim reloaded his pistol. His blue eyes were colder than ice as he glared at the two surviving men. His voice was low and deadly when he answered.

  "They're done for. So's your pardner outside. If you two don't come up with the right answers you'll be joinin' them in the Devil's hop yard plumb quick. What's your name, Mister? And your pard's?"

  "It's Prentiss... Ben Prentiss." Prentiss nodded toward his wounded partner. "And he's Jules Morton."

  "How about the others?"

  Prentiss nodded toward the dying man in the doorway.

  "That's Hank Peterson. Other's John Holcomb. Mai Bailey's outside."

  "Which one of you shot my boy? And which one attacked and raped my wife? Or did all of you do that?"

  "What the devil are you talkin' about, Ranger?"

  "Don't try and play dumb with me." Jim snarled. "Those are my horses out there in the corral. They were stolen from my ranch a while back. And the outlaw
s who rustled 'em shot me and my boy, then violated my wife and beat her so badly she may not live. Now tell me which one of you did that or I'll gut-shoot both of you right here and leave you to die real slow. You can bet your hat on it."

  "We don't know anything about that," Prentiss said.

  Jim swung from the floor catching Prentiss deep in the belly. Prentiss doubled over and Jim punched him square on the nose. Cartilage crunched. The blow flattened Prentiss's nose and brought forth a fountain of blood. Prentiss straightened up and staggered back against the wall. Jim rammed the barrel of his six-gun deep into Prentiss's belly.

  "You're lyin'!" Jim growled. He thumbed back the hammer of the heavy Peacemaker.

  Prentiss cringed, seeing death in Jim's icy blue eyes.

  "I'm not!" he screamed. "We didn't steal those horses. We bought 'em."

  "You tellin' me you didn't know those horses were stolen? Don't even think of goin' for that gun! Not one more wiggle!"

  Jim shifted the Colt to cover Morton, who had edged toward his dropped revolver. Morton fell back against the table.

  "I'm not gonna make another move. But I'm bleedin' to death here, Ranger," he whined.

  "You think I care about you hombres after what was done to my family?" Jim again rammed the Colt into Prentiss's belly. "You've got ten seconds!"

  "I don't know what happened to your wife. Honest. You gotta believe me," Prentiss cried. He was shaking, the sweat pouring down his face mixing with the blood dripping from his broken nose.

  "Wrong answer." Jim started to pull the trigger.

  "All right, Ranger. Just don't shoot me," Prentiss pleaded. "We knew those horses were stolen, sure. We've been rustlin' livestock for months from around here, and buyin' more from anyone with stuff to sell. We run the stock over to New Mexico or down across the Rio. But we didn't steal those horses or shoot you. And none of us would've shot a boy or attacked a female like you claim. You've got to believe me."

  Jim eased back the hammer of his Colt. "All right, say I take your word for it. Unless you want to hang, you'd better be able to tell me who did sell you those horses."