Despite his exhaustion and injuries, as usual Jim was awake with the sun the next morning. He pushed himself off the thin mattress, peeled off his shirt, and stumbled over to the washstand. Pouring water from the chipped ceramic pitcher into the basin, he gave himself a rudimentary bathing, running the rough washcloth over his face and chest, ducking his head into the basin to rinse the dust out of his hair. That completed, he toweled off, put on his spare shirt, and headed for the livery stable, where Sam greeted him with joyous whinnies loud enough to reverberate through the barn.
“Easy bud, I’m kinda hurtin’,” Jim chided the big gelding, as Sam buried his muzzle in the Ranger’s stomach in greeting, then nuzzled at his hip pocket for a peppermint. “You want to stretch your legs some today?” Jim asked as he pulled a candy from his jeans and gave it to the horse. “You’re probably gettin’ tired of just hangin’ around growin’ fat and lazy.” As the paint snorted agreement, Jeff Murphy emerged from his living quarters, stretching and yawning.
“Howdy Ranger,” he sleepily greeted Blawcyzk, “How you feelin’? Better’n you look, I hope.”
“Thanks a lot, Jeff,” Jim laughed. “And I’m not feelin’ all that bad, considering I’ve got a couple chores to take care of in town this mornin’, then I figure I’ll head out to Gypsum Creek Canyon. I want to look around that homestead of Pablo Cruz’s. Can you tell me how to find the place?”
“Sure,” Murphy answered. “You head south out of town for about four miles. You’ll see a big red ledge where the trail splits. Take the left fork, go two miles and you’ll see a sign for the Cross CZ nailed to a post with an arrow pointin’ to the right. Follow that straight into the mouth of the canyon. What’s left of Cruz’s little shack is right there. You won’t have any trouble findin’ it.”
“Appreciate it,” Jim replied, “I’ve also gotta stop by the bank. What time’s it open? Nine o’clock like most of ‘em?”
“Nope. John Collins always liked to open early for the ranchers and merchants. The bank still opens its doors at eight.”
“That’ll help. I’ll be there when it opens. I’d appreciate it if you could have Sam ready for me right after that.”
“He’ll be fed and watered,” Murphy promised, “That is, if he manages to behave himself,” he added, as Sam pinned his ears and lunged at the blacksmith’s stomach.
“You heard the man,” Jim told his paint, “You wanna eat, horse, you’d best be good. I’ll be back for you in a bit.”
Jim stopped by the doctor’s office before eating a hearty breakfast at the Bon Ton café. Rick Lewis walked in just as the Ranger was downing the last of his hotcakes and finishing his third cup of black coffee.
“I thought you’d be sleepin’ in this mornin’, Jim,” the deputy greeted him, taking a seat at Blawcyzk’s table.
“Too much to get done,” Jim replied, “I stopped in to check on Steve and John, and now I’ve gotta head over to the bank. Then I’m gonna ride out to Gypsum Creek Canyon and look around where that homesteader was shot.”
“I was headin’ over to the doc’s myself soon as I ate,” Lewis answered. “How’s John and your pardner doin’?”
“Steve’s gettin’ worse,” Jim replied, “He’s got a real high fever. Looks like blood poisoning’s settin’ in. The doc only gives him a few more days at best.”
“That’s too bad,” Lewis sympathized, “Especially since now it seems he was shot for no reason. You pretty much proved that yesterday.”
“Don’t help much,” Jim bitterly responded, “Anyway, there is one bit of good news. Your boss has improved some since Doc dug the bullet out of his chest. He’s got a good chance of pullin’ through.”
“That is good news,” Lewis agreed. He smiled up at the waitress bringing him a mug of coffee. “Thanks, Maisie.”
“Your usual, Rick?” the waitress asked.
“Like always, darlin’,” Lewis answered, as he turned back to the Ranger. “You think you’ll find out somethin’ at Cruz’s place?”
“Quien sabe?” Jim shrugged. “You never know where the clue that’ll break a case open might turn up. I’ll just keep diggin’ until I find who’s behind all these killin’s. Bet a hat on that.”
Seeing the Ranger’s eyes turn to glittering chips of blue ice as he spoke, Lewis replied. “Y’know, I bet you will at that.”
“Count on it,” Jim replied. “I’m glad I ran into you this mornin’, Rick,” he continued, “I wanted to ask you when the next stage is due into town. I’ve got a letter for Headquarters that needs to be on it.”
“If it’s on schedule, should be tomorrow afternoon sometime around two o’clock,” Lewis answered.
“Does this run usually have the same driver and guard?”
“Yeah. Pat Sullivan’ll be drivin’, and Jack Spallone’ll be ridin’ shotgun. Any particular reason for askin’?”
