He turned Dudley onto the road, putting the big paint into a steady lope, the pace most comfortable, usually, for both the horses and their riders—oftentimes even smoother than a walk.
They’d gone about five miles when Nate noticed a thin haze of dust in the air, as well as the distinctive musty scent of disturbed dust coming to his nostrils. He spurred Big Red alongside Jeb and Hoot.
“Seems to be some dust in the air, Jeb,” he said. “Someone’s up ahead of us, I reckon.”
“Percy taught you well, and you sure learned a lot from him,” Jeb said, referring to Percy Leaping Buck, the Tonkawa Indian who scouted for Captain Dave Quincy’s company. “There is, and it’s not only one or two riders. My guess is we’ll be ridin’ up on a westbound stage before much longer.”
After a mile, the road dropped into a shallow arroyo, the walls on either side between twenty and thirty feet high, slashed by numerous washes and slides where water from the infrequent, but usually furious, late summer and early autumn thunderstorms had sent floodwaters cascading over the walls.
“Perfect spot for an ambush,” Hoot muttered.
“It sure is,” Jeb agreed. “With that stage ahead of us, I doubt there are any renegades hereabouts, but keep watchin’ for drygulchers.”
“Already am,” Hoot said. He had no sooner spoken when a series of gunshots, the cracks of rifles and the blasts of six-guns, broke out ahead.
“Shots!” Nate shouted.
“That’s gotta be a stage robbery,” Jeb yelled. He took his badge from his pocket and pinned it to his vest, then pulled out his rifle. “We won’t have time to try’n circle around and get those thieves in a crossfire. Let’s go!”
He spurred Dudley into a dead run, with the other men close at their heels. When they neared a slight bend in the road, where it dipped into a dry wash that had to be crossed, the acrid smell of powdersmoke hung thick in the air.
They rounded the bend, guns at the ready, and came across the stage, which was stopped in the middle of the road. The shotgun guard lay slumped over the luggage on the coach’s roof, the back of his shirt bloodied where rifle bullets had torn through him.
The body of another man, evidently one of the passengers who had attempted to resist the robbers, lay sprawled lifelessly alongside the coach. The driver was hunched over in his seat, holding his bullet-shattered right arm. His hat was missing, and blood from a bullet gash across the top of his head streamed down his face. The surviving passengers were gathered behind the stage in confusion, clearly not knowing what to do.
“Hold up, men!” Jeb ordered. The Rangers slid their horses to a halt alongside the coach.
“If you’re plannin’ on robbin’ us, you’re too late,” the driver said. “The last bunch cleaned us out.”
“We’re Texas Rangers, not outlaws,” Jeb answered. “How far ahead of us are those hombres?”
“Only about ten minutes,” the driver answered.
“How far to the next way station?” Jeb asked.
“About three miles,” came the answer.
“Then they’ll be swingin’ off the road before that. Can you drive this coach as far as the station?”
“I reckon I can,” the driver answered.
“Good. I’ll leave one of my men to help. Trace, you stay with these folks, patch ’em up best you can, then help get ’em to the station. We’ll meet you there,” Jeb ordered. “The rest of you, follow me.”
Trace never had the chance to utter any objection he might have to being left behind, when the other Rangers raced away before he could reply. In the back of his head, he realized why Jeb had asked him to stay with the coach, and he really couldn’t argue with him. His wounded leg still ached, and a hard run might well break the stitches open and start it bleeding again.
“Where’s your medical kit and bandages?” he asked the driver, as he dismounted.
****
The Rangers’ horses were tired from the long, hot journey from Austin to west Texas; however, they were hardy animals, used to going for days on end on little water and only snatches of grass. They’d also gotten some energy and stamina back from the grain Ruby had provided. Pounding after the stage robbers, they ran almost as fast as if they’d been fresh. However, how long they could keep up the killing pace was questionable.
“Watch out in case those hombres hear us comin’, and decide to hole up and bushwhack us,” Jeb shouted, to be heard over the pounding hooves and wind racing past the men’s ears. “We know they’ll have to turn off somewhere, most likely into one of these side draws. With any luck, we’ll catch ’em in there, before they get into the open. If they get too far ahead of us, and they’re on fresh horses, they’ll likely get away.”
