Lone Star Ranger #3

by James J. Griffin

“Hey, Nate,” he said. “We’ve got a little time before supper. That’ll finally give me the chance to teach you at least the basics of how to handle a rope. Soon’s you’re done carin’ for your sorrel, grab your rope and follow me.”

  “Sure thing,” Nate answered. He finished brushing his horse, turned him loose with the others, then took his lariat off his saddle.

  “Where you headed, Nate?” Hoot asked, when he and Phil walked by where Hoot was rolling out his blankets.

  “Phil’s gonna teach me how to use a rope,” Nate answered.

  “This, I’ve gotta see,” Hoot said. “Mind if I tag along?”

  “Not at all,” Phil answered. With Hoot following, Phil led Nate to a spot at the edge of camp, where the stump of a long-dead juniper stood.

  “We’re gonna use that stump as your target, Nate,” he said. “For tonight, we’ll stick with the basics. Later on, I’ll show you how to rope from the back of a horse. Eventually, I’ll teach you how to catch a movin’ target, like a horse, cow, or man. Right now, I’m gonna show you how to shake out a loop, spin your rope, toss it, and catch what you’re aimin’ for. Does that sound all right?”

  “It sounds fine to me, Phil,” Nate answered. “And I sure appreciate you takin’ the time to teach me.”

  “Don’t mention it. We all had to learn the fine art of ropin’ sometime, and someone had to teach us. In my case, it was my pa,” Phil said. “You got any questions before we get started?”

  “Just one. Hoot said I should have you teach me a couple of different throws. One he mentioned was the Howlin’ Man.”

  “The Howlin’ Man?” Phil repeated. Behind him, Hoot was snickering. “I ain’t never heard of that throw. Are you certain that’s what Hoot called it?”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what he said. Ain’t that it, Hoot?”

  “If you say so, pardner,” Hoot answered, stifling a laugh.

  “I still ain’t never heard of a Howlin’ Man throw,” Phil insisted.

  “Must be the toss where the rope whistles like an Apache when you twirl it,” Hoot said.

  “Wait a minute. Do you mean the Houlihan, or the Houley Ann, Nate?” Phil asked.

  “Yeah. That’s the one,” Nate said. “I knew it was somethin’ like Howlin’ Man.”

  “Good. You had me worried for a minute, thinkin’ there was a throw I didn’t know of,” Phil said. “I can teach you the Houlihan, after a bit. It’s a bit tricky, so we’ll wait on that until you have the basics down.”

  “What about the other one? The Johnny’s in His Bloomers throw?” Nate asked. “Can you teach me that one, also?”

  “What?” Phil exclaimed. This time, Hoot couldn’t contain his mirth. He doubled over with laughter.

  “Hoot, you were joshin’ Nate, weren’t you?” Phil asked. “Gave him a couple of funny names for rope throws.”

  It took Hoot a few minutes to get himself under control, before he could reply.

  “No, Phil. I sure didn’t give Nate any such name like that. I swear it.”

  “You mean that ain’t it?” Nate asked.

  “No, that ain’t it,” Phil answered. “Think a little harder, will you? See if you can recollect the right name.”

  “All right.” Nate thought for a few moments.

  “I’ve got it. It was the Johnny’s Blossoms toss.”

  Phil just looked at him, dumbfounded. Again, Hoot lost complete control, laughing hysterically while tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “You mean the Johnny Blocker?” Phil asked.

  “Oh. Yeah, I guess that’s what I mean,” Nate said.

  “I sure hope so,” Phil said. “I can teach you that one, too, after you get the hang of a basic throw. Both the Houlihan and Johnny Blocker are underhand throws, where the loop twists before it reaches its target. It takes a lot of practice to be able to pull those off. And if you’re smart, you won’t let any of the other boys know about those names you came up with. They’ll rib you from here six ways to Tuesday.”

  “Nate might keep his mouth shut, but I sure ain’t gonna keep quiet about those,” Hoot said. “It’ll give me a chance to get even with Nate for spreadin’ the story about Dusty dumpin’ me on my butt when that longhorn startled him, back outside of San Saba.”

  “You ain’t gonna do that, are you, Hoot?” Nate pleaded.

