Ranger Justice

by James J. Griffin

  “What do you mean?” Crowe asked, clearly puzzled.

  “He means you don’t know who killed Rebecca Jeffers either, Sheriff,” Steve shouted from his cell.

  “Steve’s right,” Jim agreed, “And when we find that out, I guarantee we’ll figure out whoever’s behind all these killin’s. And that’ll also give us Ranger Mike Thompson’s killer.” He stood up to yawn and stretch. “It’s been a long day, John, and I’ve had a hard ride over here from Austin. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me, so I’d like to get some supper and a room. Where’s that deputy of yours?”

  “Rick should’ve been back by now,” Crowe replied. “I’m gettin’ a mite worried about him. If he don’t show up soon, I’m gonna have to head out to the Rafter Q myself.”

  “What kind of an hombre is your deputy?” Jim asked. “Is he dependable? You think there’s any chance he might’ve been the one to kill Rebecca Jeffers and try to frame Steve?”

  “Not a chance,” Crowe emphatically replied. “I’ve known Rick since he was a boy. Most honest man you’ll ever come across. Got a wife and a couple of kids. He’d be the last person I’d suspect of any wrongdoin’.”

  “I’ve gotta agree with the sheriff,” Steve concurred. “Rick’s been a big help to me ever since I rode into town. I don’t see how he’d get involved in a string of killin’s like this.”

  “Well, I’d sure like to talk to him,” Jim replied, “Mebbe he can shed some light on what’s goin’ on around here.”

  “Reckon you’ll get your chance,” Crowe replied, glancing out the window as the hoofbeats of a hard-ridden horse sounded. “Here’s Rick now.” A moment later, the deputy shoved open the door.

  “John, what in blazes happened to you?” he demanded, gazing at the sheriff’s bandaged forehead. “I ran into some of the Rafter Q boys on my way back into town, and they claimed they’d tried to help hang our prisoner, but that another Ranger had ridden in and stopped ‘em.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Crowe agreed, “and I’m all right. Just a little banged up. Meet the Ranger who stopped that lynch mob…although his horse did as much as he did. Jim, this is my deputy, Rick Lewis. Rick, Lieutenant Jim Blawcyzk.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant.” Lewis took Jim’s hand in a firm grip.

  “Same here,” Jim replied, returning the deputy’s steady gaze. Lewis was in his mid-twenties, just a bit over six feet tall, and weighed about one-eighty. His light-colored Stetson covered a shock of wavy dark brown hair and shaded clear auburn eyes. The holster on his right hip held a older model single action Colt .45, and on his belt was a sheath containing a long-bladed skinning knife. “Soon as you get settled, I’d like to ask you some questions about the night you found Steve and Rebecca Jeffers,” Jim concluded.

  “Rick, did you find any sign of Jeffers’ missin’ horses?” Crowe asked.

  “What missin’ horses?” Lewis snorted explosively, as he stalked over to the gun rack and placed the Colt Lightning rifle he carried in an empty space. “There wasn’t a sign of any horses bein’ run off. I was on a wild goose chase if you ask me.”

  “Like we both figured, John,” Jim observed. “Deputy, how soon can we talk?”

  “Well, Lieutenant, I was figurin’ on headin’ over to the café and orderin’ supper. Since my wife and kids are spendin’ the night at her sister’s, who’s fee-lin’ poorly, I was just gonna bunk here at the office tonight. We can palaver while we eat if that’s agreeable.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Jim agreed. “I’m plumb starved.”

  “Then it’s settled. John, I’ll have Lucinda bring over yours and Masters’ grub.”

  “Sure, Rick,” Crowe agreed. “And tell Harvey don’t burn the steak this time.”

  “I’ll do that,” Lewis chuckled. “Whenever you’re ready, Lieutenant.”

  “Been ready,” Jim replied, as he pushed himself up from his chair. “Steve, I’ll stop back before I put up for the night.”

  “All right, Jim…and I’m sure grateful for your savin’ my neck today,” the young Ranger began as he rose from his bunk. “I’ll.” Steve’s next words were cut off by a grunt of pain as a rifle cracked and a bullet plowed into his back, slamming him against the bars of his cell.