He leaned low over Dudley’s neck, urging the paint to even greater speed. Hoot on Dusty was right alongside him, with Nate, whose Big Red seemed to almost never tire, and A. J. on Jones, close at their heels.
“We’re gainin’ on ’em,” Jeb yelled, a few minutes later. Dust from a band of horsemen hung thick in the air. He pointed to a deep wash that ran off to the right of the road.
“They turned in there. Be ready for ’em,” Jeb shouted. He yanked Dudley hard to the right.
The wash ran straight for a quarter-mile, then turned sharply to the left. As soon as the Rangers rounded that bend, they could see their quarry, only a few hundred yards ahead, still riding hard, eight men in all. One of them glanced back and spotted the oncoming Rangers. He shouted to his partners, then unshipped his rifle and sent a shot at their pursuers. The shot fell well short.
The hard charging Rangers rapidly closed the gap, both sides now blazing away at each other. However, with accurate shooting from the back of a galloping horse being impossible, neither side made a hit, until a lucky shot from Sean hit an outlaw squarely in the middle of his back. The bullet knocked the man over his horse’s neck. He held on for a minute, then slewed off his mount and toppled to the dirt.
The wash petered out, so now it was a race across the high desert, crashing through cactus, scrub, and thorny brush. As the Rangers drew ever closer in their pursuit, the outlaws’ bullets began splitting the air around them. One buried itself in the pommel of Austin’s saddle. Austin’s return shot put a bullet through the ribs of the man who had just missed sinking a chunk of lead in the young Ranger’s guts.
Gradually, the Rangers overtook the stagecoach robbers. Lawmen and outlaws now clashed in close combat, their horses whirling in a maelstrom of dust and bullets, screams and curses.
One robber, his rifle empty, and with no time to pull out his six-gun, slammed the rifle’s barrel over Eddy’s head, knocking him from the saddle. Colin rode up to the man, stuck the barrel of his Colt into his belly, and pulled the trigger. The robber jackknifed in his saddle, slumping over his horse’s neck as the terrified animal ran out of the fight. After a hundred yards, the horse’s jouncing loosened the badly wounded man’s grip on its mane. He plunged to the ground, rolled over three times, they lay still.
In the confusion of the fight, it was impossible to tell whose bullet hit who. Gradually, the gunfire diminished, as the Rangers took control. The last outlaw still in the fight dismounted, raised his hands, then, knowing he faced a hangman’s noose if he surrendered, changed his mind and tried for his rifle. Several Ranger bullets in his chest discouraged him from making the move—instead, dropping him in his tracks.
“I guess that’s all of ’em,” Jeb said. “Let’s check our hurts.”
Eddy was just sitting up, still dizzy, rubbing the lump rising on his split open scalp. Mike Horton lay on his face, blood showing on the right side of his shirt. Nate jumped from his saddle, ran up to Mike, and rolled him onto his back. He breathed a sigh of relief when Mike’s eyes flickered open. He gave Nate a rueful grin.
“I reckon that bullet didn’t quite have my name on it,” Mike said. “Don’t feel like it went into my guts. Hurts like the devil, though.”
“You just take it easy while I patch you u
p, Mike,” Nate said.
“Anyone else hit?” Jeb asked.
“A. J.’s got a bullet burn on the side of his neck. Other than that, there don’t seem to be, although bullets came too close to me for comfort, more’n once,” Hoot answered. “We got lucky.”
“We got real lucky,” Jeb said. “Not only by none of us bein’ hurt bad, or worse, but by bein’ in the right place at the right time, twice in a row. Luck like that can’t last. Check those men, make certain they’re all done for. We’ll rest for thirty minutes until Mike and Eddy are cared for, then we’ll load the bodies on their horses and take ’em to the way station. We’ll plant ’em there. Hoot, find the horse carry’in the strongbox. Butterfield won’t be too happy if we ride in with a bunch of dead robbers but no strongbox. They’d be a mite suspicious that we’d taken the contents for ourselves, and I wouldn’t blame ’em for that.”
