“Yeah, well, I reckon mebbe—just mebbe now—I shouldn’t have let my temper get the best of me, and gotten so riled up,” A. J. answered. “I’m sure sorry too. I reckon we’re gonna be pretty sore for a spell.”
“If I had my druthers, you’d both be so plumb sore neither one of you’d be able to sit a horse for a month,” Jeb said. He pulled his gun from its holster. “But I can’t spare one man from this outfit.
“Listen to me, all of you. I’m gonna say this just once. We’re out here in the middle of nowhere, completely on our own. You think anyone out this way, few as they are, gives two hoots about a bunch of Texas Rangers? Not likely. Most of the hombres we come across are gonna be renegades, who’d like nothin’ better than to put a bullet in a lawman’s back, particularly if that lawman just happens to be a Texas Ranger. We’ve only got each other to depend on out here, no one else. Comprende?”
“Comprende,” the other men muttered.
“Good. That means no more arguin’ or fightin’ amongst ourselves. Any of you gets a grudge against one of your pardners, you don’t do anything…not one blasted thing, except mebbe tell me about it. But if it’s over somethin’ silly and causes a fight like A. J. and Eli just had, I’ll take this here Peacemaker and bend its barrel over your heads. Mebbe that’ll knock some sense into you. Is that clear?”
“I reckon it is, Lieutenant,” Hoot said, when no one else answered.
“Good. Then this matter is forgotten. Except for one thing,” Jeb said. “A. J., Eli, since you two have so much excess energy, you can go out there and bring back a whole pile of buffalo chips, so we can make a fire and cook our supper.”
“Buffalo chips?” A. J. echoed.
“How else do you think we’re gonna build a fire?” Jeb asked. “Look around. Do you see any trees anywhere in sight, except for those few sorry specimens around the water hole, which are way too green to burn?”
“Uh-uh.” A. J. shook his head.
“So, that means you two gather buffalo chips,” Jeb answered. “Dried buffalo droppin’s, to be more precise. They don’t make much of a fire, but they’re better’n nothin’.”
“C’mon, A. J. No sense in puttin’ it off,” Eli said. “We got ourselves on the…”
“Don’t say it,” Jeb warned.
“All right. We got ourselves on the buffalo chip list,” Eli said, with a rueful grin. “Let’s go…A. J.”
They trudged out of camp, muttering to themselves.
“I reckon they won’t be fightin’ for quite some time,” Nate said, chuckling.
“Nate, you just got yourself on that list, too,” Jeb said. “I’m in no mood for tomfoolery. Get out there and give those two a hand.”
“Yessir, Lieutenant.” He also walked away, muttering a curse.
“What was that you just said, Nate?” Jeb called after him.
“I said…it was nothin’, Jeb. Just talkin’ to myself, is all,” Nate replied.
“That’s all it better have been,” Jeb said. “The rest of you, let’s go. We’ll get out the cookin’ gear and our grub while we’re waitin’ for those boys to return. Move!”
****
The camp had finally settled down for the night. Austin and Colin had been given first watch. The other men were sitting cross-legged around the dying fire. Those who smoked had rolled quirlies and were puffing on them. All were enjoying final cups of coffee before turning in.
Nate had pulled out his sketch pad and pencils, and was creating a quick drawing of the scene. The northern horizon was blotted out by a bank of towering clouds, threatening rain. In the far distance, lightning flickered.
“You think we might get some rain tonight, Jeb?” Nate asked, hopefully. “
It would sure be welcome. Seems like there’s a storm headed our way.”
“I wish you were right, Nate, but I doubt it. Those clouds ain’t movin’ all that much. As far as the lightnin’, it’s only heat lightnin’. That storm’ll fizzle out before it reaches us. Dunno about you, but it’s time to hit the sack for me.”
Jeb stubbed out his cigarette, and headed for his blankets. Soon, except for the sentries, the entire camp was asleep.
6
A refreshing northwestly breeze had come up during the night, pushing out the thick, humid air, and dropping the temperature at least fifteen degrees.
“We’re gonna take advantage of this cooler weather, since it won’t last too long, and cover as much ground as we can today,” Jeb said, as the men mounted. “Let’s head out.”
