Vengeance Trail (14 page)

“Pull up there!” he shouted pointing to the edge of the wallow. “Now!”

To make sure the outlaw obeyed his command, Pete Winter drew his revolver and aimed it at Johnny Montana’s face. The outlaw
pulled back on the reins of the black and slid to a stop just within the depressed saucer of earth.

Pete Winter leaped from his saddle, put the barrel of the pistol to his horse’s head and pulled the trigger. The animal dropped
onto its side. The lawman then stepped quickly to Katie’s animal, lifted her from the saddle and fired a second shot into
the horse’s brain. It fell next to the first one.

“What the hell are you doing?” cried Johnny Montana who was doing his best to control the panicky black.

“We need breastworks,” the Ranger shouted back. “Those Comanche braves catch us, we won’t need these dern horses!” He jerked
the Winchester from its boot and undid the saddlebags that carried the spare ammunition and revolver.

The swarthy renegade leader of the band of Comanches saw one of the whites shoot the two horses. It would be less of a victory.
But still, there were scalps to be taken, coup to be counted upon the enemy.

The Ranger handed over the spare pistol to Johnny Montana.

“You decide to use this on anything other than those Comanches,” he warned, “you’ll spend eternity right here!”

Grabbing the reins of the black, he tapped the forelegs of the animal causing it to kneel and then tapping its flank, it rolled
over on its side.

“Katie, you come over here and lay down beside ol’ Bo. Stroke his muzzle and he’ll stay down like this out of harm’s way.
I taught him this trick for fun. Now, I’m glad I did.”

She seemed paralyzed with fear. He took her gently by the arm and drew her near the fallen horse.

“Just like this,” he said, demonstrating by placing her hand lightly over the black’s nose. “Talking to him don’t hurt any
either. It’s a good thing I taught him how to lay down rather than fetch wood,” he said with an assuring grin.

“We’ll need him when we get through taking care of these Antelope Eaters.” She regained her wits and did as the lawman requested
of her.

“You stay put, Bo, or those ol’ Comanches will be having you for supper.”

He quickly turned his attention back to where Johnny Montana had taken up position behind one of the dead horses.

“They ain’t stopping!” he yelled.

“I can see that,” said the Ranger, dropping behind the second horse and sighting down the barrel of the Winchester. He squeezed
the trigger and one of the warriors was snatched from the back of his pony.

He quickly levered another shell into the breech
and fired a second time. A warrior slumped over but did not loose his seat.

“Hold your pistol fire until they get on top of us!” he warned the outlaw. “You won’t hit anything with that until they’re
in close.”

Pete Winter cranked off shot after shot hoping to stop the charge cold. One of his shots took the pony out from under its
rider and sent the brave flying. The warrior tumbled along the ground, staggered to his feet, fell a second time, gathered
himself up, and when he did, the lawman shot him through the chest.

The charging band pulled up suddenly, less than a fifty yards distance. Two of their band were killed, a third wounded. The
sudden lull gave the lawman a chance to reload his Winchester. He looked up, and while doing so, saw the puff of smoke from
the rifle of one of the warriors. In the same instant, something hot and painful slammed into his right shoulder.

The pain numbed his grip on the rifle and it dropped away. He grabbed at the jagged, bloody wound, realized instantly that
it had shattered bone before exiting.

He saw the hopeful look on the outlaw’s face.

“You’ve been hit pretty good, Ranger.”

He pulled his revolver from its scabbard with his left hand. It felt odd, unbalanced but not so much so that he could not
cock it and aim it at the nose of the outlaw.

“You’ve got any ideas about this being you’re lucky day, mister, you better dig yourself a hole and crawl down in it. Because
if they don’t kill you, I will.”

The renegades had turned and ridden out of rifle range.

They made medicine.

“Two Robes and Long Lance are dead,” said the muscled leader. “Small Man With Arrows suffers greatly from his wound.”

“They have but one horse,” replied another of the group. We have them now, they cannot escape.”

“Yes, let’s avenge the death of our brothers!” cried another, the one holding the lead rope of the pack mule.

The wounded Comanche sat on the ground, rocking back and forth against the fire in his belly.

