“Riders comin’ in. Appears to be about ten or so.”
Immediately, every man became alert, setting aside their plates, coming to their feet, and placing their hands on the butts of their six-guns. George picked up his rifle from the tailgate of the chuck wagon.
“Just take it easy, boys, until we see who they are,” Captain Quincy cautioned. “But be ready for anything.”
“They appear to be a company of dang bluebellies,” Ken shouted, when the riders came closer, and he got a better look. “Seems like they don’t mean trouble.”
“Bluebellies? What are those?” Nate asked Hoot.
“Yankee soldiers. That’s what most of us call ’em down here,” Hoot answered. “There ain’t a lot of love lost between most folks in Texas and the United States Army, and that includes us Rangers.”
The end of Reconstruction, with its scalawags and carpetbaggers, its onerous laws intended to punish the South for seceding from the Union, its crooked politicians and high taxes, which had forced many people off land which had been in their families for generations, had occurred not all that many months ago. Its memory was still bitter in the minds of many Texans.
While the Army’s string of forts across Texas was now meant to provide protection from raiding Indians, most sons and daughters of the Lone Star State would prefer to handle the Indian problem on their own. There was also nearly constant friction between the Army and the Rangers.
“Hoot, just keep those thoughts to yourself,” Quincy ordered. “As for the rest of you, it doesn’t matter whether you like the Army or not, I don’t want any trouble with these men. Let’s just see what they want.”
Several of the men grumbled unintelligibly, but none went against his command.
“Hello, the camp,” the man leading the column of soldiers called as they drew near. He wore a captain’s insignias. “Mind if we come on in?”
“C’mon in, but slow and easy,” Captain Quincy replied.
“All right.”
The soldiers rode cautiously into the Ranger camp. Except for the captain, all were black men.
“That captain’s the only white man. The rest of those soldiers are blacks,” Nate said.
“They’re buffalo soldiers,” Jeb explained. “Most of ’em are freed slaves, along with a few men from the North who weren’t ever owned by anyone. The Indians gave ’em the name buffalo soldiers. They believe the hair on those men resembles the hair on a buffalo, all crinkly like it is. Buffalo soldiers are some of the toughest, hardest-fightin’ men you’ll ever come across. I’d be happy to have some of ’em sidin’ me in a fight with the Comanch’, Apache, or Kiowa any time.”
The soldiers reined their horses to a halt. The captain gave a brief salute.
“Captain Terence Anders, at your service. These men and I are with Company A, 9th Cavalry, stationed at Fort Stockton.”
Anders spoke in a clipped Massachusetts accent. From his speech and bearing, he apparently was from a wealthy family, and was probably a graduate of West Point.
“Captain David Quincy, Company C, Texas Rangers. This is quite the coincidence, Captain Anders. We’re headed for Fort Stockton, then further into the Big Bend.”
“A happy circumstance indeed,” Anders replied. “We saw your fire, but what really piqued our interest was the smell of meat being roasted. Would it be too presumptuous of me to ask if you have enough to share with a patrol of hungry soldiers? It’s been far too long since we had fresh meat.”
“Not at all. I understand completely. This is also the first meat, other than bacon or jerky, we’ve had for quite some time. We have plenty to go around. Get down off your horses, and light and set a spell.”
“You are most gracious, Captain Quincy. May I present my second in command, Sergeant Travis Burnham.”
The burly man at Anders’s right nodded.
“Pleased to meet you, Sergeant,” Quincy said. “As soon as your men care for their horses, we’ll have their supper ready. Phil Knight, that tall beanpole standin’ next to the fire, is our chief hostler. He’ll show you where to picket your mounts.”
Burnham saluted. “Much obliged, Cap’n.” He ordered the other troopers, “Company, dismount!” Following Phil, they led the horses away.
****
The cavalrymen kept mostly to themselves, making some small talk with the Rangers, but mainly eating in silence. Captain Quincy and Captain Anders, after finishing their meals, were smoking cigars Anders had provided, and drinking coffee.