“You heard the lieutenant, boys,” Hoot said. He swung off his horse and walked over to the nearest robber. He rolled the man onto his back. Two bullet holes in his stomach and the shocked expression on his face made it plain he was dead. “Let’s get this done.”
****
By the time Jeb and his men reached the way station, the stage had arrived. Joe Hoskins, the station manager, was digging a grave for the dead shotgun guard, helped by Trace and two passengers from the stage. All four looked up at the approaching riders.
“Sure hope that ain’t more raiders comin’,” Hoskins said. He spat a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt and picked up a rifle.
“You don’t have to worry,” Trace said, gazing at the oncoming horsemen. “Those are my pardners. Looks like they’re bringin’ some bodies in, too.”
The Rangers rode into the station yard and reined up.
“Howdy,” Jeb said, nodding to the station manager. “I’m afraid we’ve brought more work for you.”
“If those are the hombres who robbed the stage, killed Pete Hawkins and one of the passengers, plantin’ ’em won’t be a chore—it’ll be a real pleasure,” the manager replied. “Joe Hoskins’s the name.”
“Lieutenant Jeb Rollins. I’ll introduce the rest of the boys later,” Jeb said. “How’s the driver doin’?”
“Curly? He’ll be laid up for a few days, but he’ll be fine after a spell,” Hoskins answered. “There’ll be another westbound stage through here in three days. I’ll send him and the passengers along to El Paso on that one. If you recovered the strongbox, it can go on that stage, too. You boys plannin’ on spendin’ the night? You’re more’n welcome. Annie, my wife, is a mighty fine cook.”
“We are, and we appreciate the offer,” Jeb answered. “And we do have the box. We’ll bring it inside. C’mon, men. The sooner we get these outlaws in the ground, and our horses cared for, the sooner we can get to supper. Dunno about the rest of you, but I’m plumb starved.”
He swung out of his saddle, and patted Dudley’s shoulder.
“Good job today, pal,” he told the paint. Dudley whickered softly in reply, and lipped at Jeb’s cheek.
****
Over supper, Jeb learned from Hoskins that, up until two months ago, there hadn’t been an attempted robbery of a Butterfield stage in that part of Texas for over two years. Now, there had been three in the past few weeks, two of which had succeeded, the other the attempt which Jeb and his men had foiled. Evidently, the outlaws who made their headquarters in the Guadalupes and Cornudas were expanding their territory.
“That’s why we’re here,” Jeb reassured him. “To clean out the snakes and assorted varmints from this part of the state for good. We’ll be on our way again, first thing in the mornin’.”
“Well, it seems you’ve made a good start,” Hoskins said. “I wish you and your men good luck, Lieutenant.”
“We’re gonna need all of that we can get,” Jeb answered, shaking his head. “I am gonna ask one favor of you. I’m gonna write a report for Austin tonight, tellin’ Headquarters where we’re at, and what’s happened so far. Will you make certain it gets on the next eastbound stage?”
“You can count on it. That’ll be the day after tomorrow,” Hoskins answered.
“I’m obliged. And supper was delicious. Mrs. Hoskins, your husband was right. You are, indeed, a mighty fine cook,” Jeb said.
“My mother taught me how, and bein’ out here in the middle of nowhere, I don’t have much to do but cook and clean,” Mrs. Hoskins said. “And I’d much rather cook.”
“Well, our bellies sure do appreciate it, ma’am,” Nate answered.
“I’m just pleased you enjoyed your meal,” Mrs. Hoskins answered.
“Men, it’s time to check the horses for the night, then roll out our blankets,” Jeb said. “Mrs. Hoskins, Mr. Hoskins, thanks again for the hospitality. We’ll see you in the mornin’. Good night.”
“Buenas noches,” Hoskins answered.
9
For the next several weeks, the Rangers patrolled the vast expanse of the northern Trans Pecos. They did have several confrontations with lone desperadoes, or small bands of outlaws, all of which turned out badly for the lawbreakers.
With the nearest jails being over a hundred miles distant, taking prisoners was not an option. The outlaws the Rangers confronted, if they had not committed serious crimes, were ordered to leave Texas, and never return to the Lone Star State, unless they wanted to risk imprisonment and long prison sentences.
