Guy licked his lips and noted that his mouth seemed as dry as the sands of southwestern Texas. He started to sit up, but the movement caused an increase to the pain in his skull, so he slowly lay back down.

  “I musta been mule-kicked!” he whispered in agony. “Mule-kicked and dragged by the heels through a cactus patch. That’s the only thing that can explain this much hurting.”

  Once more, this time Very deliberately and carefully, he raised himself. His stomach churned so much that for a couple of moments he thought he would be throwing up everything he’d ever eaten before in his entire life. But slowly his belly settled down to an angry murmur.

  Taking a deep breath, Guy was finally sitting up and able to look around to see where the hell he was. He lay on a narrow plank bench near a wall in Grogan’s ranch house, After as much as he drank the previous night, he wouldn’t have been surprised no matter where he was.

  After taking a second, more detailed look at his surroundings, Guy spoke again in a hoarse voice to himself. “A tornado must’ve hit us.”

  The scene his bleary eyes beheld was that of the shabby ranch house with three sleeping men and two slumbering women scattered throughout overturned furniture, broken bottles, and other debris that littered the rustic building. Smoke from a dying fire in the fireplace drifted across the chamber adding a near macabre aspect to what he saw.

  Slowly Guy began to recall what had transpired the previous evening.

  The wagon with two women from Stavanger arrived about an hour after he returned to the ranch from visiting with Charlie Delano and Gideon Magee. The females had a barrel of whiskey and a keg of beer with them. These were extra presents from Ace Erickson to soothe the ruffled feelings of his men. And the ploy worked. Ned Paulson, Lee Fenney, and Elmer Sherman quickly forgot the deaths of their friends at the botched train robbery as they fetched the liquor and females inside for a night of unceasing revelry.

  The two women hadn’t been among the ugly ones sent out before. These two were rather decent looking. It seemed Ace Erickson sincerely wanted to make up to the boys for almost getting them killed at the train.

  “Ain’t it thoughtful of the boss to feel sorry for us?” Lee Fenney remarked.

  “Yeah,” Elmer Sherman agreed. “This is gonna be a real nice evening.”

  But there wasn’t much niceness as time went on. The basis of the trouble was the fact that these particular women were truly good-looking.

  Penney and Sherman both immediately took a fancy to the same one. Rather than take turns with the dancehall girl, each wanted her as their own for the entire evening. A fistfight broke out between them that Ned Paulson quickly broke up.

  The incident took the spirit of fun out of the party, and everyone settled down to some deep, quick drinking out of the two barrels. The women, a bit frightened at being isolated with the gang after the trouble started, turned out not to be pleasant company. They stuck to themselves as Fenney and Sherman glared at each other, getting drunker and drunker. Eventually they got into another fight that Paulson, because he was so intoxicated, could barely get under control.

  As the evening drifted by, the women also became drunk and lost their nervousness. That was the cause of the real trouble. They allowed themselves to be drawn into the conflict, and a shrieking contest broke out between them as they took sides.

  Guy, bored and feeling low, simply watched the goings-on while sipping whiskey from a tin cup. He kept to himself at one of the tables, avoiding any participation in the ruckus. After several hours, he was pretty drunk himself, but he still managed to keep his temper and behavior under control.

  Sometime, during the wee hours of the morning following a period of quiet, a minor riot broke out as the others, thoroughly intoxicated, angry, and rowdy, went after each other in a free-for-all. Guy watched it all through his own personal whiskey haze, noting crashing furniture, falling bodies, cussing, yelling, punching, and kicking until things slowly eased down until one last person was standing. That was Ned Paulson. But the outlaw leader only lasted a minute or two more. Finally, weaving and staggering, he finally crashed facedown on the floor where he still lay amongst the debris.

  Then Guy passed out.

  Now, the party finished and his hangover settled in fierce and relentless, Guy got to his feet and lurched across the room to the door. He stepped outside and took a deep breath of fresh air. It cleared his head a little and got rid of some of the ache. Dawn had just peaked and the sun was on its way toward its proper place in the midmorning sky. The heat of the day was a couple of hours away, so it was cool and refreshing. Guy felt another minor rumble in his stomach, but that feeling of sickness also evaporated.