  “A million dollars couldn’t keep me from telliin’,” Hoot answered. “I can’t hardly wait to tell the boys about Johnny havin’ pretty posies in his bloomers. Might even have to make up a song about it. Matter of fact, I think I’ll just do that. Heck, it might become as famous as Good-bye, Old Paint or The Old Chisholm Trail. And I’ll owe it all to you, Nate.”

  “Mebbe I’ll just crawl under a rock and die,” Nate said.

  “You don’t want to do that,” Phil advised. “Most of the rocks around here have snakes, scorpions, horned toads, or lizards under ’em. You don’t want to move in on their territory. They can get downright ornery. Well, now that we’ve all had our laughs, it’s time to start your lesson. Watch me, Nate. I’ll show you how to start, then you follow my example.”

  “All right, Phil.”

  “Here goes. You take your coiled rope in your left hand. Of course, if you were left-handed, you’d do it opposite. You want to keep a length of it, about three feet or so, you’ll know what feels comfortable, danglin’. See how I’m doin’ it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. You do the same.”

  Nate shifted his rope from his right to his left hand.

  “That looks fine, Nate,” Phil said. “Now, you shake out a loop. You let your rope slide through the honda, buildin’ the loop as big as you need. I’m gonna build about a three foot circle.” He proceeded to do so.

  “Now, you start twirlin’ the rope, generally over your head. You can make your loop larger while you’re doin’ that, if you feel the need.” Phil began twirling his rope over his head. “Now, you build momentum, all the while keepin’ your eye on your target.” He twirled the loop faster.

  “When you’ve got the speed you’ll require, and you’re all set to make your throw, you let the rope go, like so. Then once it’s around the target you pull back and tighten the rope.” Phil threw his loop, which settled neatly over the stump.

  He jerked back on the rope, tightening the loop. “See. Nothin’ to it. Nothin’ but long hours of practice, and a lot of missed tries and frustration, that is.” Phil pulled his rope off the stump and recoiled it. “You wanna give it a try?”

  “Might as well.” Nate shrugged. “I sure don’t want to have to chase another runaway horse or mule without knowin’ how to rope.”

  “Okay. Build your loop, and start swingin’ your rope. Soon as it feels right, you try and drop it over that stump.”

  Nate shook out his loop, then began twirling his rope over his head. After a few swings, the rope collapsed, and settled limply around his shoulders.

  “Looks like you done captured yourself there, pardner,” Hoot said, laughing.

  “You ain’t helpin’ any, Hoot,” Phil scolded. “Nate, start again. This time, snap your wrist more. You need to build more speed. One other thing. When you let go of the rope, you don’t so much throw it as just release it. It’s the momentum which takes your loop and drops it over your target. Now, try it again.”

  Nate shook his head, pulled the rope off himself, rebuilt his loop, and swung it again. This time, it spun nicely over his head, until he released the rope. The loop landed three feet to the right of the stump.

  “I think you missed, Nate,” Hoot said.

  “Did you rope whatever you were aimin’ for on your first try, Hoot?” Phil asked.

  “Well, no. Gotta admit I didn’t,” Hoot answered.

  “Then stop raggin’ on Nate, and let him practice. Nate, when you make your toss, you just have to follow through a bit more. Now try it again.”

  Nate did as ordered, building his loop, twirling it, building up momentum. He let it fly. This t
ime, it missed the stump by a good ten feet to the left. It dropped over Hoot’s head and circled his neck. Instinctively, Nate had pulled back when it landed. Hoot started gasping.

  “You… you’re chokin’ me, Nate,” he wheezed.

  Instantly, Nate loosened his grip. Hoot yanked the loop from around his throat.

  “You tryin’ to kill me, Nate?”

  “Well, that’d be one way to keep you from talkin’ about those names I came up with,” Nate said.

  “Yeah, but chokin’ him to death’d make Cap’n Quincy a bit upset,” Phil said, chuckling. “However, we do know one thing, now. If we ever have to give a prisoner a rope necktie party, you’ll be our hangman, Nate.”

  “We wouldn’t really hang a man without takin’ him in for a trial, would we?” Nate asked.

