Ranger Justice

by James J. Griffin

  “Truth to tell, Monte Tremblay, our boss at the Triangle T, never bought that story about Mrs. Jeffers’ killin’,” Nelson explained. “Hope you can find whoever really did it.”

  “I will, and you can be sure of that,” Jim replied. “Mebbe you two can help. Was there any trace of whoever shot Cruz when you found him?”

  “A few hoofprints, but they disappeared once we hit the main trail, mixed in with all the others,” Nelson explained.

  “I figured as much,” Jim answered. “You got any idea who might’ve killed Pablo Cruz, and why?”

  “Not a clue,” Evans shrugged. “Pablo was a real decent sort, especially for a Mex. Kept to himself pretty much, and didn’t bother anybody. Ran a few cattle and some goats.”

  “He ever say why he took up a homestead here?” Jim asked. “Sure don’t look like the place to raise much of anythin’, either livestock or crops.”

  “Only thing he ever said was he liked the peace and quiet out here,” Nelson replied. “About the only folks who ever come by this way are us Triangle T boys.”

  “And lots of Anglos ain’t too friendly toward Mexicans, as you know, Ranger,” Evans added. “Probably Pablo figured this sorry patch of dirt was the only place around here no one’d bother him about. Looks like he was wrong.”

  “Mebbe,” Jim answered. “You don’t think by any chance this was a robbery?”

  “Not at all,” Evans responded, “Pablo didn’t have much more than the shirt on his back and those few scrawny cows and goats.”

  “Still, someone had a reason for killin’ him,” Jim noted. “I’m gonna check the canyon. I’d appreciate it if you’d ride along with me.”

  “Sure, Ranger,” Evans readily agreed, “We were headin’ in there to check for strays anyway. I’ve got a question for you before we mount up, though.”

  “Sure,” Jim agreed, “What is it?”

  Evans ran his admiring gaze over Jim’s gelding. “You ever thought of sellin’ that paint? He’s some animal.”

  “Not a chance,” Jim replied. “Besides, ol’ Sam here’s a one-man horse, aint’cha bud? He won’t let anyone else near him, unless I say so.” As Sam whickered in agreement, Jim continued, “In fact, if you hadn’t taken your gun offa me Andy, I was gonna have Sam take care of you.”

  “What d’ya mean, Ranger?” Nelson puzzled.

  “Just this.” Jim motioned slightly with his right hand, and Sam, ears pinned and teeth bared, whirled on the hapless cowboy. “Easy Sam, hold it,” Jim ordered, as his paint reared high, “It’s all right, boy.” Snorting and plunging, Sam retreated to Jim’s side, still eyeing Nelson suspiciously. “Sorry for that Andy, but it was the best way to get my point across. Sam would’ve got me

  outta that fix. When he went after you, Luke would just naturally have taken his attention off me, and before he even knew what happened, I would’ve gotten the drop on your pardner…or put a slug through him if I had to. And Sam would already have sunk his teeth into your guts.”

  “I see what you mean about that horse,” a shaken Nelson replied. “I won’t be caught dead near him.”

  “More likely that’s exactly how you’d be caught if you went near him…dead,” Evans laughed. “Ranger, I’m sure glad you didn’t turn him loose on us. If you’re ready, let’s get ridin’.”

  Gypsum Creek Canyon, if anything, was even less hospitable than it appeared at first glance. The creek which gave the canyon its name was fouled with dissolved minerals, the little vegetation its water supported thorny mes-quite, cactus, and scrub, unpalatable to most animals.

  “You say a lot of Triangle T stock wanders in here,” Jim questioned, as they reached the end of the narrow box canyon. “Sure can’t see why.”

  “Neither can we,” Evans agreed.

  “You think perhaps they don’t just ‘wander’ in here?” Jim asked. “Mebbe they have some help. Could be that’s why Cruz was killed, because he saw someone rustlin’ your beefs.”

  “I doubt it,” Evans answered. “We always find most of ‘em. Few that don’t turn up are probably taken by cougars or wolves. Not enough missin’ to make me believe there’s rustlin’ involved.”

  “Seems to me those cows just think it’s a good hidin’ place,” Nelson added. “It’s not easy chousin’ ‘em out of that brush. And it sure don’t look like we’re gonna find many today.”

