The sun was still well below the eastern horizon when Jim stepped into the livery stable the next morning. Sam, his big paint, whickered an eager greeting to the Ranger.
“You behave yourself bud?” he asked as he entered Sam’s stall, scratching the horse’s ears as Sam buried his muzzle in his rider’s middle, then nuzzled eagerly at Jim’s hip pocket for his usual treat. “Sure, I’ve got your candy,” Jim continued, producing a peppermint and slipping it to Sam, who crunched down happily on the sweet. “One’s enough,” he told the gelding as Sam begged for another piece, “and you’ll get to take it easy today. I won’t be needin’ you this mornin’.”
“Hey, what’s all the commotion in here?” Jeff Murphy, Sanderson’s blacksmith and the stable owner, stepped out of his combination office and living quarters to turn up a wall lantern. “Oh, it’s you Ranger,” he muttered, “didn’t expect you this soon. G’mornin’.” He leaned the shotgun he carried against the wall, then ran a hand sleepily over his face and through his short-cropped dark hair.
“I want to get out to the Rafter Q quick as I can,” Jim replied, “I figured Rick’d make that clear to you last night.”
“I reckon he did,” Murphy answered, “but I sure didn’t think you’d be this early. I haven’t fed the team yet. I’ll do that right now. They’ll be ready to travel in half an hour.”
“Better make it an hour, even though it’ll delay me,” Jim said, “I’m not gonna push those horses right after they eat.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Murphy responded, “I like a man who won’t abuse a horse. By the way, how’s the sheriff and that young Ranger doin’?” Murphy
stepped to the end of the aisle, filled two buckets from the grain bin, and emptied them into the mangers of a pair of sturdy bay draft horses.
“They’re both still alive, and it looks like the sheriff might pull through, but the doc doesn’t give Steve much of a chance,” Jim answered.
“That’s a real shame,” Murphy said, “Hope you find the blasted backshooter who plugged the kid.”
“I will. You can count on it,” Jim flatly stated.
As Murphy forked hay to the drafts Jim curried Sam, rubbing down the paint’s already shining coat. “Jeff, while I’m at the Rafter Q, I’d appreciate it if you’d shoe my horse for me,” he requested. “New ones all around.”
“Sure, Ranger, if that’s what you’d like,” Murphy replied. “And as long as he don’t take my head off.” He was still leery of Jim’s one man animal, who had taken a piece out of the back of the blacksmith’s shirt when he’d gotten a little too close the night previous.
“He’ll be all right, won’t you, Sam?” Jim asked, the horse snorting in seeming agreement. “And I know his shoes might look like they’ve still got lots of miles left on ‘em, but in my line of work I can’t chance my horse losin’ a shoe.”
“I’ve gotta agree with you there,” Murphy chuckled, as he walked over to stand outside Sam’s stall. “But you sure he’s not gonna take a chunk outta my hide?”
“Nah. You’re gonna let Jeff shoe you, ain’t’cha pard?” Jim patted the paint’s shoulder. Sam sniffed at Jeff’s hand, then went back to munching some loose hay on the floor.
“He’ll be just fine now,” Jim assured Murphy.
“Hope you’re right,” Murphy dubiously muttered in reply, as he tentatively ran a hand along Sam’s thick-muscled neck. “Ranger, while you’re waitin’ for Nancy and Barry to finish eatin’, how about I make up a pot of coffee?”
“Now you’re talkin’,” Jim readily agreed, stepping up to the stall next to Sam’s and rubbing the nose of the chestnut inside. “Oh, nearly forgot. Check Yancey’s shoes for me too, will you?” he requested, as he slipped Steve Masters’ horse a peppermint. “You doin’ all right, Yance?” he asked the gelding, who softly nuzzled his hand. “I’ll bet you’re missin’ Steve, ain’t’cha?” Steve’s horse whickered a soft reply.
“Sure, Jim, I’ll take care of him,” Murphy readily agreed. “Gonna turn him out later so he can stretch his legs some, too. He’s gettin’ restless cooped up in that stall.”
“Appreciate that,” Jim smiled, as Murphy passed him a cup of coffee.
Once the horses were warmed up, Jim kept them at a steady trot until he reached his destination. The sun was still low on the horizon, not yet having begun to take the chill out of the morning air when he reined in on a low rise overlooking the Rafter Q.
“Nice lookin’ spread,” Jim mused as he studied Mason Jeffers’ ranch. Six miles west of Sanderson, the main house of the ranch was a rambling whitewashed adobe structure, with a shaded veranda surrounding three sides. The bunkhouse, barns, and other outbuildings were all sturdily built and appeared to be kept in a good state of repair. Several corrals held fine-looking horses, while further in the distance cattle grazed. A group of cowboys was in the main yard, evidently receiving their orders for the day.
“Hup, get on up there,” Jim ordered, slapping the reins on the bays’ rumps. The sun’s early rays glittered on the silver star on silver circle badge pinned to his vest as he rolled the buckboard down the hill and into the Rafter Q’s yard. The gathered men stared at him as he pulled the team to a halt, several of them letting their hands drift to gun butts.
