Panhandle raiders, p.8
Panhandle Raiders, page 8
“I’m ready for him if he tries anything,” Adams shouted back as he pushed his sorrel into a trot.
While Smoky kept his rifle leveled at the prisoners, Jim shoved his rifle back in its boot, lifting his Colt from its holster as he dismounted.
“What’re you plannin’ on doing with us, Ranger?” one of the rustlers stammered as Jim approached them, his pistol pointed straight at their stomachs.
“If it were up to my friends here, you’d be strung up right quick. Bet a hat on it,” Jim answered as he nodded at the Normans, who still sat their horses, Ronny clutching his bullet-punctured left arm, while blood dripped from a bullet graze across Patrick’s forehead. “But my pard and I are Texas Rangers, so we’ll haul you over to Tascola and put you in the jail there until you can stand trial for rustlin’ and murder.”
Without warning, the man closest to Jim charged him, screaming “I’m not gonna hang,” as he grabbed Jim’s gun wrist. At the same time, he drove a vicious punch into Jim’s gut, driving air from the Ranger’s lungs and doubling him up. When Jim staggered against him, the rustler struggled to wrest the heavy Peacemaker from Jim’s grasp. As the barrel of the gun was forced downward, Jim managed to thumb back its hammer and pull the trigger. The rustler yelped in surprise and pain, a shocked look of disbelief coming to his face as a .45 slug ripped into his belly and tore through his guts. He stood for a moment, then collapsed in a heap. Seeing his partner fall, the remaining cow thief whirled and took off at a dead run.
“Hold it right there, Mister!” Smoky shouted his order, “Or I’ll drop you in your tracks.” When the fleeing rustler’s only response was a shouted curse and an increase in his speed, Smoky took careful aim and put a bullet into the middle of his back. The rustler stumbled from the impact, staggered a few more steps, then pitched to his face. Smoky calmly shoved his Winchester back into its boot as he glanced over at his partner and softly asked, “Are you all right, Jim?”
“I’m fine,” Jim answered, rolling the rustler he’d just shot onto his back. The gutshot renegade gasped as he struggled for a few choked breaths, then violently shuddered, his body twitching for another moment before going completely slack.
“I reckon he was right,” Ronny dryly observed as he looked down at the dead man, his hands still clamped to the bullet hole in his middle, “He’s not gonna hang.”
“I guess that finishes this bunch, except for those two who got into the hills,” Patrick Norman stated with satisfaction as he climbed from his mustang and stood at Jim’s side to gaze at the rustler’s body.
“I reckon it does,” Jim bitterly agreed. “If this hombre hadn’t gone for my gun he’d still be alive. So would his pardner.”
“And they’d be facin’ a hang rope in a few weeks anyway,” Smoky aggrievedly pointed out. “Jim, I’m goin’ to check these hombres to make sure they’re all done for. Don’t forget those two we just finished were headed for the gallows anyway.” As McCue turned away he muttered under his breath so his partner couldn’t hear the oaths he directed Jim’s way. Smoky quite often got tired of his partner’s concern for bringing in alive the outlaws they faced. As far as he was concerned, the ranchers were right. These renegades had stolen cattle and killed several men in doing so. They’d gotten the lead justice they richly deserved.
“I know, but I still don’t like it,” Jim shrugged.
Jim glanced over at Ronny, who had dismounted and was leaning against his roan, still holding his arm. Blood was seeping between his fingers.
“You’d better let me patch up that arm,” Jim told the young rancher.
“It looks like Wes is on his way back with Tom and Brad,” Ronny replied as he looked up canyon. “And it seems like Brad’s still alive. I’ll be okay until you check them.”
Adams had gotten both men onto his horse and was now slowly returning, working his way through the cattle which were already settling back to their grazing. Turley was sitting slumped in the saddle, while Treloar was draped belly-down in front of him, over the horse’s withers.
“As long as you’re sure about that,” Jim hesitantly told the young rancher as he watched the approaching trio. Smoky had already checked the bodies of the rustlers and now hurried to help the wounded men.
Once they reached their waiting companions, Adams swiftly dismounted to help Smoky and lift Turley and Treloar from his horse. Blood was dripping steadily from Turley’s jaw, while crimson splotched both the front and back of Treloar’s faded gray shirt.