“What’re you doin’ out this far east, Captain?” Quincy asked. “I didn’t realize men from Fort Stockton patrolled this area.”
“We ordinarily don’t,” Anders answered. “As you know, the Army’s main duties here in Texas are to prevent any depredations by the Comanches and Kiowas. However, there have been quite a few raids, by a particularly vicious band of white outlaws, taking place in this region recently. With no state authorities in the area, we took on the task of trying to locate the gang, and apprehend them.”
“Do you have any idea who you might be after?”
“As far as names, no. We only have a description of some of the members, and their modus operandi. That means their method of operation.”
“I know what it means, Captain.”
“You do? Excellent. Anyway, to continue, these men have no compunction at all about killing, whether their victims are men, women, or children. They will attack an isolated ranch, murder everyone there, loot it of goods and livestock, then burn it to the ground. They’ll disappear for a few days, perhaps even a couple of weeks, then pop up somewhere far distant from their last raid. They have left few witnesses alive to provide any clues as to their identities.
“However, there have been several who did manage to hide from their attackers, or played dead to survive. We know there are ten or twelve, perhaps a few more, in the band. One of them is a half-breed. Another is a big, burly man, quite possibly a Cajun from his appearance.
“The man who is apparently the leader is quite fair, in fact, from some of the descriptions we have, he could possibly be an albino. His hair is so blond as to appear almost white. His skin is also very light; one person even described it as the color of flour. His eyes are an extremely pale blue. He’s also quite the fancy dresser. Wears a broad-brimmed white hat, brightly colored shirts, and favors flashy silk neckerchiefs. One person stated he wore twin pearl-handled Colts; however, we haven’t been able to confirm that.”
Nate was sitting on a log a few feet from the two offices, sketching them while they conversed. He dropped his sketch pad and looked up at them.
“Cap’n Quincy! That’s got to be the same bunch that murdered my family, and then ambushed us,” he exclaimed. Nate’s eyes glittered with hatred, along with excitement at the thought they might finally have a lead as to where to find those cold-blooded killers.
“Just rein in a minute there, Nate,” Quincy said. “We can’t be certain.”
To Anders, he continued, “Nate and his family were attacked by a gang whose leader closely matches the man you just described. His mother, father, and older brother were all killed in the raid. Nate was shot and left for dead. Their ranch was burned down, and all the livestock rustled. The same outfit later ambushed us, killed six of our men, and wounded several others, including Nate. If the men you are searching for are indeed the same ones, not only Nate, but all of us Rangers have a score to settle with them.”
“I’m confident they are, from what you just told me,” Anders answered. “The methods are exactly the same, and apparently the descriptions are a good match.”
“What was their last whereabouts?” Quincy asked.
“They attacked a ranch about forty miles southeast of here,” Anders answered. “We managed to pick up their tracks and followed them south toward Del Rio. We trailed them quite a ways, but lost them somewhere in the Devil’s River breaks. My opinion would be they make their headquarters somewhere in that vicinity.”
“That would
make sense,” Quincy said. “That’s mighty rough country. It’d be a good place for an outfit that size to hole up. Tell me, though, Captain. Why’d you turn back, rather’n pushin’ on after those men?”
Anders shrugged, almost apologetically.
“We had no choice. We’d already pursued them too far, and for too long. We have orders to be back at Fort Stockton so another patrol can go out. In fact, we’re already two days overdue. I don’t need to tell you my commanding officer will be starting to wonder what has happened to us. Major Zenas Randall Bliss expects his orders to be followed to the letter. He is also not a man to sit around and do nothing, if he feels any of the men under his command might have run into trouble. I have two or three more days, tops, before he sends out a search party. And if that happens, it will be a blot on my record.”
“I hardly think so, once the major finds out you were attempting to bring in a bunch of muy malo hombres,” Quincy protested. “Out here, a man sticks with a job until it’s done.”