  “Reckon you’re right,” Jim agreed. “Well, I’m not gonna find any reason for someone to kill Cruz in here, that’s for certain. Guess I’ll leave you boys to your searchin’ and head back to town. If you think of anythin’ that might be helpful, you can get in touch with me at the Terrell Hotel. I’m in Room 15.”

  “Will do, Ranger,” Evans replied, “Adios, and good luck.”

  After arriving back in Sanderson, Jim put up Sam and headed to Doctor Sweeney’s office to check on Steve Masters and John Crowe. The physician informed him that while Steve was still in a coma and gripped by a high fever, Sheriff Crowe had passed his crisis, and had in fact been conscious for a short

  time earlier in the day. Jim spent a few minutes visiting with Steve, speaking to the unconscious Ranger in hopes he might somehow hear Jim’s voice.

  Leaving the doctor’s office, Jim headed back to his room, cleaned up, then had an early supper at the Bon Ton. Once his appetite had been satisfied, he returned to the bank where, as promised, Leah Collins had the books ready for his perusal. After assuring her that he would return the ledgers as soon as the bank opened the next morning, Jim headed back to the hotel.

  When night fell, it brought no relief from the blazing heat of the day, the air thick with humidity as thunder rumbled in the distance. Jim’s cramped, dingy room was like an oven, even with the window open to catch any vagrant breeze. He’d unbuttoned his sweat-soaked shirt as he pored over the bank’s journals.

  “Mebbe we’re in for a little rain,” he muttered, as the thunder increased in volume, lightning flashed over the rooftops, and storm clouds overtook the western horizon. “That’ll cool things off a little.” He pulled the bandanna from his neck to wipe perspiration from his brow and the thick blonde hair matting his chest, then tossed it aside as he resumed his examination.

  Half an hour later, the tattletale gray curtains at the window fluttered in a freshening breeze, and rain spattered on the sill. “Better close that window,” Jim mused, when the coal oil lamp’s flame flickered and nearly went out.

  As Jim reached up for the sash a shot rang out, shattering the glass just above his head, the bullet burying itself in the wall opposite. He dove to the floor and rolled across the room, jerking his Colt from the gunbelt hanging on the bedpost. He bellied back across the floor, gun at the ready, and poked his head just above the windowsill. Instantly, another shot rang out, this bullet splatting into the outside wall just below the sill. Jim snapped a shot at the gun’s flash in answer, and was rewarded with a yelp of pain.

  Cautiously, Jim peered over the windowsill, and when no return shot was forthcoming, he leapt to his feet and raced down the stairs into the alleyway. “Blasted rain,” he exclaimed, as the thunderstorm broke in earnest, rain and hail coming down in wind-driven sheets. Evidently his bullet had just clipped the hidden drygulcher, and the rain was rapidly washing away any trace of his footprints or spots of blood.

  As Jim turned back toward the street Rick Lewis called out, “Hey, what’s goin’ on back there?”

  “It’s only me, Rick,” Jim wearily replied as Lewis came up to him. As usual, the deputy carried his Colt Lightning rifle.

  “Jim? What’re you up to? I heard shots.”

  “Somebody tried to drill me through my hotel window,” Jim exclaimed. “I thought I hit him when I shot back, but I must’ve just grazed him. No chance of findin’ him now.”

  “You all right?” Lewis queried.

  “I’m fine,” Jim answered with a rueful chuck
le, “but the hotel needs a new window.”

  “That’s not much of a problem,” Lewis responded, clearly relieved. “Glass can be replaced pretty easy, but it’s a heckuva job to find another Texas Ranger.”

  “I won’t argue with you there,” Jim laughed. “Well, there’s nothin’ more we can do here, and I’m tired. Time for me to get some shuteye. I’ll see you in the mornin’. G’night, Rick.”

  “’Night, Jim. And you might want to stay away from any more windows.”

  “I will. They just ain’t safe,” Jim grinned.