  “Rick, see if you can help him,” Jim shouted as Steve crumpled to the floor. “I’m gonna try and get that bushwhacker.” He yanked his Colt from its holster and flung open the door. As he rushed out of the office Jim instinctively threw himself sideways and down, out of the light framing him in the doorway as he stepped onto the boardwalk. Flame streaked from the alley across the street as two pistol shots rang out, one bullet burning a hole through the fabric of Jim’s shirt just over his right hip, the second bringing a strangled yelp from John Crowe as it went through the open door and struck him in the chest. Jim returned fire, and was rewarded with a scream of mortal agony as the hidden drygulcher stumbled into the street, hands clamped to his stomach as he doubled over to pitch face-down in the road.

  Reloading as he ran, bent low, Jim raced around the side of the sheriff’s office and into the back alley from where the first shot had been fired. He hauled up short, muttering in frustration as he reached the rear of the building. The dim starlight shining on the hard-packed dirt revealed only a jumble of faint bootprints heading in all directions through the alley and its branches. In the dark it would be impossible for Jim to track the gunman who’d shot Steve through the window of his cell. Worse, the ambusher might be holed up in any of a dozen outhouses or doorways, ready to put a bullet through the Ranger’s middle.

  His Colt still at the ready, Jim hurried back to where the second gunman lay face-down in the street, with a crowd gathering around him. Rick Lewis, his Lightning in his hands, came up to the Ranger as Jim rolled the badly wounded man onto his back. The drygulcher moaned softly, just once, as blood dribbled from his mouth and nose, then let loose one final wracking breath and shuddered to stillness.

  “How’s Steve and the sheriff?” Jim bluntly asked.

  “They’re both still alive, but they’re hard hit,” the deputy replied. “Doc Sweeney’s already workin’ on them. I’ve got a couple of men gonna help carry them down to Doc’s office once he gives the sayso. You get the man who shot em?

  “The one who drilled Steve got away,” Jim disgustedly stated, “but I downed this one. You recognize this hombre?” he asked, nudging the body with the toe of his boot.

  Rick gazed at the swarthy, spade-bearded face of the gunman, now contorted in death agony. “I sure do,” he replied. “That’s Marco Loyola, one of Mace Jeffers’ vaqueros.”

  “Rick, do me a favor,” Jim asked. “Get this hombre loaded in a buckboard and cover him up. I need a place to keep him for the night.”

  “Sure,” the deputy readily agreed, “I can get a wagon from Jeff Murphy at the livery stable. What’re you gonna do?”

  “I’m goin’ to check on Steve and your boss,” Jim grimly responded. “Then first thing in the mornin’ I’ll want a team to go along with that buckboard, because I’m gonna pay a visit to Mr. Mason Jeffers.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The sun was still well below the eastern horizon when Jim stepped into the livery stable the next morning. Sam, his big paint, whickered an eager greeting to the Ranger.

  “You behave yourself bud?” he asked as he entered Sam’s stall, scratching the horse’s ears as Sam buried his muzzle in his rider’s middle, then nuzzled eagerly at Jim’s hip pocket for his usual treat. “Sure, I’ve got your candy,” Jim continued, producing a peppermint and slipping it to Sam, who crunched down happily on the sweet. “One’s enough,” he told the gelding as Sam begged for another piece, “and you’ll get to take it easy today. I won’t be needin’ you this mornin’.”

  “Hey, what’s all the commotion in here?” Jeff Murphy, Sanderson’s blacksmith and the stable owner, stepped out of his combin
ation office and living quarters to turn up a wall lantern. “Oh, it’s you Ranger,” he muttered, “didn’t expect you this soon. G’mornin’.” He leaned the shotgun he carried against the wall, then ran a hand sleepily over his face and through his short-cropped dark hair.

  “I want to get out to the Rafter Q quick as I can,” Jim replied, “I figured Rick’d make that clear to you last night.”

  “I reckon he did,” Murphy answered, “but I sure didn’t think you’d be this early. I haven’t fed the team yet. I’ll do that right now. They’ll be ready to travel in half an hour.”

  “Better make it an hour, even though it’ll delay me,” Jim said, “I’m not gonna push those horses right after they eat.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Murphy responded, “I like a man who won’t abuse a horse. By the way, how’s the sheriff and that young Ranger doin’?” Murphy

  stepped to the end of the aisle, filled two buckets from the grain bin, and emptied them into the mangers of a pair of sturdy bay draft horses.

  “They’re both still alive, and it looks like the sheriff might pull through, but the doc doesn’t give Steve much of a chance,” Jim answered.