The leader stared off toward the distant buffalo wallow where the enemy lay.

“They have made us as few as them, and yet they suffer no dead, no wounded among them. This is a bad day to fight. If they
are to die, let the heat and the lack of water and horses kill them!”

Without further comment, the short, stocky leader swung up upon the back of his pony and trotted away in the opposite direction
of the quarry. Reluctantly, the others followed.

“Hey!” shouted Johnny Montana. “Those red bastards are turning tail—they’re leaving!”

Pete Winter, struggling through the pain of his wound, watched the band of Comanches ride away. For now, they had survived
the Comanche. The question now was, could they survive the rest of Texas.

It had taken the better part of a full day for the telegrapher to work up the nerve to tell U.S. Marshal Caleb Drew that he
had been threatened into giving Eli Stagg a copy of the telegraph to be sent to the Texas Ranger station in Pecos.

“I think he must have gotten on Al Freemont’s trail,” the bespectacled little man admitted shakily to the lawman. “I seen
him riding out right after Al left, and in the same direction.”

“Why’d you wait so damn long to come and tell me?” asked the Marshal.

“Man said if I spoke a word about anything, he’d come back and cut off my head and put it in a sack. Said he’d take it down
to Mexico and sell it as a souvenir. Said he could get fifty dollars for a human head. It was something I had to think about.”

Caleb Drew knew that Al Freemont would be no match for a man like Eli Stagg. But, it had been another two days after that
before he had a man to send after Freemont to warn him of the danger pursuing him.

When he got the wire that Al Freemont’s body had been found three days out from Ft. Smith, he sat stunned.

“God damn it!” said the dispirited Marshal at the news the telegrapher carried to him. “That poor old man wasn’t much worth
a damn anymore, but he didn’t deserve to be ambushed!”

Most days, being a Federal Marshal didn’t mean too much more than having to be political with the right people. But, on days
like this one, holding the position was about as appealing as falling down a well.

“Well, I don’t have a soul to send after his killer, and even if I did, it’d be tough to catch up to him with so much of a
lead.” He reached in his lower desk drawer, found a bottle of bourbon. It was midday, but a drink seemed called for.

His mind mulled over the situation. There was no hard evidence that Eli Stagg had killed his deputy, but, he reasoned, it
didn’t take a detective to come to that conclusion.

Marshal Caleb Drew found himself silently cursing the situation. He absently fingered his own badge with one hand while holding
the glass of bourbon in the other. He had played it safe, gotten political appointment, tried the best he could to do right
by his men in the field. He considered himself a good man, a good politician, but deep within his soul, he knew he was not
a lawman in the truest sense. Not a lawman like ol’ Al Freemont had been a lawman.

He rode a desk and used a pen and attended
functions
where fried chicken and peas were served, and ladies gave him their opinion on such matters as Temperance and the Pythagoras
Society.

He drank tea from little china cups and listened to piano recitals. That was what being a U.S. Marshal had meant for Caleb
Drew.

Captain Ben Goodlow received the telegram from Ft. Smith:

Man I sent to meet your man in Ardmore, IND. Nations, has been found murdered. I believe the responsible party to be a man
named Eli Stagg. He is a bounty hunter on the track of the two prisoners sent in your Ranger’s care. It is best for you to
alert your man to the danger of encountering the impostor. U.S. Marshal Caleb Drew. Ft. Smith, Ark.

Ben Goodlow studied the wire grimly. Pete Winter and the prisoners had been gone for more than a week. He could only guess
as to their present location upon the vast open country. He turned to a huge map tacked on his wall and studied it for a time
trying to estimate exactly where the party would be.

Figuring their travel to be somewhere between twenty and forty miles a day, he could only guess that they would be within
a hundred to one hundred and fifty miles of Tascosa, where he had last heard from Henry Dollar.

It was a long shot, but, if anyone could hope to locate the trio before they reached the Indian Nations, it would be the seasoned
Ranger.

Two fruitless days of checking with ranchers had brought Henry Dollar no closer to discovering who was behind the cattle rustling.