  CHAPTER 7

  With not much to do until the stage arrived the next afternoon, Jim slept late, then headed to the livery stable where he groomed his horse. His examination of the bank’s books had provided no new information, so after returning them to Leah Collins, he enjoyed a hearty breakfast at the Bon Ton, then had a shave and haircut followed by a leisurely bath at a barber shop owned by a Mexican named Santos. After stopping by Doctor Sweeney’s, where he found Steve Masters still feverish and unconscious, but also assured by the physician that Sheriff Crowe had spent a peaceful night and would be able to have a short visit from the Ranger later that day, he decided to take the opportunity to finally investigate Attorney Brett Sloane’s office. “Reckon I should have done this sooner,” Jim mused, as he climbed the stairs to the second floor office and unlocked the door, “but I was kinda occupied with other matters. ‘Sides, any evidence that might’ve been in here’s probably long since disappeared.”

  The cluttered office’s sparse furnishings were coated with a thick layer of dust. Evidently, no one had entered the room since shortly after Sloane’s body had been found.

  “Now let’s see,” Jim said half-aloud, as he glanced around the office. His gaze settled briefly on the thick rough-hewn log which ran the width of the room, the ceiling rafter from which Brett Sloane had been hung. Jim then went to a large oak desk, its top scarred with deep gouges and marred with cigar burns, and opened the top drawer, finding little of interest. He went through the rest of the desk’s drawers methodically, again finding nothing that would hint of the reason for the lawyer’s demise.

  After examining the contents of the desk, Jim next went through a file cabinet, locating a few files which contained documents relating to John and Leah

  Collins, Mason and Rebecca Jeffers, and Thor Lundgren. He studied these carefully, making several notes. He was about to replace the files and close the cabinet when he spotted a thin manila folder stuck between the back of the cabinet and the drawer. “Huh!” he exclaimed, as he opened the folder to find papers in the name of Kurt Thornberg, the missing geologist. “Mebbe there’ll be somethin’ in here that’ll help me,” the Ranger mused. “Reckon I’ll take these along and look ‘em over tonight.” He carefully replaced the other files, then slid the drawer shut.

  As Jim slid the Thornberg folder inside his shirt, his gaze once again settled on the ceiling beam. “Somethin’s not quite right here,” he muttered, “Sure wish I could put my finger on it.” He stared thoughtfully at the rough wood for a few moments, then slid a hickory side chair from a corner of the office and placed it directly under the beam.

  Jim climbed onto the chair to enable himself to see the top of the rafter. He looked carefully over the entire log, running his fingers slowly over its surface. “Got it,” he suddenly exclaimed. “If Brett Sloane was hung like the sheriff claims, there should be some rope marks on this wood. There ain’t any sign of a rope being wrapped around this beam, not even any fibers.” His examination had shown no rope marks, no lighter rubs on the dark, smoke-stained wood to indicate where a man had struggled in his death throes, trying futilely to draw in breath as he slowly strangled. “Even if Sloane’s neck was broke and he didn’t struggle,” Jim thought, “there’d still be some pressure marks from the weight of his body. Appears to me Brett Sloane wasn’t killed by hangin’.at least not in this room. Which means someone is lyin’ about what really happened to him. Now all I’ve got to do is figure out who and why.”

  After leaving the attorney’s office and returning to his room to place the Thornberg file in his saddlebags for safekeeping, Jim tracked down Rick Lewis at the Bon Ton Café, where the deputy was enjoying a mid-day meal of beefsteak and fried potatoes.

  “Howdy, Jim,” Lewis greeted the Ranger, waving him over to his table as he downed a forkful of beef. “I’d usually have dinner at home with Annette and my kids, since school’s out,” he explained, “but with John still laid up, I can’t leave the office for too long. You hungry?”

  “Always,” Jim grinned, as Maisie hurried over with a mug of steaming black coffee in her hand.

  “What’ll you have, Lieutenant?” she asked.

  “Same as the deputy here, only double the steak, and add some of that apple crisp,” Jim requested. “And make sure the steak’s well done, even burnt, and the spuds are crispy and brown.”

  “Comin’ right up,” the waitress smiled. As she headed behind the counter, Jim lowered his voice and asked Lewis, “Rick, got a question for you.”

  “Sure,” Lewis answered. “What is it?”

  “Who discovered Brett Sloane’s body?”

  “That’s an easy question. It was Thor Lundgren.”