Others, knowing they faced death at the end of a hangman’s rope for their depredations, chose to fight it out, falling to Ranger guns. They preferred to die from Ranger bullets rather than hang from a sturdy cottonwood or oak. And in a few instances, where there was no doubt of a captured man’s guilt of murder, rustling, or horse thieving, the Rangers acted as their own judge, jury, and executioners, much to Nate’s chagrin. He still believed a man deserved a trial in a court of law, and the rough justice of the West still bothered him greatly.
While Jeb and his men did round up quite a few outlaws, they came across no sign of any large gangs, nor any bands of Mescalero Apaches. There was a small restaurant south and west of the Guadalupe Mountains by about thirty miles, the Salt Flat Café, a small whitewashed building sheltered by a lone, transplanted cottonwood tree, probably the only tree within fifty miles or more. Over supper, the Rangers were discussing how best to find more of the men they were after. Several suggestions were offered, then discarded.
“Well, we ain’t gettin’ very far,” Nate said. Looking out the window, he continued, “I still can’t believe how big these salt flats are, and how white. They look like back home in Delaware after a blizzard. Without the buildings, of course.”
“These are the flats the Mexicans and some of their Anglo allies have been fightin’ over for the past several years, against some other Anglos,” Jeb explained. “The Mexes believe the salt is free for everyone. They claim it says so in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which ended our war with Mexico, back in 1848. The other side says they can file ownership on the flats, and can charge a fee for anyone who takes salt from them.
“The whole dispute’s a long way from settled, and I hope we finish our work and get back to Austin before it explodes into an all out war, which seems bound to happen. Let’s not worry about that now. We need to get back to the problem at hand.”
Jeb tilted back in his chair, took off his Stetson and ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed his jaw before continuing.
“We’ve been chasin’ our tails in circles, boys, for the last couple, three weeks,” he said. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but after hashin’ things out with y’all, I’ve concluded there’s only one choice left to me, much as I hate it.”
“You might as well spill it then, Jeb,” Hoot said.
“I guess so.” Jeb sighed deeply, then shook his head. “Man, I hate this; however, the only way we’re ever gonna track down most of the men we’re after is by splittin’ our forces. I’ve got to divide this company. There’s no way around it. Anybody got any th
oughts on that?”
“We’ve had to fight separately before, Jeb,” Hoot answered. “I don’t like the idea either, but I can see where you’re right. You’ve got my vote.”
“Mine, too,” Nate said.
“Yeah, but at least in the past, there’s been some veterans ridin’ with us,” Jeb objected. “Not that I’m sayin’ every last one of you isn’t worth his salt as a Texas Ranger…”
He had to pause until the groans died down.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make such a bad joke in the middle of this meetin’,” he said. “What I’m gettin’ at is, except for me’n Hoot, every last one of you hasn’t spent much time enforcin’ the law. Yes, I’m includin’ you, Nate,” he added, when Nate started to protest. “You’ve learned a lot in the past year or so, but you still ain’t got the experience under your belt a man with more service time would have. And not one of the rest of you fellers has been a Ranger for even a year.”
“You can’t get the experience without doin’ the job,” A. J. said.
“A. J.’s right,” Eddy added.
“I know. I’d already figured out a plan before I called this meetin’,” Jeb answered.
“Would you fellers like more coffee?” Shirley Richardson, the café’s gray-haired owner and sole employee, broke in, brandishing a fresh pot.
“Of course, darlin’,” Jeb answered. “We’d be grateful.”
“All right, then.”
Jeb waited until Shirley finished refilling everyone’s mugs before continuing.
“All right,” he said. “It seems to me most of the outlaws are holin’ up in the Cornudas Mountains. That’s where I’m gonna send the main force, which I’ll be leadin’. Hoot, you’ll be takin’ a smaller group into the Guadalupes. Don’t think you’re gettin’ the easier job, though. You might not have as many renegades to face, but there’ll still be plenty of ’em for you to handle. Plus, you’ll have to take on the Mescaleros before you’re finished. You can count on that. I don’t need to tell you what’ll happen if those Apaches take you alive.”
A Ranger Grown (Lone Star Ranger Book 8) Page 10