Around mid-morning that same day, they came across a stretch where several dry washes cut through the almost table-flat land.
“We’re gonna have to be real careful before we cross any of these washes,” Jeb advised. “If those storms up north dropped enough rain last night, there’s liable to be a flash flood come rollin’ down ’em any time now. If we get caught in one of those washes when it does, we’ll have no warnin’ until it’s too late, and’ll most likely get swept away and drownded.”
“Drowned,” Nate corrected him.
“What’s that, Nate?” Jeb asked.
“The word is drowned, not drownded.”
“You goin’ back to talkin’ Yankee again, kid?” Jeb asked. “Don’t matter how you say it, drowned or drownded, we’ll still be just as dead, either way. So we’re gonna listen real hard for distant rumblin’ before we cross any of these here washes.”
He put his paint, Dudley, into a slow walk, the rest of the men strung out behind him. The horses half-walked, half-slid down the draw’s sloping bank, crossed its sandy bottom, then scrambled up the other side.
“That’s one. So far, so good,” Jeb said. “Let’s keep movin’.”
It took them an hour to cross the stretch of badlands, looking for the shallowest parts of the several draws they had to cross. Close to noon, Jeb called a halt, to allow the horses a breather, and the chance to crop at the brittle, dry grass. While their mounts grazed, the men ate a meager lunch of leftover bacon and hardtack, washed down with tepid water from their canteens. By now, the wind had increased considerably, at times gusting over forty miles per hour.
“Jeb, I might be wrong, but it seems to me there’s some smoke over thataway,” Nate said. He pointed in the general direction of where the heat lightning had flashed the previous night. A thin gray haze showed on the northwest horizon. “You reckon it’s from a chimney? Mebbe we should check it out. Might be a ranch where we could buy some grub, get decent water, and mebbe even talk the rancher’s wife into makin’ us a hot meal.”
Jeb followed Nate’s gaze. Even as they watched, the haze darkened and spread out, now black and roiling.
“That ain’t no chimney fire. It ain’t even a buildin’ on fire,” Jeb said. “It’s a prairie fire. Must’ve been set by lightnin’ from those storms last night, and it’s headed our way, fast. We’ve gotta find a place to hole up, right quick.”
“Can we outrun it? Trace asked.
“Not as fast as it’s movin’,” Jeb answered. “Our horses might be able to outrun those flames for a little while, but they’d have to be run into the ground, and we’d never make it that far before the fire overtook us.”
“Then what’re we gonna do?” Sean questioned.
“There’s a little stream called Calf Creek, about two miles from here, if I recollect right,” Jeb answered. “We’re gonna ride hell-bent for leather, and hope we beat the fire to it. It’s shallow, but with any luck there’ll be enough water for us to force the horses to lie down, and deep enough to cover us, until the fire goes past. If we get real lucky, since Calf Creek runs southwest, this northwest wind’ll blow the fire away from it. It’s our only chance, so let’s get these horses movin’—and pray to God we make it!”
He jabbed his spurs into Dudley’s ribs, the paint leaping into a dead run, with the other men and horses following him. Even as they raced for Calf Creek, the fire drew closer and closer. The billowing smoke now covered three-quarters of the sky,
and the smell of burnt grass and brush hung heavy in the air. A thin, gray haze began to surround the Rangers, as they desperately galloped for Calf Creek.
Sparks and flaming embers were now floating on the wind, a horse screaming in pain and terror whenever one landed on it and singed its hide. Just when it appeared they would never reach the creek, Jeb called out.
“See that line of cottonwoods? They mark Calf Creek. We’ll be there in less than five minutes. See if you can get any more speed out of your broncs. That fire’ll be on top of us before you know it.”
The Rangers leaned low over their horses’ necks, crooning to them, begging the worn out mounts for one last bit of speed. Reins were slapped on equine rumps, bootheels drummed against their sides, and spurs jabbed into their flanks, their riders hoping against hope they would win this life-or-death race.
After what seemed an eternity, they broke through the line of stunted cottonwood trees and brush alongside the creek bank, and plunged into water that was knee-deep on their horses.