“They need some help quick,” Adams stated as he and Smoky laid Treloar on the ground, then helped Turley lie down, leaning him against a boulder. “Tom got drilled through the back. Brad took a bullet in his jaw.”
“I’ll get the medical kits, Jim,” Smoky said as Jim hunkered alongside the badly wounded cowpunchers, the rest of the men gathering around.
“How bad is it?” Patrick anxiously asked as Jim quickly examined the men.
“Treloar’s in bad shape, but he should pull through if I can get this bleedin’ stopped,” Jim explained. “That bullet scrape on his neck is just a scratch. The slug which took him in the back went clean through him, and it struck him up high enough so it missed the lungs, looks like.”
“What about Brad?”
“Not as bad as it could have been,” Jim answered as he examined the wound. “The bullet clipped his chin and glanced off the jawbone, then exited just below his ear. He’s lost some blood, and the bone’s busted. He’ll probably end up with a nasty scar, but he should be all right once he gets to a doc and gets that bone properly set. For now I’ll clean up the wound as best I can and immobilize his jawbone so he can’t do any further damage.”
“Is he gonna be able to talk?” Adams questioned.
“Not for quite some time, I’m afraid,” Jim somberly replied. “He’ll also be living on soup and coffee for a while, since he won’t be able to chew.”
“Then maybe the rest of us’ll finally be able to get a word in edgewise around the bunkhouse,” Adams grinned, relieved that his riding partner was not mortally hit. “Brad, it sure is gonna be peaceful without all your yammerin’,” he teased. Turley could only glare at his partner through pain-glazed eyes.
“Here you are, Jim.” Smoky handed his partner his canteen, a bottle of whiskey, and a small canvas sack which contained some rudimentary medical supplies.
Jim ripped off Treloar’s shirt, exposing the bullet hole in the cowboy’s back and the large, ragged exit wound high in his chest. Jim poured water from his canteen over both wounds, sprinkled tobacco into them, and doused them with whiskey. Treloar moaned in pain as the raw liquor hit his torn flesh. Taking two pieces of cloth from the medical kit, Jim stuffed them into the bullet holes. Treloar winced, then his eyes flickered open.
“Take it easy, Tom,” Jim ordered.
“What … what happened?” Treloar weakly murmured.
“You took a bullet in your back,” Jim explained. “It went clean through you, but it looks like it missed anything vital, so you should be all right unless blood poisoning sets in. I’ve cleaned the holes out real good, covered ‘em with tobacco and red-eye, then plugged ‘em, so I don’t think you’ll get an infection, at least not right off. But you’ll need to get to a doc as soon as you can and get proper treatment.”
Treloar chuckled softly despite his intense pain.
“What’s so funny, Tom?” Ronny questioned.
“I just thought this is a heckuva way to start a new job, by takin’ a slug in my back,” Treloar answered, then grunted and passed out.
“He dead, Jim?” Adams asked.
“Nope. Just lost consciousness again. It’s better for him that way,” Jim replied as he poured more whiskey over the holes in Treloar’s chest and back.
“I need someone’s shirt,” he ordered.
“Take mine.” Wes Adams shrugged out of his shirt and handed it to the Ranger. Jim tore it into strips and wrapped them tightly around Tre-loar’s chest and back.
“That should work,” Jim grunted as he tied the last strip in place. “Let me see what I can do for Brad.”
Efficiently, Jim washed out the bullet holes in Turley’s jaw, doused them with the whiskey, and coated them with salve. He then cut the left sleeve off Turley’s shirt, tore it into strips, and tied it around the wounded man’s head, holding the broken jawbone in place.
“That’s the best I can do for now,” Jim stated as he knotted the makeshift bandage in place. “Once you these men get back home they’ll need to see a doc as soon as possible.”
“We’ll make sure of that,” Patrick promised, then continued to his rider, “Wes, you’d better start ridin’ herd on those cows before they get any ideas about runnin’ again.”
“Hold it just a minute,” Jim ordered as he glanced at Adams. “Wes, it looks like you got hit too.” The waddy had tied his bloodstained bandanna high on his neck. He also held a blood-stained kerchief pressed to his left ribs.
“These are just scratches,” Adams protested. “The bleedin’s already stopped. I’m fine.”
“Then don’t waste any more time,” Patrick stated, “Get out with that herd before something spooks ‘em. It’s gonna be awful hard to hold ‘em with one man, but stay with ‘em until we can help.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Adams promised. “But what about those two hombres who got away? Aren’t we goin’ after them?”