“Then I’m afraid you don’t know the United States Army very well, Captain. Orders are not to be taken lightly, and disobeying them requires very extenuating circumstances. The Army’s mission in Texas, and most of the West, is to solve the Indian problem, not handle state and local law enforcement. I had no choice but to give up the pursuit.”
“Cap’n Quincy, with all due respect to you and Captain Anders, those have got to be the men we want,” Nate broke in. “Just sittin’ here talkin’ won’t do any good. We have to go after ’em. We have to.”
“Nate, just like Captain Anders has his orders, we have ours,” Quincy replied. “We’re supposed to get to the Big Bend, as quickly as possible. And odds are, even if those are the same men, they’re no longer near where Captain Anders broke off his pursuit. They’ve either fled for other, safer, parts, probably Mexico, or are off somewhere on another raid.”
“But, Cap’n—”
“Just hold on a minute, son, and let me finish. Unlike Captain Anders, I can change plans if circumstances warrant. That’s why we’re called Rangers, ’cause we range all over the state, stoppin’ trouble wherever we find it. I reckon the Big Bend can wait a few more days, while we go after those renegades. It’ll mean some backtrackin’, since we’ve already gone quite a ways past the Devil’s River, but we’re gonna hunt down those men. They’ve raided their last ranch, and committed their last murders.
“Besides, the Devil’s River country is kinda on the eastern edge of the Big Bend, at least close enough so I can stretch the truth a bit, and convince Headquarters we were in the territory when we started chasin’ that gang.
Captain Quincy turned to look at Anders once more. “We’ll ride out at first light. Captain Anders, thank you for the information. You’ve finally given us a solid lead as to where to locate that outfit. You and your men are welcome to stay the night with us, of course.”
Despite his disgust with Anders for letting a gang of thieves, rustlers, and murderers slip from his grasp, Quincy knew it was imperative for the Rangers to maintain cordial relations with the Army, as much as possible. Otherwise, there was still the possibility Washington could re-impose martial law, or perhaps even an extension of the hated Reconstruction laws, on Texas again. That would once again place the state under the jurisdiction of Federal troops.
He choked back what he would really like to say to the Army captain, resisted the temptation to tell Anders exactly where he could shove those orders and how to do it, and fixed a smile on his face.
“That’s most gracious of you, Captain,” Anders replied. “We’ll be happy to accept your offer. And the best of luck in finding those outlaws.”
“Oh, we will find ’em, Captain. You can bet your hat on that,” Quincy answered. “Nate, gather up the rest of the men. I need to tell them our plans have changed.”
“Right away, Cap’n.”
It only took Nate a few moments to inform the other Rangers Captain Quincy was calling a meeting. The look on his face and the tension in his voice made it obvious something important was happening. The men were soon grouped in front of their captain.
“Men,” Quincy said. “Captain Anders and his troopers have been pursuing the men who attacked Nate and his family, and ambushed us, killing six of our comrades.
“However, they lost their trail and were forced to turn back, due to Army regulations. Captain Anders did obtain good information as to where those men probably make their hide-out, down along the Devil’s River. We’ll be starting after them first thing tomorrow morning.”
A mutter of satisfaction swept through the men, before Quincy could continue.
“We’ll be riding fast and hard. That means, George, we’ll be traveling without you. You’ll remain here until we return. I want one man to stay with you. Do I have any volunteers?”
As he expected, he got nothing but silence in return.
“That’s exactly what I figured. Lee, Larry, since you’re new to the outfit, and weren’t with us when we were ambushed, neither of you has quite the stake in finding those renegades as the rest of us. I’m going to have you draw cards. Low card stays behind. Carl, I know you weren’t either, but you did tangle with the outfit at the Lopez ranch, so I figure you’ve got a score to settle with ’em too.”
Cannon and Shelton nodded their understanding. George took a deck of cards from the wagon. He handed them to Quincy, who shuffled them, cut them, and held them out to the two new men. Cannon drew first.
“Six of clubs.”
Shelton chose his card.
“Ten of diamonds. Looks like I ride.”
