Panhandle raiders, p.5
Panhandle Raiders, page 5
“”There’s no need for that,” Swanson replied. “I’m always glad to help out the Rangers. Besides,” he nodded at two geldings, a blaze faced blue roan and a stocking footed bay which were wearily munching hay in a far corner of the corral, “I figure I’ve received two halfway decent horses and some ridin’ gear in compensation for my trouble.”
“That’s certainly fair enough,” Jim agreed. His blue eyes seemed like chips of ice as he studied the outlaws’ worn out mounts. The exhausted animals were still coated with dried sweat and dirt. If there was one thing that could drive Jim to an almost unreasoning fury, it was someone abusing an animal.
“Jack, it looks like those two broncs need some tending to,” he coldly stated. “Once Sam and Soot are settled in I’m going to rub them down too. I’m also going to check those renegades’ gear before I head inside. Let Smoky know I’ll be along shortly.”
“If I know your McCue, with my wife and daughters fussing over him your pardner’s already forgotten you’re out here, Lieutenant,” Swanson chortled.
“You’re most likely right at that,” Jim grinned, as he lifted the saddle from Sam’s back. Before Matt removed Soot’s saddle, Jim dug in Smoky’s saddlebags to retrieve a spare shirt, which he handed to Swan-son.
“You’d better take this with you for my pardner,” Jim requested, “That shirt Smoky was wearing sure isn’t much good now.”
“I’ll do that,” Swanson promised as he took the shirt. “Zeb,” he added to the buffalo hunter, “Those old blankets should be in the back corner of the leanto. Let’s get those bodies covered and put away. Matt, make sure you do a thorough job of grooming Ranger McCue’s horse.”
“I will, Dad,” Matt assured him.
“Jack, if you don’t mind my borrowing your boy for a few minutes longer, I could use a hand with those other two horses,” Jim requested.
“That’s not a problem at all,” Swanson agreed. “I’ll see you inside in a bit.”
While Swanson and Zeb removed the bodies of the outlaws to behind the leanto, Jim and Matt fed and groomed the Rangers’ horses, then rubbed down the blue roan and bay. That done, Matt headed back inside, while Jim went through the contents of the dead men’s saddlebags, which were hanging from the fence along with the rest of their gear. Except for a scrap of paper with Jack Doakes name scrawled across it, the alforjas contained no information of use to the Ranger. Finally the dead-tired lawman was ready to have his meal and get a good night’s sleep.
“I’ll see you in the mornin’, Sam,” he told his paint as he gave the horse a last peppermint and stroked his velvety muzzle. “Rest up, since we’ve still got a lot of miles to put behind us.” Jim glanced up at the sky at the sound of a distant rumble of thunder, to see lightning flickering on the western horizon. “You might want to get under that leanto, pard,” he told the gelding, “It looks like it’s fixing to blow pretty good.” As Sam nuzzled his shoulder, Jim then slapped him fondly on the neck, telling the mount, “G’night, bud.” Sam responded with a soft whicker, then went back to munching his hay.
Jim headed inside and passed through the main room with its mounds of haphazardly stacked merchandise to find his partner smoking a quirly and stretched out on his back on a well-worn sofa in the good-sized combination dining and bar room. McCue’s shirt and boots were off, and a foul smelling poultice had been plastered over the knife slash across his stomach. Mourning Dove, Swanson’s Kiowa wife, was spoon-feeding Smoky from a bowl of hearty beef stew, while two dark-haired young women, in their late teens or early twenties, hovered over the wounded Ranger. A third young woman, with the same dark hair and eyes as her sisters, was at the cast-iron stove, placing Smoky’s ripped, blood-stained shirt in a pot of hot soapy water. That shirt would be washed, mended, and returned to McCue before the Rangers left. Swanson was behind the bar, his head wreathed in clouds of smoke from the pipe clamped tightly between his teeth, while Zeb was at the mahogany nursing a beer.
“I hope you’re comfortable, Smoke,” Jim dryly remarked.
“I’m managing,” Smoky replied with a grin, “Cherry, Young Fawn, and Natalie are taking good care of me. And of course Mourning Dove is patching me up just fine.”