“There sure is. I’m hopin’ they’ll be able to tell me where they dropped off that saloon gal who gave Steve the note. If they can, I’ll write Austin and have Captain Trumbull send a Ranger to track her down and question her.”
“Makes sense,” Lewis agreed, “but it’s kind of a long shot, ain’t it? That gal Bess Morton is a real looker, but even when Sully tells you where she left the stage, there’s no guarantee she hung around town.”
“I hope you’re wrong, but it is a gamble tryin’ to find her,” Jim agreed as he drained the dregs from his mug and pushed back his chair. “But I’ve got to try and track down every lead.” He pulled his watch from his pocket, glanced at it, and noted, “The bank should be openin’ right about now. Rick, I’ll see you this evenin’.”
“Be careful Jim,” Lewis warned.
“Always try to be,” Jim laughed. “Otherwise I’d be invitin’ a bullet in my back.”
Leaving the café, Jim diagonally crossed the street and entered the Sanderson Stockmens and Miners Bank. A young teller glanced up lazily from behind his cage as the Ranger entered.
“Can I help you, sir?” he politely inquired.
“I hope so,” Jim replied, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “I’d like to cash this draft. It’s drawn on the First Texas National Bank of Austin.”
He passed the document to the teller, who studied it for a moment before stating, “I believe it will be all right; however, the bank president will need to give her authorization. If you’ll wait just one moment, I’ll check with her.”
“Certainly,” Jim agreed. The teller disappeared behind a door marked “Private”. A few moments later, one of the most stunning women Jim had ever seen emerged from the office, the teller following.
“Lieutenant Blawcyzk,” the woman smiled, taking Jim’s hand in polite greeting. “I was hoping we might get the chance to meet. I’m Leah Collins. My late husband, as you know, was president of this bank. With his death, I have taken on his duties as head of the institution. Am I correct in assuming you’re here to investigate his murder?”
“I’m mighty glad to meet you also, Mrs. Collins, and yes, I am, as well as the other killings,” Jim replied, his pulse racing despite himself at the nearness of the attractive widow. Leah Collins was young, red-haired and green-eyed, and while as befitting a recent widow she wore a conservative dark purple velvet dress, it hugged every curve of her body, showing off her well-formed figure to perfection. “Please also let me offer my sympathy on your loss.”
“Thank you,” Leah replied. “And of course the bank will be happy to cash your draft. I assume it’s your monthly pay.”
“That’s correct,” Jim replied.
“Fifty dollars,” Leah observed as she studied the draft, “More than the usual Ranger’s pay of thirty a month.”
“Lieutenant’s pay,” Jim explained.
“Of course. My error,” the banker answered. “Toby, please cash this draft for the lieutenant,” she ordered the teller.
“Right away, Mrs. Collins,” the young man answered.
“Mrs. Collins.” Jim began.
“Please. Leah. And might I call you Jim?”
“All right…Leah. And of course you may.”
“That’s much better,” the widowed banker answered. “You had a question?”
“Yes. A few, actually. But I would rather we spoke in private.”
“Certainly,” Leah agreed. “Toby, the Lieutenant and I will be in my office. Please bring his cash to him there. Other than that, we aren’t to be disturbed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Toby responded.
Once they were in her office with the door closed, Leah Collins poured a cup of tea from a bone china pot into a delicate china cup decorated with pale images of violets.
“Jim, I rarely drink coffee, so I’m afraid I don’t have any prepared. Would you care for a cup of tea?” she invited, as she gazed momentarily at his bandaged face, “And if I’m not being impolite, may I ask what happened to you?”
“Thank you, but I’ve already had breakfast,” Jim replied, “And you’re not impolite at all. I had a run-in with a few cowboys from the Rafter Q.” He chuckled ruefully as he added. “They won. Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a lot of territory to cover today, so if we could proceed.”
“Of course,” Leah agreed, “Go ahead.”
“Thanks. Some of these questions may be difficult for you, but I hope you realize I have to ask them. First, I understand you discovered your husband’s body.”
“That is correct,” Leah answered, taking a lace handkerchief from inside her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes as they watered slightly. “Please forgive me. I still miss John horribly, of course.”
“I understand. Take as long as you need.”
“Thank you. Yes, I found John inside the vault. It was awful, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“I’m certain it was,” Jim sympathized. “Please, think carefully back to that night. You didn’t see or hear anyone near or in the bank?”
“Not a soul. There was only my poor John.”
“How about any horses tied outside the building, or perhaps nearby?”
Leah shook her head. “No, not any. Our home is just down the street, so John always walked to and from work. There were no horses around, I’m positive of that.”
“Fine. Now, Sheriff Crowe told me no one was certain whether or not the bank had been robbed the night your husband was killed. He stated you may have interrupted a holdup in progress.”