  “That’s a real shame,” Murphy said, “Hope you find the blasted backshooter who plugged the kid.”

  “I will. You can count on it,” Jim flatly stated.

  As Murphy forked hay to the drafts Jim curried Sam, rubbing down the paint’s already shining coat. “Jeff, while I’m at the Rafter Q, I’d appreciate it if you’d shoe my horse for me,” he requested. “New ones all around.”

  “Sure, Ranger, if that’s what you’d like,” Murphy replied. “And as long as he don’t take my head off.” He was still leery of Jim’s one man animal, who had taken a piece out of the back of the blacksmith’s shirt when he’d gotten a little too close the night previous.

  “He’ll be all right, won’t you, Sam?” Jim asked, the horse snorting in seeming agreement. “And I know his shoes might look like they’ve still got lots of miles left on ‘em, but in my line of work I can’t chance my horse losin’ a shoe.”

  “I’ve gotta agree with you there,” Murphy chuckled, as he walked over to stand outside Sam’s stall. “But you sure he’s not gonna take a chunk outta my hide?”

  “Nah. You’re gonna let Jeff shoe you, ain’t’cha pard?” Jim patted the paint’s shoulder. Sam sniffed at Jeff’s hand, then went back to munching some loose hay on the floor.

  “He’ll be just fine now,” Jim assured Murphy.

  “Hope you’re right,” Murphy dubiously muttered in reply, as he tentatively ran a hand along Sam’s thick-muscled neck. “Ranger, while you’re waitin’ for Nancy and Barry to finish eatin’, how about I make up a pot of coffee?”

  “Now you’re talkin’,” Jim readily agreed, stepping up to the stall next to Sam’s and rubbing the nose of the chestnut inside. “Oh, nearly forgot. Check Yancey’s shoes for me too, will you?” he requested, as he slipped Steve Masters’ horse a peppermint. “You doin’ all right, Yance?” he asked the gelding, who softly nuzzled his hand. “I’ll bet you’re missin’ Steve, ain’t’cha?” Steve’s horse whickered a soft reply.

  “Sure, Jim, I’ll take care of him,” Murphy readily agreed. “Gonna turn him out later so he can stretch his legs some, too. He’s gettin’ restless cooped up in that stall.”

  “Appreciate that,” Jim smiled, as Murphy passed him a cup of coffee.

  Once the horses were warmed up, Jim kept them at a steady trot until he reached his destination. The sun was still low on the horizon, not yet having begun to take the chill out of the morning air when he reined in on a low rise overlooking the Rafter Q.

  “Nice lookin’ spread,” Jim mused as he studied Mason Jeffers’ ranch. Six miles west of Sanderson, the main house of the ranch was a rambling whitewashed adobe structure, with a shaded veranda surrounding three sides. The bunkhouse, barns, and other outbuildings were all sturdily built and appeared to be kept in a good state of repair. Several corrals held fine-looking horses, while further in the distance cattle grazed. A group of cowboys was in the main yard, evidently receiving their orders for the day.

  “Hup, get on up there,” Jim ordered, slapping the reins on the bays’ rumps. The sun’s early rays glittered on the silver star on silver circle badge pinned to his vest as he rolled the buckboard down the hill and into the Rafter Q’s yard. The gathered men stared at him as he pulled the team to a halt, several of them letting their hands drift to gun butts.

  “Mornin’ gents, just take it easy,” Jim softly warned, his hand resting easily on the Winchester lying on the seat next to him adding emphasis to his quiet words. “I’m just here to talk. Let’s not make any mistakes.”

  A man in his late forties, with the build of a bulldog, detached himself from the rest of the group. His dark eyes glittered with rage as he stalked up to the buckboard.

  “Lookin’ at that badge, you must be the Ranger my men tell me stopped that hangin’ yesterday and shot my foreman,” he growled. “You’ve got a lot of guts ridin’ in here. This the hombre, Gordy?”

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Gordy Bob Webber confirmed, his voice low and deadly. “You want me to plug him right here and now, boss?” The segundo’s hand hovered menacingly over the bird’s-head grip .45 Colt he wore in a cross draw holster.

  “I wouldn’t advise tryin’ that,” Jim warned, “’cause I sure won’t be the only one to die here today if you do.”