Mike was last in line. A large ember landed on his mouse-colored horse’s neck, singing its mane. Smoke rose from the grulla’s neck as his mane caught on fire. Mike jumped off his panicked horse, into the creek, and frantically splashed water on the gray’s neck, dousing the flames.
“All of you, get those horses down on their sides, then lie in the water yourselves,” Jeb ordered. “Lay across your horse and keep his head down if you have to, but whatever happens, don’t let him get up and run. He’ll die, for certain, if you do.”
The men jumped from their saddles, then used the reins to turn the terrified horses’ necks back toward their shoulders, until they lost balance and fell onto their sides. The water covered them little more than halfway. Several of the men did, indeed, have to lie across their horses, holding their necks down so their heads were just above water.
Smoke surrounded them thickly now, breathing becoming difficult. The men pulled their bandanas over their mouths and noses, to filter out some of the choking smoke and drifting ashes. Flames approached now, leaping thirty or more feet in the air.
The crackling of the inferno changed to a roar as the blaze drew nearer. Horses neighed in terror, their riders cursed or prayed in fear. The flames were now licking at the vegetation alongside the creek bed, the air hot as a furnace.
“Just hang on, boys,” Jeb shouted. “The greener trees and shrubs along the creek are slowin’ the fire down a bit. Like I’d hoped, the wind is blowin’ it away from us. It’s alongside the creek, but I don’t think it’s gonna jump it.”
Sure enough, as Jeb had predicted, the prairie fire, one of the most terrifying acts of Mother Nature on the plains, virtually unstoppable, bypassed them as it swept its way southeastward, never jumping the creek, but leaving a trail of total destruction and smoldering ruin in its path. Fifteen minutes after taking shelter in Calf Creek, the Rangers let their horses stand. They climbed out of the creek on its west bank, where the flames hadn’t reached.
“We’re just gonna camp here for the night,” Jeb said. “The horses can’t go any farther after that run. Be grateful they all made it, and none of ’em gave out, or stepped in a prairie dog hole and busted a leg.”
“Hey, Mike,” Nate called, as Mike pulled the saddle off his horse. “I reckon your cayuse’s name really fits him now. He really is Smoky.”
Mike pulled off his Stetson and threw it into Nate’s face. He laughed despite himself.
“That’s enough out of you. Listen, pard, can I use some of the salve you carry to treat the burns on Smoky’s neck?”
“Sure thing,” Nate answered. He dug in his saddlebag, pulled out the tube of medication, and tossed it to Mike. “Here ya go.”
“Much obliged,” Mike answered, then turned to treat his injured horse.
7
After five more days of hot, dusty travel, the terrain, while still mostly level, was becoming a bit more rolling in spots. Buttes and flat-topped mesas were scattered about.
“We’re gettin’ closer to where we need to be, boys,” Jeb announced. “From here on, we’ll have to be extra cautious about not ridin’ into an ambush. Indians have used some of those mesa tops as lookout points for years. If there’s any up there watchin’, they’ll see us long before we even know they’re spyin’ on us. That’s not even countin’ the white renegades we’re really supposed to be after. So keep your eyes peeled for anythin’ suspicious, startin’ right now.”
“I’ve heard of peelin’ taters, but never eyes,” Trace joked.
“Well, potaters do have eyes,” Eddy told him.
“If a renegade Comanche or Apache happens to take you alive, you two won’t be laughin’ about havin’ your eyes peeled,” Jeb answered. “The Comanch’ll stake you out, then peel off your eyelids so the sun’ll blind you. It’s supposed to be real painful, and I would imagine it is. So do as I say, or risk catchin’ a Mescalero’s arrow in your gut or an outlaw’s bullet in your back. Let’s pick up the pace. I want to cover another twenty miles before sundown.”
He spurred Dudley into a fast lope.
This section of Texas was very sparsely populated, except for some bands of Indians, their numbers dwindling, who still roamed the area. They were mainly following the buffalo herds in their migrations, occasionally taking the opportunity to raid a ranch for its livestock, especially the horses.
Many Plains and Southwestern Indian tribes depended on the buffalo for everything from food to clothes to hides for their tipis, using bones from the massive, shaggy beasts for knives, arrowheads, and even sewing needles. To them, the buffalo was sacred, and life itself.