“That’s settled,” Quincy said. “Now, everyone get a good night’s rest. We have a tough few days ahead of us.”
“All right, Dav,” Lieutenant Bob said. “You heard the cap’n, boys. Turn in.”
Most of the men were soon stretched out under their blankets. Captain Quincy had just slid under his when Sergeant Burnham approached.
“Cap’n, I hope I’m not disturbin’ you,” he said, in a voice surprisingly soft for such a big man. His accent placed him as from somewhere in the deep South, most likely Georgia or Mississippi. “I just need to speak with you for a moment.”
“Not at all, Sergeant,” Quincy replied. “What’s on your mind?”
“I just had to let you know it wasn’t the men’s decision to stop searchin’ for those outlaws. We wanted to keep after ’em, but Cap’n Anders ordered us to turn back. It’s not that he isn’t a brave man, because he sure is. I’ve fought several battles with him. He’s a real hard fighter, and a good leader. Me and the rest of the men under his command would follow him into Hades and back. But, he’s a West Pointer, and goes strictly by the book. So, when he realized if we kept after those men we’d be way overdue gettin’ back to Fort Stockton, he made us turn around. Just wanted you to know that.”
“I appreciate that, Sergeant,” Quincy answered. “And please be aware, I would never have questioned you buffalo soldiers’ dedication or courage. I know of your reputation, and what kind of fightin’ men you are, first hand.”
“Thank you, Cap’n. I’ll bid you good evenin’, now. And good luck in roundin’ up that gang.”
“Much obliged, Sergeant. Good night.”
****
On the other side of the camp, Nate was trying to fall asleep, knowing he needed to get as much rest as he could before they started out at sunup. But, his mind kept racing. His body was tense with anticipation. At last, would this be the final confrontation with the murderers who had taken everything from him, except his life?
Nate tossed and turned for an hour, before finally falling into a fitful sleep, a sleep broken for the rest of the night by a dream. A dream which kept repeating itself. A dream in which he and the pasty-skinned, pale-eyed son of Satan who was responsible for the murder of his family came face to face for one final time.
The dream always ended the same way. Nate and the killer drew their guns and fired.
Gunsmoke blott
ed out Nate’s vision, and a sharp pain shot through his chest. He woke up drenched with sweat, his heart pounding, and his guts in a knot.
5
Three days later, two hours before dusk, Captain Quincy called a halt for the night. They were just leaving the level plain they’d been crossing, and approaching an area of low hills. To the right of the trail was a shallow stream.
“Men, I know this ain’t a very likely lookin’ campsite, but we’re not gonna ride any further, with dark comin’ on,” he said. “I’ve fought outlaws in these parts before. That’s the Devil’s River over there. It might not look like much from here, but let me tell you, it’s a pretty good sized stream a bit further south.
“These hills are only gonna get more rugged from here on in. The vegetation’s gonna get thicker, too, the deeper we ride into the river breaks. There’s even places where cottonwoods and cedars grow good and big. There’s a lot of canyons cuttin’ the land. That means there’s plenty of places we could ride straight into a drygulchin’, if we got caught nappin’.
“At night, if those renegades are in there, they could pick all of us off, real easy. We’ll spend the night here, then go on in first thing in the mornin’.”
“Do you really think those men are in there somewhere, Cap’n?” Carl asked.
“Quien sabe?” Quincy shrugged. “Who knows? We have no way of knowin’ for certain. For an outlaw gang, this is ideal territory. Plenty of canyons and hills to hide in, and lots of places to set up an ambush. But if they are in there, I’ve got a good idea where we’ll come up with ’em.
“About six miles south of here is Brushy Draw. That’ll be to the left of the trail. Directly opposite that is Sycamore Canyon, and right next to that is Hudspeth Springs. If I were an outlaw, that’s where I’d hole up. It’d be real hard for anyone to find a man in there, and even harder to get one out. Lots of cover. Even quite a few of the trees are big enough to hide a man bent on a drygulchin’.
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