  “Not yet, Gordy,” Jeffers calmly stated, “I want to hear what he has to say first. Besides, we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Mason Jeffers.”

  “Lieutenant Jim Blawcyzk,” Jim replied as he swung down from the buck-board, Winchester in hand. “I’ve got somethin’ for you.” He casually walked to the back of the wagon and uncovered the body of Marco Loyola.

  “What’s the meanin’ of this?” Jeffers exploded as he saw the dead cowboy.

  “That’s exactly what I want to ask you, Jeffers,” Jim challenged, “since I think you already know. Somebody shot Steve Masters in the back from outside his jail cell last night. When I went after whoever plugged him, this hombre tried to ambush me. He came close…and he did drill the sheriff before I got him. Whoever shot Steve escaped in the dark. I figure he’s somewhere on this ranch. Mebbe I’m even lookin’ at him right now!” Jim snapped, glaring straight at Webber.

  Webber’s hand streaked for his gun, halting with it half out of leather as Jim whipped his Winchester around and leveled it at Webber’s chest.

  “Hold it, all of you!” Jeffers ordered, “Let the Ranger finish what he has to say.”

  “I’m waitin’ for an explanation from you as to why your men tried to lynch a Texas Ranger yesterday,” Jim answered, “Then when that didn’t work they came back to finish the job by shootin’ him in the back.”

  Jeffers struggled mightily to keep his anger in check as he replied, “That Ranger killed my wife, just because he couldn’t have his way with her. You expect me to do nothin’ about that? Are you claimin’ that since he’s a Ranger he should get off scot-free?”

  “I’m almost certain Steve didn’t kill your wife,” Jim responded. “But even if he did, he’s entitled to a fair trial, not hangin’ at the end of a lynch mob’s rope. There’s nothin’ lower than lynchin’ a man…unless it’s shootin’ him in the back.”

  “Look, Ranger,” Jeffers quietly answered, “I’ll admit I want to see Masters hung for what he did to my wife. But I didn’t have anythin’ to do with that lynch mob. I can’t tell my men what to do when they’re in town. And I really can’t blame any of ‘em who were involved. My wife was a wonderful woman, and all the men were fond of her.” His statement was echoed by a murmur of agreement from the gathered cowboys.

  “Somehow I don’t believe you, Jeffers,” Jim replied.

  “Let me finish,” Jeffers answered, “Even though nothin’ would gi
ve me more pleasure than seein’ Masters danglin’ at the end of a rope, one thing I’d never tolerate is shootin’ a man in the back from ambush. Like you said, that’s a coward’s act.”

  “Still doesn’t explain why your man there tried to drygulch me,” Jim flatly stated, gesturing toward Loyola’s body. “The only explanation that makes sense is he was in cahoots with whoever shot Steve. And if Steve dies, there ain’t enough room in the whole state of Texas for the man who shot him to hide. But this ain’t gettin’ us anywhere. Besides bringin’ this body out here, I came to ask you a favor.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Ranger, I’ll grant you that,” Jeffers snorted. “Brin-gin’ me one of my men that you killed, then sayin’ you want a favor. But I’ll admit you’ve aroused my curiosity. Go ahead, ask.”

  “Like I said, I’m almost certain Steve Masters didn’t kill your wife. If you’ll agree to my request, I think I can prove it. I’d like your permission to exhume your wife’s body and have Doc Sweeney remove the bullets that killed her.”

  “I said you had nerve. I didn’t realize you were plumb loco,” Jeffers exploded. “What makes you think I’d ever agree to dig up my wife’s body?”

  “Because you’d want to know the truth and find the real killer,” Jim softly replied, “and havin’ those slugs is one way I can get at it.”

  “Forget it. I’ll never allow you to disturb poor Rebecca. My wife is dead. Can’t you let just her lie in peace?”

  “I wish I could,” Jim admitted, “And I’ll be as careful and respectful as possible. Believe me, if there was any other way, I wouldn’t be askin’ this. But I need those slugs, so whether you give permission or not, I’m afraid I’ll have to exhume the body. If I have to, I’ll wait for the circuit judge to come into town and ask him for a court order, which I’m sure will be granted.”

  “Lemme plug him Mace,” Webber again urged.

  “You’re awfully anxious to put a slug in me,” Jim snapped, “Makes me think even more’n ever it’s likely you’re the man who backshot Steve Masters, Webber.”