“Those men have too big a jump on us,” Smoky patiently explained. “Not only that, but from the looks of that trail if we went after them they could just sit up there in the rocks and pick us off one by one. I’m afraid we don’t have a snowball’s chance in the Mojave of catchin’ up with them. But we didn’t do all that badly. We took care of most of this bunch, and you’ve got your cows back.”
“I reckon you’re right at that,” Adams conceded as he swung back into his saddle.
“Hold it one minute, Wes,” Patrick ordered.
“Yeah, Pat?” Adams replied.
“It looks like the foreman’s job is open again. How would you like to have it?” Patrick asked.
“Not a chance,” Adams bluntly responded. “Seems like anyone who takes that job gets his hide punctured by a chunk of lead muy pronto. I’ll just keep punchin’ Rocking N cows”
“I can’t say that I blame you,” Patrick admitted.
Adams turned his horse and headed back to the milling herd.
“Now you’d better let me patch up that arm,” Jim ordered Ronny as Adams rode off.
“It is hurtin’ a mite,” Ronny allowed.
“I’d guess it is,” Jim wryly chuckled. “Roll up your sleeve and let me have a look at it.”
“Sure.” Ronny rolled his shirtsleeve to the shoulder, revealing two ugly holes in his upper left arm.
“You’re lucky,” Jim noted. “The bullet went clean through your arm without hitting the bone. I’ll just wash out those holes, plug and dress ‘em, then bandage you up. You’ll be good as new in a few weeks.”
Grimacing, Ronny bit his lip against the pain as Jim poured raw whiskey into the bullet holes. “That sure smarts,” he muttered as the stinging liquid burned into his torn flesh.
“I know it does, but I’ve gotta get that wound cleaned out as much as possible so you don’t get blood poisoning,” Jim answered. “I’ll be done in a couple of minutes.” He quickly covered the wounds with salve, padded them thickly with gauze, then wrapped a bandage tightly around the young rancher’s arm. “There, that’s done,” he announced with satisfaction. “Just roll down your sleeve, then let me have your bandanna so I can put that arm in a sling. Feel any better?”
“Much,” Ronny gratefully replied, as Patrick handing him a bottle of whiskey he’d retrieved from his own saddlebags. “And this’ll make it feel even better,” he added as he took a long swig of the liquor, then passed the bottle back to his brother, who took a long swallow for himself.
Once Jim had finished tying Ronny’s arm in a sling, he turned his attention to Patrick, cleaning and taping a bandage over the shallow bullet gash on his forehead.
“Lieutenant, we appreciate everything you’ve done for us,” Patrick told Jim as he worked on the rancher.
“Por nada,” Jim answered, “That’s what we Rangers are paid for.”
“I can’t help wonderin’ where those renegades would have taken our cows and how they’d get rid of them,” Patrick speculated. “We figured our brand was pretty hard to alter.”
“They probably were headed for the Territories,” Jim answered, “Or maybe they had a buyer who wasn’t too fussy about where those cows came from or who owned ‘em already lined up. As far as that Rocking N, it wouldn’t be too difficult to change it by usin’ a running iron to add two lines to turn the N into a box, making it the Rocking Slash Box, or else those lines and another slash, making your Rocking N the Rocking Box X. Any hombre handy with an iron could do it.”
“There’s pretty much not a brand in Texas that can’t be changed by a dishonest cowpuncher who’s good with a hot iron,” Smoky added.
“You’re right about that,” Patrick ruefully agreed. “Anyway, thanks again for your help. Will you be heading back to our spread with us? You’re more than welcome, anytime.”
Jim glanced up at the sun, now well more than halfway past its noon zenith.
“We’ve got a couple more hours of daylight left, and Smoke and I’ve still got a lot of miles ahead of us. We’ll help you bury these rustlers, then head on out.”
“Bueno,” Patrick answered. “I reckon we’ll spend the night here and rest up, being as this is an ideal spot to keep the herd bunched. They’re still a mite spooky from the gunfire. And,” he admitted, “we could use some rest ourselves. We’ll start out fresh first thing in the morning.”
“That’s probably best,” Jim agreed as he finished taping the bandage in place. “There, I’m finished. Let’s get those hombres in the ground.”