“Of course,” Jim chuckled in reply.
“Ranger McCue is a good patient,” Mourning Dove quietly said, “And his appetite for my stew makes my heart happy.”
“I’m glad he’s good for something,” Jim laughed. “And if it’s not too much trouble I could go for some of that good stew myself.”
“It’s no trouble, Lieutenant,” Mourning Dove answered. “Cherry,” she ordered the girl at the stove. “Please fill a bowl for the Ranger.”
“Certainly, Mother,” Cherry replied, smiling as she gazed at Blawcyzk. “I’d assume you would like some bread and butter to go along with it, Lieutenant. And coffee, beer, or whiskey?”
“I would indeed,” Jim replied as he took a seat at the long table in the center of the room, where Matthew was already working on his second helping of stew. The Ranger’s blue eyes reflected the smile Cherry’s dark ones held. “And I’ll have coffee, as long as it’s strong and black.”
“Cherry, you must have forgotten Lieutenant Blawcyzk doesn’t drink anything containing alcohol,” Swanson spoke up from behind the bar. “Lieutenant, I’ll have a couple of cold sarsaparillas for you whenever you want.”
“I reckon I’ll wait until Smoke’s ready for his whiskey,” Jim replied.
“His wound will be bandaged by the time you are finished with your meal, so he will be able to join you,” Mourning Dove promised.
“That’s fine. Smoke and I are both grateful to you and your family,” Jim answered as Cherry placed a deep bowl of stew, a plate of bread and butter, and a mug of coffee in front of him. He fell silent while he dug into the meal.
“Storm comin’.” A few minutes later Jim glanced up at the flicker of lighting through the room’s single grimy window. “It sure seems like we’re in for a real gullywasher,” he offhandedly remarked, as thunder rumbled in the distance and a cool breeze came through the open back door.
“I guess I’d better shut that door, even though it’ll get mighty stuffy in here,” Swanson grumbled. He stepped from behind the bar and pulled the door closed.
“We can use the rain,” Zeb observed, “It’s been awful dry in these parts. Worst I’ve seen it in years. Mebbe I’ll have better travelin’ when I head north to meet my partners in a few days. With luck this storm’ll fill up a few of the waterholes and green up the grass some.”
“Boy howdy, you’re sure right about that,” Swanson agreed. “Parson’s Creek is runnin’ less than half full.”
“As long as it blows itself out before morning so it doesn’t slow me and Smoky up,” Jim noted. “We need to make the Panhandle as quickly as possible.”
“You’re headed for the Panhandle?” Swanson asked.
“That’s right,” Jim answered. “I was gonna ask you this while we were havin’ our drinks later, but as long as you’ve brought it up … Jack, have you heard anything about a bunch maybe dressed like cavalry soldiers doing a whole lot of robbin’ and killin’ up that way?”
“Soldiers?” Swanson echoed. The trading post owner stroked his thick beard thoughtfully before he reluctantly replied. “I’ve heard a few stories about a bunch like that. I can’t tell you much more than that, however. They’ve been operating much further north, or so I understand. But they’re a pretty mean outfit, from what I hear tell.”
“And you hear everythin’ that goes on in north Texas, Jack.” Smoky retorted as he sat up. The wounded Ranger now had a clean white bandage wrapped around his middle. “Don’t try and keep anything from us.”
“I tell you Rangers everythin’ I find out,” Swanson protested.
“Don’t bother Jack with your questions,” Zeb spoke up. “My pards and I’ve been huntin’ buffalo up that way. We’ve heard all about those hombres. They’re dressed like Yankee soldier boys, all right. In fact, I’d be willin’ to bet a whole season’s worth of hides they really are soldiers.”
“Do you know that for certain?” Jim questioned. “There was only one witness who mentioned anything about the Army, from the reports Ranger Headquarters received.”
“Mebbe when you left Austin,” Zeb explained, “but those renegades have been busy since. Six days ago, they hit a party of buffalo hunters and stole three wagonloads of hides. Most of those hunters were friends of mine,” he bitterly spat.
“But what makes you think it was the same bunch?” Jim pressed, “And how do you know they were in soldier’s garb?”