  At that moment he wished the whole episode with Ace Erickson and the gang was done with. He wanted to be put of the Texas Rangers and get back to the simple life of being a town sheriff like he’d been in Sweetwater.

  Whenever Guy Tyrone felt low or out of sorts, he preferred to be alone. He knew that the only way he would be able to enjoy solitude when the others woke up was to be away on a horseback ride. On the way to the corral to get his horse, he stopped at the well long enough to get a drink of the cool water.

  “Damn!” he said to himself after swishing the liquid around in his mouth. “I swear a little dawg must’ve shit on my tongue last night.”

  He went over to the corral and leaned against it, feeling tired and sick. After a couple of minutes of deep breathing, Guy forced himself to go through the gate and pull his saddle off the top rail.

  The Ranger staggered under the weight of the heavy device as he approached his horse. An attempt to throw it on the animal’s back ended with the saddle going over the horse and landing on the ground.

  “I don’t think things is gonna go my way today,” Guy said.

  The horse looked quizzically at him, then pulled away as it sensed something different about its owner.

  “Now looky, horse. I’m hungover and feel like I been run down by a twenty-mule-team wagon going at the gallop,” he said. “This here saddle is going up on your back or I’m gonna shoot you.” He stared bleary-eyed at his -horse. “Are you ready? Here we go.”

  The next time, he managed to get the saddle up on the horse’s back, but the stallion moved away, sending it falling to the dirt once more. Guy pulled his pistol and pointed it at the animal.

  “I told you, you lop-eared son of a bitch, that I’m gonna shoot you if you don’t let me put this saddle on your back,” he said. “Now! Goddamn it! Stand still!”

  The horse sensed the man’s anger and instinctively did as it knew it should. The saddle went on and was cinched up. Guy stared at his handiwork. “Oh, damn! I forgot the blanket.”

  Off came the saddle, on went the blanket, and on went the saddle again. Guy cinched it up. “At least your bridle’s on,” he said. “I don’t have to worry about that.” Guy led the horse out of the fenced-in area and closed the gate. Then he took a deep breath. “Now I got to get on, don’t I?”

  He stuck his foot in the stirrup and lost his balance, falling onto his back. He rolled over on his hands and knees and got up again.

  “Nope. Things sure ain’t gonna go my way.”

  A couple of more attempts had to be made before he was able to pull himself up into a proper seat. Guy wasn’t sure where he wanted to go. It didn’t matter, as long as he got away to be by himself until he felt better. He flicked the reins and let the horse have its head. The mount walked slowly from the corral and crossed the ranch yard, heading for open country.

  A sound in the distance attracted Guy’s attention. He looked in the direction it came from for a few minutes before seeing Gustavo Fairweather leading a dozen other horsemen toward the ranch. Guy reined in and waited.

  Fairweather led the others up to him and signaled the group to come to a halt. Stavanger’s sheriff looked closely at Guy. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “Too much whiskey last night,” Guy said. “Does it show?”

  “It sure as hell does,” Fairweather said. “I seen corpses that got better color than you.”

  “Corpses is luckier’n me,” Guy said. “They can’t fed nothing.”

  Fairweather snorted. “Where’s the boys?”

  “The rest o’ the fellers and them gals is in the house fast asleep,” Guy answered.

  Fairweather laughed. “Asleep or passed out?”

  “Take your choice,” Guy said.

  “And where the hell are you going?” Fairweather asked.

  “For a ride to clear my head,” Guy said.

  “Well, you can turn around,” Fairweather told him. “We got business to discuss. I want ever’body to be there.”

  “Are you loco?” Guy asked. “You ain’t gonna get nothing out o’ them others. I told you, they’re in there unconscious.”

  “Then we’ll wake ’em all up,” Fairweather said. “Now turn around.”

  Wordlessly, Guy pulled on the reins of his horse and rode back to the house with the group of men following. When he reached the front door, he dismounted. Without waiting, he pushed open the door and went inside. Gustavo Fairweather and the others got off their horses and followed him into the interior.