He had travelled to several of the ranches in the area, spoken with weathered men who eyed him suspiciously, said little,
and seemed as skittish as mustangs.

One man, a rancher by the name of Billy King, talked freely however.

“Up in this here country, Mr. Dollar, we tend to take care of our own matters. Always had to it seemed. Fought the Red Man,
fought the squatters, fought the thieves. It ain’t that you ain’t appreciated, so much as it is you’re an outsider. Lawman
maybe, but still an outsider. Besides, you’re just one feller and there’s a whole bunch of them beef stealers runnin’ round.”

King was a man who spoke plainly and spoke the truth. Henry Dollar knew that what ever “bad business” was taking place around
Tascosa was most likely going to be settled by men like Billy King.

Henry Dollar decided that his trip to Tascosa had been a washout. Except of course, for the matter of Josie Miller.

“Mr. Dollar,” said Billy King as the Ranger turned to leave. “Most of these fellers around here are good men. In de pen dent
maybe, but they have just reason. Don’t judge our lot too harshly.”

“I appreciate your time, sir,” said Henry, touching the brim of his Stetson. “I believe the matter of cattle rustling around
here will be resolved, one way or the other.”

It had grown late by the time he had ridden back into town. As he rode past the office of City Marshal, Royal Curtiss was
leaning the back of his chair against the adobe wall. The lumbering lawman came up with a start as soon as he saw the Ranger
on the buckskin.

“Hallo there, Dollar!” he shouted as he came waddling from his position, his bulk shifting with each step.

Henry drew back on the reins and waited for him to approach.

“Got this in earlier in the day,” he said, holding
out a piece of paper. “It’s from your office down in Pecos.” Henry took the paper and read it. A frown creased his features.

“Well, it looks as though you’ll be leaving our fair town.” He grinned and spat and placed his hands on his hips. The man
was full of himself.

“I guess maybe the onliest one that’s going to miss you around here is, Mrs. Miller.” The lawman’s laugh was cut short at
the sudden flash of the big Remington held in the ranger’s hand.

“That kind of talk could get you killed, mister.”

The effect was visible; the squatty bowlegs of Royal Curtiss buckled and
he staggered back several steps in order to regain his balance.

His hands flew up in the air, and he cried: “Don’t shoot me, mister—I don’t want to be murdered!”

“Then leave me be, Marshal, or pull your piece!”

The florid face of the constable turned ashen, a mist of sweat banded his
forehead. Henry Dollar watched as the man stumbled backwards across the street and disappeared into his office.

He touched spurs to the buckskin and rode out to Clave Miller’s ranch.

She was standing there in the yard when he rode up. Like the first time, only this time as though she had been waiting for
him.

“I saw you coming,” she said. “I knew it was you by the way you rode. I never saw a man ride the way you do.”

He looked around the outfit.

“Where’s Clave?”

“He’s been gone since yesterday. He didn’t say where. I can only guess that he’s gone to Mobeetie again. He’s been drinking
ever since you left.”

“Did he….”

“No, he did not strike me or put a hand on me, but I would not have been surprised had he taken his pistol and shot me. He
has been in a stew the whole time.”

“I have to ride out,” he said.
It was best just to say it
, he reasoned.

“Can I ask you why?”

“Received a wire just a short while ago, a friend needs my help. It can’t wait.”

“Not even until morning, Henry?”

“I reckon not, Josie. I wish it could be so.”

“Can you wait long enough for me to put some food together for you?”

“Maybe just a minute or two.”

“Climb down then and have yourself a smoke while I get some things prepared.”

He waited for her, watered Ike at the tank, smoked a cigarette.

She came out of the house carrying a burlap bag, handed it to him and said, “There’s enough there to last you two or three
days.”

He took it from her and tied it to his saddle.

“Henry?”

“Yes?”

“Will I ever see you again?”

“Well, I was hoping that maybe we’d have enough time to figure everything out,” he said, removing his Stetson and running
his fingers through his hair. “I guess plans don’t always work out the way we’d like.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I reckon it doesn’t,” he said, unsure of exactly what he should tell her.

“I don’t want to say something I can’t abide by in the long run.”