  Phil shrugged. “It’s been done. You have to remember, Nate, this isn’t the East, where you came from. Things aren’t all nice and tidy out here. It can be a long way to the nearest town, even further to one with a jail, and a judge. Sometimes, if a man’s guilty, and there’s no doubt he is, honest folks have to take the law into their own hands. I’m not sayin’ it’s right, just that sometimes it’s necessary. There’s no other choice. You understand what I’m gettin’ at?”

  “I guess I understand, all right. It just seems kind of harsh,” Nate replied.

  “It is. But this is a harsh land, son, filled with hard men. That’s why us Rangers are out here. We, and other decent folks, are tryin’ to make Texas a place where law and order take place of the law of the gun and knife. But I’m afraid it’ll be a long time before enough outlaws are cleared out until that happens, if ever.

  “Now, enough with the speechifyin’. I never did hanker to be a preacher. Pick up your rope and try again.”

  It took three more attempts before Nate finally got his rope to settle around the stump. However, he quickly got the hang of timing his release, and the next ten times in a row he roped his target.

  “You did just fine, Nate,” Phil praised. “Time to call it a night, before your shoulder and wrist are so sore you won’t be able to use ’em for a week. Practice whenever you get the chance.

  “I do want to point out one thing, just in case you do have to try’n rope somethin’ off the back of your horse. Never, and I mean never, tie the end of your rope to your saddlehorn. A few cowboys do that, but they’re the exception.

  “If you latch onto a big, angry as heck longhorn, and he catches you or your horse off balance, he can pull you both right off your feet. If that happens, you’ll most likely be crushed by your horse landin’ on top of you. And if you ain’t, that cow’ll use its horns to gore you. A longhorn can gut a horse real easy, so you can imagine what it can do to a man. It makes a bloody mess, that’s for certain.

  “So what you want to do is, once you’ve tied onto your target, wrap your rope around your saddlehorn a few turns, real fast. That’s called takin’ a dally.

  “Just remember one thing. Never get your fingers caught between the rope and horn. You’ll lose ’em if you do. A lotta men have.”

  “And a Ranger without a trigger finger ain’t no use to the outfit at all,” Hoot added.

  “Thanks a lot,” Nate said.

  A spoon banging on a pot got their attention.

  “That’s suppertime,” Phil said.

  ****

  Nate slept well that night, dreaming of twirling his rope and making a perfect toss, every time… until an unearthly chorus jerked him awake. He yelled, and reached for his six-gun.

  “What’re you screamin’ about, Nate?” Jim Kelly asked.

  “What’s makin’ that infernal racket?” Nate said, his voice shaking slightly. “Sounds like Satan and his minions, come to get us.”

  “Those? Those are just coyotes,” Jim answered. The howling had now quieted to a few yips. “You mean you ain’t never heard a coyote singin’ before?”

  “I dunno if I’d call that singin’, but no,” Nate said. “What’re they carryin’ on about?”

  “Can’t tell,” Jim said, as the howling started again, soon reaching a pitched crescendo. “Might’ve made a kill, might be tellin’ each other where they are, or might be howlin’ just to howl. It don’t matter why. They ain’t gonna hurt you. Now, get back to sleep, and let the rest of us get our shut-eye.”

  “Okay,” Nate said. He laid back down, and, despite the ringing of the coyotes’ howling in his ears, soon was sleeping once again. All too soon, George was shaking his shoulder.

  “Time to make breakfast, Nate,” he said. Nate tossed off his blankets and sat up, with a groan. Someday, he’d be a full member of the Rangers. Until then, he was still a camp helper, and George depended on him to help gather firewood, make the meals, and clean up.

  Nate didn’t mind, but sometimes he wished he could get the extra hour of sleep the other men got. He pulled on his boots, hat, and gunbelt, stood up, and stumbled toward the chuck wagon.

  ****

  Percy Leaping Buck approached Captain Quincy while they were eating breakfast.

  “Good mornin’, Cap’n,” he said. “Looks like it’s gonna be a fine day.”

  “It does seem so,” Quincy agreed. “You have somethin’ on your mind, Percy?”