  The scene inside hadn’t changed one bit. None of the sleeping people had even rolled info different positions, much less awakened from their night of celebration and fighting.

  Guy gestured at the mess. “What’d I tell you?”

  “God!” Fairweather exclaimed. “Ain’t this a sight?” He took a deep breath and yelled, “Ever’body wake up! C’mon, goddamn it! Let’s go! Wake up!” He waded into the scene, giving Ned Paulson, Lee Fenney, and Elmer Sherman vicious kicks that rolled them over.

  Paulson was the first to reenter the world of the living. He rubbed his side where he’d been kicked and sat up. “What the hell’s going on?” he asked in a moaning voice.

  “You sleeping beauties wake up,” Fairweather said. “And the whores too.”

  Paulson looked up at the sheriff. “Where the hell did you come from?”

  “Stavanger, where else?” Fairweather answered. “And I brought your new gang with me.”

  Paulson looked around at the newcomers. “Them fellers?”

  “Who else?” Fairweather remarked.

  By then all the men had crowded into the smelly, dank interior. They grinned at the sight, nudging each other as they looked at the females.

  “Don’t get no ideas,” Fairweather warned them. “Them women is going to leave now.” He walked over to one and grabbed her by the arm. Dragging her over to the other, he got the second woman in the same manner and went toward the door with his living load that began to come awake.

  “Ow!” one exclaimed. Her eyes opened and she tried to comprehend what was going on. “Lemme go! Lemme go!”

  Fairweather took them through the door and dropped them on the dirt. “Get your money-making asses up on that wagon and head back for Stavanger. Now!” he barked.

  Both women, wide-awake enough to realize it was Gustavo Fairweather giving them orders, kept their mouths shut as they got to their feet. Numb, dizzy, and still sleepy, the pair staggered toward the vehicle.

  Fairweather sent a couple of the new men to hitch up the team to the conveyance, then went inside to make sure that Ned Paulson, Lee Fenney, and Elmer Sherman were up and moving.

  Guy went over to one of the tables and sat down, his head in his hands as the ache pounded through his skull once more. “Can’t this wait?” he moaned.

  Paulson sat down beside him. “You got a job for us, Gustavo?”

  “What the hell do you think brings me out to this neck of the woods? Your charming company?” Fairweather said. “There’s a bank in Waco that needs your attention.”

  The rest of the new men were all inside now. They crowded around the wall and waited to see what was going to happen. But before Gustavo Fairweather could say anything, one of them stepped forward and looked at Guy.

  “I know you,” he said.

  Guy, bleary-eyed, looked up. The man seemed vaguely familiar. “Do I owe you any money?”

  “No,” the man said.

  “Then don’t worry about it none,” Guy advised him. ;

  “But I owe you something—an ass-kicking,” the outlaw said.

  “There’s so many son of a bitches that want to kick my butt that you’ll have to stand in line,” Guy said.

  “This feller was a deputy sheriff in Sweetwater,” the man said aloud. “He’s a goddamned star-packer.”

  Ned Paulson sneered. “Hell, we know that. Guy Tyrone’s been on both sides o’ the law.”

  “Yeah? Well, he’s a Texas Ranger, goddamn it!” the man said. “I know, ’cause I seen him swore into the Rangers right in front o’ my eyes after he throwed me in jail.”

  Guy quickly looked up. Now he recognized the man as Ed Hall, whom he’d disarmed in the Sweetwater saloon. Guy remembered that Captain Charlie Delano had talked him into joining the Rangers while Hall listened in his cell.

  Fairweather frowned. “You been swore into the Texas Rangers, Tyrone?”

  “Aw, hell,” Guy said. “That feller is loco. If I was a Texas Ranger, what the hell would I be doing here?”

  Gustavo looked closely at him. “Maybe you’re working against us, Tyrone.”

  Guy sensed the situation was about to erupt into serious trouble for him. He could keep calm and hope for the best, or figure straight off that the situation would go to hell.

  Guy made a quick decision.