CHAPTER 8
Until they reached Swanson’s Trading Post, Jim and Smoky had been undecided as to where in north Texas they would actually head. While they had settled on either Fort Richardson, outside of Jacksboro, or Fort Griffin as their destination, they still hadn’t chosen which Army post to visit. However with Brad Turley’s description of the latest stage robbery, which had occurred nearer to Fort Griffin, plus with several of the other crimes having taken place closer to that outpost, the Rangers had finally decided to head for Fort Griffin and its accompanying boomtown. It was several hours after sundown three days later when they rode their weary horses into the town.
“This looks like a lovely little metropolis, Jim,” Smoky scornfully observed as they rode along Fort Griffin’s single dusty main street. The town appeared to deserve its reputation as one of the toughest in Texas. Most of its occupants were a volatile mixture of outlaws, buffalo hunters, cowboys driving cattle herds north to the Kansas railheads, and cavalry soldiers on leave from the fort. Even an occasional half-breed Comanche or Kiowa could be seen. The buildings were mostly hastily thrown together structures of rough sawn boards, some still merely tents or canvas stretched over wooden frames. Saloons, gambling establishments and brothels seemed to occupy just about every storefront. Before the town’s brief history would be played out, more than 200,000 buffalo hides would be shipped from its precincts, and over a twelve year period gunfights would account for thirty-four public killings.1 However, once the Army abandoned its post the town would quickly decline, and in a few years only a few scattered homesteads along the Brazos River would remain.2
“I’ll bet my hat no one invites us to high tea, Smo …”. Jim’s rejoinder was cut short as two long-haired and bearded, rough-visaged men in greasy buckskins tumbled from the door of a saloon and into the street, sprawling practically under Sam and Soot’s hooves. Jim had to jerk Sam to such a quick halt that the paint reared, squealing his indignation. As he dropped back down, Sam’s teeth snapped as he lunged at the brawling pair, who just managed to roll out of reach of the infuriated horse’s bite.
The combatants, buffalo hunters both, struggled mightily in the muddy street, grappling, yelling, and cursing, until one screeched in agony as his opponent drove a knee into his groin. Somehow, despite his pain he managed to come to his knees and pull out a skinning knife from his belt. Believing his adversary paralyzed from the treacherous blow, the other closed in, lunging right into the knife’s razor sharp blade. He gasped in shock as the knife was driven deep into his stomach, then reeled backwards as it was jerked out. He clamped a hand to his stomach, blood seeping between his fingers.
Before the Rangers could even react, the gutted hunter pulled out an old cap and ball Colt pistol and shot the other man point-blank in the chest, the impact of the lead at such close range driving his antagonist onto his back in the muck, twitching to stillness. His life rapidly ebbing, the knifed man let his gun fall from his hand, took two wobbly steps, and collapsed with a final long sigh.
Passersby, having learned interference in a fight such as this one between two individuals they didn’t know could well lead to their own deaths, hurried past to tend to their business, barely giving the two bodies a second glance.
“There’s nothing we can do here. Let’s go, Smoke,” Jim ordered, reluctant to reveal their identities as Rangers before meeting with the Army post’s commander. As they walked their still snorting horses past the dead men, Jim merely shrugged as he concluded, “I guess sooner or later someone’ll pick up those hombres. Let’s find a stable for the horses and someplace for ourselves to hole up. We’ll visit the fort first thing in the morning.”
After finding a livery stable and caring for their horses, the Rangers managed to find a cramped, dirty room in a hastily thrown together building that passed for one of the best hotels in Fort Griffin. The Griffin Manor had been put together in less than a week, built of raw lumber that had dried, warped, and shrunk in the hot sun, leaving many gaps between the thin boards, some almost wide enough to insert a fist. The flimsy partitions between rooms allowed practically no privacy whatsoever. After cleaning up as best they could, Jim and Smoky wolfed down a quick supper, then relaxed over several drinks in the Sharps House Saloon. Slipping into chairs at a corner table, they sat with their backs to the wall and with a clear view of the front door, saying little. In the opposite corner a banjo player perched on a chair placed up on a table, and the jangly twang of his picking cut through the noise of the rip-roaring crowd. From where he sat, Jim could see through the haze of tobacco smoke four games of poker or blackjack going on at nearby tables. As usual, Smoky was eyeing several women mingling with the herd. Surprisingly, no one challenged Jim over his usual choice of libation, sarsaparilla.