  “Yes, I do. With your permission, I’d like to scout ahead for a bit, beginnin’ today. We’re starting to get into territory where there’s liable to be a few bands of renegade Apaches or Comanches roamin’ about, mebbe some white renegades, or even some Mexican outlaws who have slipped across the border. It’d be a lot easier for one man to spot ’em, without being seen by them, than a whole company of Rangers. And with any luck, I’ll be able to bring down a pronghorn or two. All the men are tired of bacon, beans, and nothin’ else to eat. They’re ready for fresh meat. I know I certainly am.”

  “That’s a good idea, Percy. I do have one favor to ask of you, however.”

  “Of course. What is it, Cap’n?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, take Nate along with you. He needs some more lessons in trackin’, and in scoutin’ out sign. I’m pretty certain he’s never hunted, either. Since you’re one of the best men in the company with a long gun, you can teach him how to hunt.”

  “I guess that will be okay,” Percy said. “Nate’s still mighty green, but he’s handled everything we’ve thrown at him, so far.”

  “Good. As long as you’re out there, you might as well find us a place to stop for the night. We’ll catch up to you. Just be careful, Percy.”

  “I always am, Cap’n. And I’ll take good care of the boy.”

  “I know you will. You might as well get started. Nate!”

  Nate looked up from where he was gathering dishes from the wreck pan to wash.

  “You called me, Cap’n?”

  “Yes, I did. Percy is going to do some scouting ahead of us today. He’s also going to try and hunt down some game. I want you to go with him. You can learn a lot from Percy, so I need you to pay close attention to whatever he tells you. Go saddle up.”

  “All right, Cap’n.” Nate dropped the tin plates he held, with a clatter. Even with his limited experience, he knew riding out ahead of the company might be fraught with danger. Outlaws or Indians would be far more likely to attack one or two men than an entire company of Texas Rangers. But, by now, Nate would rather face a whole bunch of desperadoes, or an entire tribe of Indians on the warpath, than wash one more dish. Not even hesitating, he headed for his horse.

  ****

  Percy and Nate rode well ahead of the Ranger company. Percy was dressed in leggings, buckskin moccasins, and an open leather vest, with no shirt underneath. His black hair was long, hanging over his shoulders. He was mounted on a long-legged pinto mustang. The horse was almost all white, except for two buckskin patches on his flanks, and a buckskin “hat” covering the top of his head, and both his ears. The gelding’s only other marking was a buckskin spot on his nose.

  “Those are pretty unusual markings on your horse, Percy,” Nate
said.

  “They are indeed,” Percy agreed. “Markings like Wind Runner’s, here, are extremely rare. Us Indians call them Medicine Hat markings, and horses who have them, Medicine Hat horses. They’re supposed to bring their riders good luck, especially in battle. I’ve never held with that superstition, however. I’ve seen many a bullet or arrow go right through a man riding a Medicine Hat horse as easily as one riding a bay, sorrel, or what-have-you.”

  He patted his horse’s shoulder. “This ol’ fella’s a brave one, and tough. He’s gotten me out of many a tight spot. That’s a fine looking animal you have, also.”

  “Thanks, Percy. I can’t claim credit for pickin’ him out, though. He was my brother’s horse.”

  “I know that. And as long as you are riding his horse, your brother will be riding with you. That, I do believe.”

  “Muchas gracias.”

  “I see you’re picking up a little Spanish, Nate,” Percy said. “That’s good. You really need to know the language out here.”

  “I’ve found that out,” Nate answered. “You mind if I ask you another question?”

  “Go right ahead. If I find it offensive, or one I don’t wish to answer, I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay. I always thought Indians couldn’t speak English, or at least not very well, even if they did learn a few words. You speak it better than most of the other men. Where’d you learn how to speak it so well?”

  “I was fortunate. I befriended a Jesuit missionary priest, Father Thomas Croteau, back in east Texas. He arranged for me to attend the *College of the Immaculate Conception in New Orleans. I not only speak English, but also Latin, Greek, French, Hebrew, and of course Spanish. You’re riding with one highly educated Tonkawa, son.”

  “I reckon,” Nate said, shaking his head in wonder. “I have to admit, I’ve never heard of an Indian who went to college.”

  “There are more of us than folks know. For example, Dartmouth College, up in New Hampshire, was first established to educate Indians. Unlike a lot of white men think, most Indians, and black men, for that matter, are just as intelligent as any white.”

  “Or as dumb,” Nate said.

  “You’re certainly correct about that, too.”