  He came up with his leather cleared and the Colt in his hand. “The first son of a bitch that bats an eye gets a slug.” He motioned them all away from the door. “I’ll take two or three before you get me,” Guy warned them. “I got nothing to lose.”

  “Don’t move,” Fairweather told his men. “Let this son-of-a-bitching Ranger do what he thinks he’s got to do.”

  Guy moved toward the door glad that his horse was outside and saddled up. He backed through the flimsy portal, then slammed it shut. After two quick shots at the cabin he raced for his horse and leaped into the saddle, his hangover forgotten.

  Guy kicked his mount into a wild gallop as he left the ranch in a rush. As he continued his dash for safety he could hear the shouts of the gang emerging from the house. Seconds later, shots split the air around him.

  He gritted his teeth and whispered to himself, “Things truly just ain’t going my way today!”

  Chapter Twelve

  The quick physical exertion of making an escape after momentarily forgetting the effect of the previous night’s drinking quickly caught up with Guy Tyrone as he bounced around in the saddle during the wild ride from Grogan’s ranch.

  His disposition didn’t improve a bit when he noted that the gang had wasted no time in mounting a hot pursuit after him.

  Guy’s vision blurred and the pain in his head went from a throbbing ache to a constant pain that made a loud buzzing in his ears. Only the reports of shots behind him broke through the droning sound.

  Those bullets also kept him concentrating on the job at hand of getting the hell out of there in one piece.

  Guy headed for a dry creekbed he’d found while out hunting. There were some tall trees bordering the gash in the earth that would provide him with some protective covering as he tried to put distance between himself and his pursuers.

  He kicked the horse’s flanks to hurry the animal along. After reaching his destination, Guy bounded down the narrow confines for a hundred yards. When he reached a good place to head to higher ground, he veered upward out of the creekbed. A quick gallop across an open space led to woods. Rather than enter the trees, he made another turn to skirt them.

  From there Guy was in open country, and the only option open there was speed. That was where he could really shine. His stallion was fast.

  “Ha-yah!” Guy yelled. “Go, horse!”

  The animal, instinctively picking up both the excitement of the chase and the smell of fear in its rider, kicked loose into a wide-open run without holding back any effort. Its hooves crashed down on the Texas terrain in a rapid staccato of clod-kicking pounding.

  Guy wanted to get help from Charlie Delano and Gideon Magee as quickly as possible, but he had to do it in a way that they wouldn’t have their hiding place betrayed to the outlaw gang. If he wasn’t careful, his two friends would be overrun and shot down like trapped rabbits. The best way to pull it off, he figured, was to bring the chase as close to their camp as possible so they would hear the noise and investigate. Both were experienced gunmen who could come up with a proper reaction. With their help, the pursuit could be broken up or at least delayed long enough so he could make a getaway.

  The idea should work beautifully, provided Charlie and Gideon hadn’t gone off to Dallas for the day.

  Hoping for the best, Guy moved in the direction of their camp. He planned to head straight for the location, then make a quick flanking movement to the south. If nothing else, he could hope to run all the way to Dallas and get the hell out of Denton County. A glance back showed that his persistent pursuers would never allow that. They were already spreading out to cut off any more maneuvering on his part. The angle of their pursuit made it obvious that it was only a matter of time before they caught up with him. Guy’s safety depended entirely on Charlie Delano and Gideon Magee.

  Guy headed straight for the copse of trees that hid his two partners’ camp. When he drew in close, he made a wild pull on the reins and rode in a southerly direction.

  “Hey!” he yelled in the desperate hope of alerting them. “Hey! Hey!”

  He glanced back at the gang and noted they were no longer shooting at him. But that wasn’t good news. That simply meant they were now Concentrating on getting in closer for the kill.

  “C’mon, horse!” Guy yelled. “Ha-yah!”

  The chase headed back into open country. Guy wanted to try another fun toward the location where Charlie and Gideon’s camp was located but the maneuvering of the outlaws had effectively cut him off. A few more hopeful, quick glances back also told him that his fellow Rangers weren’t in their camp. Guy damned them to hell for being in Dallas having a good time while he had Ace Erickson’s gang hot on his heels.

 

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