“Because one of ‘em left his hat behind,” Zeb explained. “When me and my pards came upon what those hombres had left of our compadres we found Tate Hanson with that hat clutched in his hands. Tate was a real tough old hombre, and he wasn’t quite dead when we found him, despite the three bullets in his guts. Before he cashed in, Tate managed to choke out it was a bunch of soldiers who’d killed him and his pards.”
“Or men masquerading as soldiers,” Smoky pointed out.
“You could be right,” Zeb conceded. “Either way, you’re lookin’ for some muy malo hombres, Ranger.”
“Tell us where this happened, Zeb,” Jim demanded. “At least it might give us a start on where to look for those renegades.”
“It was about ten or twelve miles northwest of that little settlement folks call Jayton,” the buffalo hunter explained, “but I’m sure those devils are long gone by now.”
“But it does give us an idea which way to head come morning,” Jim answered.
“That is if we can ride out at all,” Smoky rejoined, as the room was illuminated by an almost blinding flash of lightning and thunder rattled the window, followed immediately by the spattering of raindrops. “We’d best get our bedrolls before the downpour begins.”
“Don’t worry about your blankets,” Swanson urged. “I’ve got plenty of those stacked up on the back counter. I’ll just have Matthew grab you a couple and you can throw ‘em down on the floor right in here. Son, get the Rangers those blankets.”
“Right away, Dad,” Matthew complied, disappearing into the main merchandise room. He returned a few moments later carrying an armful of woolen blankets. By the time the blankets were spread on the floor, the storm had commenced in full fury. Wind-driven rain lashed the building, accompanied by vivid lightning and deafening claps of thunder.
“Lieutenant, I know you wanted to hit the sack early, but even you can’t sleep through this racket,” Swanson noted as Jim finished his meal. “How about a few hands of poker before you turn in? And I’ll dig out those sarsaparillas for you.”
“That doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea,” Jim grinned. “I’ll be more’n happy to take some of your cash.”
“And I’ll take Jack’s cash from you, pard,” Smoky chuckled as he padded stocking-footed for the card table in the back corner.
“Before you start playing, Ranger, you had best finish dressing before you catch a chill,” Mourning Dove ordered McCue, as she handed him his spare shirt and freshly polished boots. “And I will have your other shirt washed and mended for you by morning.”
“I reckon you’re right,” Smoky agreed, shrugging into the shirt and tugging on the boots. “Now, Jack, how about some of your finest redeye?”
“Comin’ right up,” Swanson smiled, as he took a bottle and three glasses from behind the bar. Picking up two bottles of pop from under the counter, he joined the two Rangers and Zeb at the baize-covered table. After filling the glasses and opening a sarsaparilla for Jim, he unwrapped a new deck of cards.
“Anything particular you feel like playing?” Swanson queried as he removed the jokers and shuffled the cards.
“Five card stud’s fine with me,” Jim replied.
“All right. Any objections?” Swanson asked. When Smoky and Zeb answered in the negative, he began tossing cards around the table.
The four men had been playing for just over an hour when the front door slammed open and three cowhands in water-dripping slickers stepped into the room. They pulled off the coats and hung them from a wall peg, then slapped their soaked Stetsons against their legs to drive water from the brims.
“Howdy, Jack,” one of the men called out. “I sure hope you’ve got some whiskey handy. We’re drenched, and could really use some red-eye to warm up.”
“The Norman brothers!” Swanson exclaimed as he pushed back from the table. “Howdy yourselves, boys! What in blue blazes brings you two good-for-nothings out on a night like this? And who’s that hombre with you?”
“This is our new foreman, Tom Treloar,” the elder of the brothers answered. “We’re on our way back from a stock-buyin’ trip over San Angelo way. We didn’t find any good cows like we’d hoped, but we did hire on Tom here. We’d planned to make it home by morning, but we got caught out in this storm. We never expected it to blow up so fast. In fact we nearly missed your place. Didn’t see it until we were just about on top of it. Our horses are about done in, so we turned ‘em loose in your corral and tossed some hay to them. Figured you wouldn’t mind none.”