The rare albino, or white, buffalo, was considered to be good luck, and had very powerful medicine, a gift from the Great Spirit himself.
Unfortunately for the people who had been here long before the white man arrived, the huge buffalo herds, which had in the past numbered hundreds of thousands of animals or more, and could take three days or longer to pass a certain spot, were rapidly being depleted by white hunters’ guns. These hunters meant to satisfy the demand for meat from the railroad workers building the tracks, as well as the demand for buffalo hides to make robes for fashionable ladies back East.
Unlike the Indians, who used every part of an animal they killed, the white buffalo hunters took only the hides and the choicest cuts of meat, leaving the rest of the carcass to rot. At the rate buffalo were being killed, it would not take many years before the species was almost extinct, leaving the Indians no choice but to move onto the reservations, or starve to death.
There were centuries-old trails crisscrossing the region, game tracks, Indian trails, and roads blazed by the Spanish conquistadores and padres, who were the first white men to explore the vast territory. Mexicans and Americans alike, some honest, others decidedly not, still used these trails to trade goods between the two countries…at least, the honest men.
The dishonest also used these trails, and others less known, to smuggle goods, or move stolen horses or rustled cattle from one side of the border to the other.
Late in the afternoon, the Rangers were following one of the old conquistadores’ routes when they came upon a crude, weathered wooden sign, hanging by a bent nail from a tilted post. “Ruby’s Trading Post, Three Miles” was lettered on it, in badly faded red paint. Under that was an arrow pointing west, the same direction Jeb and his men were traveling.
“Looks like we just caught a bit of a break, boys,” Jeb said. “Seems like some darn fool started a trading post out here in this godforsaken patch of desert. We’ll stop there for a hot meal, and to pick up some more bacon, beans, and flour. Mebbe with any luck there’ll even be a well with cool, sweet water. That is, if the place is still in business, or even there at all. Let’s keep movin’.”
****
Twenty minutes later, Jeb reined Dudley in, atop one of the few rises in the area. Down below was a haphazardly thrown together building. It seemed to have been built with whatever scraps of material
its owner could get his hands on. A sagging porch ran the length of the building, and several patches showed on the roof, along with quite a few holes. The walls were part adobe, part wood, and all chipped and peeling. Several horses were tied to the rail out front.
“Food!” Nate exclaimed.
“Hold on just a minute, Nate. The rest of you, too. Turn your horses and get back below the top of this rise. Somethin’ doesn’t look quite right, and we’re skylined up here. Hoot’n I’ll take a closer look.”
They turned around, and stopped just below the summit of the small hill.
“Wait here,” Jeb ordered. He and Hoot dismounted. Hoot removed a pair of field glasses from his saddlebags. He and Jeb then dropped to their bellies, removed their hats to be less conspicuous, and crawled back to the top of the rise.
“What do you think, Hoot?” Jeb asked.
Hoot put the field glasses to his eyes, shielding the lenses with one hand, so the sun wouldn’t flash off them and give their position away.
“Somethin’ is wrong down there, Jeb, that’s for certain,” Hoot said. “There’s seven horses tied out front, with one man watchin’ em. And that buildin’ ain’t all adobe, plus it’s got regular windows, not ones small and high up to defend against any raiders. So why in the blue blazes, in this blisterin’ heat, ain’t the front door open? Here, take a closer look for yourself.”
He handed the glasses to Jeb, who put them to his eyes, and focused on the building below.
“There’s somethin’ funny goin’ on, that’s for certain,” Jeb said. “Why the devil would one man stand out in the blazin’ heat, instead of bein’ inside with his friends, or at least sittin’ in the shade on the porch, out of the sun? Makes no sense.” He looked more closely at the horses.
“This makes even less sense,” he said. “Those horses ain’t tied, they’re just ground hitched. They could wander off any time they chose.” He took a second look. “Wait a minute. They’re not ground hitched. They’re all bunched up, and that hombre is holdin’ their reins. I’d bet my hat that tradin’ post’s bein’ robbed.”
A Ranger Grown (Lone Star Ranger Book 8) Page 8