  “The storekeeper?”

  “Yep. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m just tryin’ to piece everythin’ together,” Jim noncommittally replied. “So Lundgren must’ve reported the killin’.”

  “That’s right,” Lewis agreed, “And no one got to the office before the sheriff did. Lundgren was smart enough to keep his mouth shut until he told my boss about findin’ Sloane hangin’ in his office.”

  “Did you also see Sloane’s body before it was removed?”

  Lewis shook his head. “Uh-uh. I was out with a posse at the Triple A, tryin’ to track down some rustled cows that day. Trailed those beefs all the way to the Rio Grande, but the rustlers beat us across and into Mexico. It was four days after Sloane’s body was found that me and the boys got back. By that time Sloane had already been planted. You got some particular idea you’re kickin’ around, Ranger? Mebbe I can help.”

  “Not really,” Jim replied, “Just tryin’ to make sense of all this. I know it doesn’t look like it on the surface, but there’s got to be some connection between all of these killin’s.”

  “Seems likely,” Lewis agreed, “But what?”

  “Answer that question and you’ll have your killer,” Jim grinned. “Meanwhile, what time do you expect the stage?”

  “Should be anytime after two, if it hasn’t run into trouble,” Lewis answered. “And speakin’ of time, I’d better get back to my rounds. I’ll meet you when the stage comes in.”

  “See you then, Rick,” Jim answered, as Lewis pushed himself away from the table.

  Jim lingered over his dessert and several cups of coffee before heading over to the hotel. With Sanderson not yet large enough to support a stage depot and staff, the Butterfield coach would make its stop at the Terrell House. Choosing a spot on the boardwalk where the midday sun would soothe his still aching body, Jim tipped a chair against the hotel wall, stretched out his legs, and tilted his Stetson over his eyes. While he appeared to be dozing, actually he was studying the comings and goings of the citizens of the town. He occupied nearly two hours that way until the hoofbeats of rapidly approaching horses and the crack of a driver’s whip as he galloped his team into town announced the arrival of the stage from Fort Stockton. Jim came to his feet as Rick Lewis strode up.

  “That the same driver?” Jim questioned.

  “Yeah, that’s Pat Sullivan,” Lewis confirmed, as the stage jolted to a stop in a swirl of dust. “Jack’s the shotgun guard as usual too. Hey Sully!” he called as the driver climbed down from his perch. “Soon’s you get settled, I’ve got a Texas Ranger here needs to ask you a coupla’ questions.”

  “I can see th
at,” the bearded driver replied, spitting a thick stream of tobacco juice into the dust as he glanced at Blawcyzk’s badge. “Soon’s I get the passengers off and the baggage unloaded, I’ll be right with you.”

  The first person to alight from the mud-streaked yellow Concord was a middle-aged woman in a dark gray traveling outfit. As the next passenger exited, Blawcyzk exclaimed in recognition, “Andre! Andre Miller! What in blue blazes brings you to this corner of Texas?”

  The startled Miller looked up, then as he recognized the Ranger shouted back, “Lieutenant Blawcyzk! You’re the last person I expected to see down here.” Andre Miller was a tall, powerfully built black man, a former slave who had worked his way to a chief maintenance supervisor’s position with the Texas Pacific Railroad. He and Blawcyzk had first met when a prominent state senator and his hirelings had tried to ruin the rail line. Blawcyzk had been assigned to track down the culprits, and Miller had been wounded fighting off an ambush on his track crew. As Miller stepped into the road, another man left the confines of the stage to join him. Miller’s companion was slightly shorter than average, with thick gray hair and a small mustache. His dark shoe-button eyes seemed to fairly sparkle with energy.

  “Lieutenant, let me introduce you to Paul Doherty. He’s the T-P’s chief surveyor. Paul, this is Lieutenant Blawcyzk of the Texas Rangers.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant,” Doherty said, as he took Jim’s hand in a firm grip.

  “Same here,” Jim replied, “And Andre, I think we’ve known each other long enough now you can call me Jim. Same goes for you, Paul. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Miller replied with a wide smile.

  “That’s settled,” Jim grinned. “Now Andre, there’s only one reason you’d be down here with the railroad’s chief surveyor.”