“Well, just make yourselves to home,” Swanson invited, then continued, “These gents are Jim Blawcyzk and Smoky McCue. They’re Rangers. The other hombre is Zeb Butler.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Norman spoke as the trio headed for the bar. “I reckon we should furnish our handles. I’m Patrick Norman, and this ugly lookin’ hombre here is my kid brother, Ronny. You’ve already gotten Tom’s name.”
“Same here,” Jim answered, eyeing the newcomers narrowly. If he hadn’t been told, Jim never would have guessed two of the men were brothers, as they looked alike not at all. Patrick Norman was stocky and fair, with pale eyes and tow hair so bleached by the Texas sun it was the color of straw, his eyebrows so light they were hardly visible. His skin, so fair it was evidently incapable of tanning, was reddened by exposure to sun and wind. His younger brother Ronny was slightly less stocky, but had dark brown hair and eyes, with a complexion to match.
As Jim studied the men, Mourning Dove emerged from the kitchen.
“Hey! You squaw!” Treloar instantly demanded. “I want grub. Chuck. Food. Now. You comprende?”
“I assume you want some victuals for your evening repast,” Mourning Dove mildly replied, her studied politeness in stark contrast to Tre-loar’s rude command. Treloar flushed deep red as the other occupants of the room burst into laughter.
“Tom,” Patrick Norman explained once his guffaws had subsided, “Mourning Dove speaks English far better than you. In fact, she probably speaks it better’n anyone else in this room”
“That’s right,” Swanson spoke up. “My wife here was captured by white traders as a child and she was educated at a convent school in St. Louis. She speaks English, Spanish, and French equally well, and of course her native Kiowa. In fact, she even knows a smattering of Hebrew.”
“Then I reckon I owe you an apology, ma’am,” Treloar said. “I’ve never come across an educated Indian before. I’ve only dealt with a few border-jumpin’ Comanches and Apaches in my time. I guess I won’t be gettin’ that grub.”
“I’ll accept your apology,” Mourning Dove answered, “As long as you remember the lesson you just learned.”
“I surely will,” Treloar promised. “Guess I really put my foot in my mouth.”
“And I’m sure it didn’t taste as good as my beef stew will,” Mourning Dove smiled mischievously as she slid a bowlful in front of the cowboy, as well as the two Norman brothers. “Enjoy.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I sure will,” Treloar answered as he dug hungrily into the stew.
Jim questioned the Normans as they ate, his casual manner carefully calculated to avoid raising any suspicions on their part.
“Where’re you boys from?” was his first query.
“Our spread’s the Rockin’ N Ranch. It’s still about a day’s ride northeast of here,” Ronny explained while he shoved another spoonful of stew in his mouth. “With the full moon we’d figured on ridin’ all night to make it home, but this storm sure ruined our plans, worse luck.”
“It slowed us down some too,” Jim answered. “We just beat it here. How long have you fellas been gone from home?”
“The better part of a month,” Patrick answered, “And we’re sure eager to get back. We left some good hands in charge, but there’s always rustlers to contend with, it seems. That’s why we hired Tom here as our new foreman. Our last one, Buzz Coltrain, got shot up real bad by a band of cattle rustlers. He’s gonna be laid up for a long time, and he’ll probably never ride a bronc again.”
“Then you wouldn’t know anything about a bunch dressed as U.S. cavalry soldiers raising a whole mess of Cain up north of here, robbin’ stages and such, murderin’ their victims so there’s no witnesses left alive,” Jim continued.
“No,” Ronny answered. “I’ve gotta say that’s news to us … not good news, I might add. There’s already enough trouble in this territory, what with rustlers and outlaws, not to mention reservation jumpin’ Indians.”
“Are you Rangers headed up north to try and put a stop to some of that trouble?” Patrick broke in.
“That’s what we’re aimin’ to do,” Jim answered.
“If that’s the case, why don’t you ride along with us as far as our spread?” Patrick invited. “Like my brother said, it’s about a day’s ride from here, so we can put you up for the night then you can head on from there. We’ve got a couple of spare bunks and Win Chow, our cook, puts out some pretty decent grub.”
“You mean chow,” Jim grinned, unable to resist the obvious bad joke.