“Mornin’ gents, just take it easy,” Jim softly warned, his hand resting easily on the Winchester lying on the seat next to him adding emphasis to his quiet words. “I’m just here to talk. Let’s not make any mistakes.”
A man in his late forties, with the build of a bulldog, detached himself from the rest of the group. His dark eyes glittered with rage as he stalked up to the buckboard.
“Lookin’ at that badge, you must be the Ranger my men tell me stopped that hangin’ yesterday and shot my foreman,” he growled. “You’ve got a lot of guts ridin’ in here. This the hombre, Gordy?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” Gordy Bob Webber confirmed, his voice low and deadly. “You want me to plug him right here and now, boss?” The segundo’s hand hovered menacingly over the bird’s-head grip .45 Colt he wore in a cross draw holster.
“I wouldn’t advise tryin’ that,” Jim warned, “’cause I sure won’t be the only one to die here today if you do.”
“Not yet, Gordy,” Jeffers calmly stated, “I want to hear what he has to say first. Besides, we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Mason Jeffers.”
“Lieutenant Jim Blawcyzk,” Jim replied as he swung down from the buck-board, Winchester in hand. “I’ve got somethin’ for you.” He casually walked to the back of the wagon and uncovered the body of Marco Loyola.
“What’s the meanin’ of this?” Jeffers exploded as he saw the dead cowboy.
“That’s exactly what I want to ask you, Jeffers,” Jim challenged, “since I think you already know. Somebody shot Steve Masters in the back from outside his jail cell last night. When I went after whoever plugged him, this hombre tried to ambush me. He came close…and he did drill the sheriff before I got him. Whoever shot Steve escaped in the dark. I figure he’s somewhere on this ranch. Mebbe I’m even lookin’ at him right now!” Jim snapped, glaring straight at Webber.
Webber’s hand streaked for his gun, halting with it half out of leather as Jim whipped his Winchester around and leveled it at Webber’s chest.
“Hold it, all of you!” Jeffers ordered, “Let the Ranger finish what he has to say.”
“I’m waitin’ for an explanation from you as to why your men tried to lynch a Texas Ranger yesterday,” Jim answered, “Then when that didn’t work they came back to finish the job by shootin’ him in the back.”
Jeffers struggled mightily to keep his anger in check as he replied, “That Ranger killed my wife, just because he couldn’t have his way with her. You expect me to do nothin’ about that? Are you claimin’ that since he’s a Ranger he should get off scot-free?”
“I’m almost certain Steve didn’t kill your wife,” Jim responded. “But even if he did, he’s entitled to a fair trial, not hangin’ at the end of a lynch mob’s rope. There’s nothin’ lower than lynchin’ a man…unless it’s shootin’ him in the back.”
“Look, Ranger,” Jeffers quietly answered, “I’ll admit I want to see Masters hung for what he did to my wife. But I didn’t have anythin’ to do with that lynch mob. I can’t tell my men what to do when they’re in town. And I really can’t blame any of ‘em who were involved. My wife was a wonderful woman, and all the men were fond of her.” His statement was echoed by a murmur of agreement from the gathered cowboys.
“Somehow I don’t believe you, Jeffers,” Jim replied.
“Let me finish,” Jeffers answered, “Even though nothin’ would give me more pleasure than seein’ Masters danglin’ at the end of a rope, one thing I’d never tolerate is shootin’ a man in the back from ambush. Like you said, that’s a coward’s act.”
“Still doesn’t explain why your man there tried to drygulch me,” Jim flatly stated, gesturing toward Loyola’s body. “The only explanation that makes sense is he was in cahoots with whoever shot Steve. And if Steve dies, there ain’t enough room in the whole state of Texas for the man who shot him to hide. But this ain’t gettin’ us anywhere. Besides bringin’ this body out here, I came to ask you a favor.”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Ranger, I’ll grant you that,” Jeffers snorted. “Brin-gin’ me one of my men that you killed, then sayin’ you want a favor. But I’ll admit you’ve aroused my curiosity. Go ahead, ask.”
“Like I said, I’m almost certain Steve Masters didn’t kill your wife. If you’ll agree to my request, I think I can prove it. I’d like your permission to exhume your wife’s body and have Doc Sweeney remove the bullets that killed her.”
“I said you had nerve. I didn’t realize you were plumb loco,” Jeffers exploded. “What makes you think I’d ever agree to dig up my wife’s body?”
“Because you’d want to know the truth and find the real killer,” Jim softly replied, “and havin’ those slugs is one way I can get at it.”
“Forget it. I’ll never allow you to disturb poor Rebecca. My wife is dead. Can’t you let just her lie in peace?”
“I wish I could,” Jim admitted, “And I’ll be as careful and respectful as possible. Believe me, if there was any other way, I wouldn’t be askin’ this. But I need those slugs, so whether you give permission or not, I’m afraid I’ll have to exhume the body. If I have to, I’ll wait for the circuit judge to come into town and ask him for a court order, which I’m sure will be granted.”
“Lemme plug him Mace,” Webber again urged.
“You’re awfully anxious to put a slug in me,” Jim snapped, “Makes me think even more’n ever it’s likely you’re the man who backshot Steve Masters, Webber.”
“Keep shut, Gordy,” Jeffers ordered, then continued, “Ranger, you’ve spoken your piece. Now I’m givin’ you exactly one minute after we take Marco out of that wagon to get off my land, and don’t even think of ever comin’ back.”
“Sorry Jeffers, but I haven’t quite finished,” Jim retorted, “Mike Thompson, the first Ranger sent down here to investigate these killin’s, was workin’ as a cowpuncher on this ranch when he disappeared. I’d be willin’ to bet my hat he was killed somewhere right on this spread, and that your wife knew who did it. Somebody found out she knew, and she was killed to keep her from talkin’. Mebbe you’re even the killer, Jeffers. How about it? Did you kill Mike Thompson and then your own wife? Is that why you don’t want the truth to come out?”
“Ranger, I’m gonna tear you limb from limb for that,” Jeffers screamed. Ignoring the threat of Jim’s Winchester, he dove at the Ranger, wrapping his arms around Jim’s waist as he rammed his head into Blawcyzk’s stomach and slammed him against the side of the buckboard. Jim grunted in pain, dropping his rifle as air was driven from his lungs.
Recovering quickly, Jim smashed a powerful right to the point of Jeffers’ jaw, snapping the rancher’s head back. A following left hooked into Jeffers’ ribs, then the rest of the Rafter Q outfit bore down on the Ranger. For a moment their sheer numbers worked against them as Jim landed several solid punches, knocking men back. However, he had no chance against such overwhelming odds. A fist found his jaw, another his gut, then a knee connected with Jim’s groin, dropping him to his hands and knees. Someone kicked him solidly in the ribs, flipping him onto his back, writhing in pain.
“Get him on his feet,” Jeffers ordered, wiping the blood dripping from his chin. “Wurst, Holt, hold him up.” Jim was pulled upright, sagging in the arms of two cowboys.
“This is gonna give me real pleasure,” Jeffers sneered as he stalked up to the Ranger. Before he could land his first punch, Jim kicked backwards, catching one cowboy in the shin just above his boot. The man collapsed, yelping in pain.
Jim drove an elbow into the stomach of the other man holding him, and as the cowboy grunted painfully and released his grip Jim dove for his fallen rifle. He stopped short as he heard the ominous click of a pistol being cocked behind him and Gordy Bob Webber snarled, “Don’t try it, unless you want your spine blown clean in two. Get your hands up.” With no choice, other than a bullet in his back, Jim slowly raised his hands shoulder high.
“Barton, Saez, grab his arms. And don’t let him try anythin’ this time.” Once again at Jeffers’ orders two husky cowboys grasped Jim’s arms, pinning them behind his back.
“You only made things worse for yourself, Ranger,” Jeffers snarled, as he snapped Jim’s head sideways with a blow to his jaw. “I’m gonna teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget.” He launched a punch that landed in the pit of Jim’s stomach, doubling him.
“Hold him there,” Jeffers ordered the two men. Greg Saez swept Jim’s Stetson from his head and grabbed a handful of the Ranger’s thick blonde hair, yanking his head back.
“That’s better,” Jeffers sneered, as he smashed Jim at the point of his jaw, then drove a punch deep into his gut. Held upright by the two cowboys, the
Ranger was helpless as he absorbed one blow after another to his face and belly, until he finally sagged unconscious in the men’s arms.
As Jim was dropped to the ground, Webber pleaded yet again, “Can I plug him now, Mace?”
“No,” Jeffers replied, “One thing we don’t need is a dead Ranger on our hands. We might be able to pull off lynchin’ one without it bein’ connected to us, but killin’ a Ranger in cold blood’s another story. I think this one’s learned his lesson. And as for that other one, if he happens to pull through, we’ll let him have his trial…and we’ll convict and hang him all nice and legal-like.”
“What’re we gonna do with this hombre then?” Bob “Liver” Wurst questioned. “We can’t just leave him lyin’ there.”
“I hadn’t planned on that at all,” Jeffers answered. “A couple of you get Loyola’s body out of that buckboard. We’ll bury him this afternoon. Barton, Saez, pick up that Ranger, and once Marco’s been unloaded toss him in that wagon. These horses will head home on their own. We’ll send him back to town.”
Swiftly, Jeffers’ orders were complied with, the body of Marco Loyola pulled from the buckboard, the unconscious Jim Blawcyzk dumped roughly into the bed of the wagon, his hat and rifle tossed in after him. The horses were turned toward town, their reins tied to the brake handle. A sharp slap on their rumps sent the bays trotting smartly toward Sanderson.
“Last we’ll see of that Ranger for awhile,” Gordy Bob Webber laughed wickedly, “and the next time I meet him, I’m puttin’ a couple slugs right through his middle.”