“That is true, I wasn’t sure, and I’m still not, absolutely that is. But I have gone over the bank’s books, and it appears there is approximately five hundred dollars missing. Once the state bank examiners arrive from Austin and audit the books I’ll know for certain.”
“So you might very well may have broken in on a robbery,” Jim mused, “It’s fortunate you weren’t also murdered.”
“I’ve thought of that,” Leah answered, with a slight shudder. “Jim, if it would be helpful, you certainly have my permission to look over the bank’s records.”
“That might help,” Jim admitted, “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“If it will help you find John’s killer, then it’s no trouble at all. Would you like to see them now?”
“Perhaps tonight, if that’s possible. I’ve got other plans for today. Would that be too much trouble?”
“Not at all,” Leah replied, “We can go over them here at the bank if you’d like.”
“If it’s all the same to you, perhaps it would be best if I studied them alone in my room,” Jim answered. “That way no one could accuse you of trying to influence my conclusions. I’ll pick them up just before closing if that’s convenient.”
“Of course you’re right,” Leah agreed. Jim couldn’t be sure, but her voice seemed to contain a hint of disappointment. As a quiet knock came at the door Leah observed, “That must be Toby with your money.” She raised her voice slightly to call, “Come in.”
“Mrs. Collins, I have the Lieutenant’s cash for him,” Toby said as he came into the room.
“Thanks, Toby,” Jim said, as the teller handed him two twenty dollar gold coins, along with a ten dollar gold piece.
“It was my pleasure, Lieutenant,” Toby replied, then turned to his employer. “Mrs. Collins, Frank Nodosz is here about the loan for remodeling his shop. Will you be much longer?”
“You’ll have to ask the lieutenant,” Leah answered.
“I’m just about finished,” Jim replied, “If I think of anythin’ else, I’ll ask you when I return this afternoon. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to take a look in the vault before I leave, although after all this time I’m sure any evidence it might have contained has been ruined. And thank you for allowing me to take up your time. You’ve been a great help.”
“Toby, please let the Lieutenant look inside the vault for as long as he wishes,” Leah ordered the teller, then told Blawcyzk, “I just hope you can find whoever killed my husband.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jim promised, “Especially since I’m positive that same person is behind all the killings, including Rebecca Jeffers’ murder.” He stood up and touched the brim of his Stetson in a farewell salute. “Ma’am.”
“Reckon it’s gonna feel good to stretch your legs again, eh Sam?” Jim asked his mount, as he rode out of Sanderson at a gentle walk. When the big paint snorted his agreement, bucking slightly, Jim chided him, “Whoa, pard. We’ve got a ways to go. You’ll get your chance to run.” As they rounded a curve in the road, Jim unpinned the badge from his vest and slid it into his shirt pocket. “Just about all of the folks in town know who we are,” he told his horse, “but
most of the ranchers out here don’t, at least not yet. Besides, you never know who we might run across, and there’s no point in givin’ some renegade a nice shiny target to shoot at.”
Once Sam had warmed up, Jim nudged spurless bootheels into his horse’s flanks, pushing him to a ground-covering lope. The powerful gelding’s long strides ate up the miles, and in a short time Blawcyzk was riding into Gypsum Creek Canyon.
As he heeled Sam down the slope into the canyon, Jim thought, “Sure don’t look like a hospitable place.” Gypsum Creek Canyon was rocky and arid, with only a few stunted mesquite bushes and junipers clinging to its walls and struggling for life. A narrow strip of greenery bounded the shallow creek which trickled out of the narrow, high-walled canyon. The creek’s water was milky white with suspended microscopic mineral particles. Sam lowered his muzzle to drink, then snorted his displeasure at the creek’s bitter, alkali contents. “Reckon it don’t taste that good, huh buddy?” Jim chuckled. “Mebbe there’s a well with sweet water at Cruz’s homestead. Let’s keep movin’.”
Less than a quarter mile into the canyon, Jim came across the burned out remains of an adobe hut, its roof, door and windows gone, the walls streaked with smoke and soot stains. “This must be Cruz’s homestead,” he muttered, as he reined Sam to a halt in front of the shack and swung out of the saddle. He loosened his cinches and removed the gelding’s bridle, hanging it over the sad-dlehorn. “Now don’t you go ramblin’ off, horse,” he needlessly warned the big paint. Partners since Jim had rescued him from an abusive owner, Sam would not wander far, and would instantly answer his rider’s beckoning whistle. The horse trotted to a half-empty stock tank to drink his fill, then began tugging at the tough bunch grass along the creek.
Always cautious, Jim lifted his Colt from its holster before ducking through the low doorway and into the hut. Once inside, he glanced around the room, then with a grunt of relief slid the pistol back into its holster.
“Not gonna be much to find in here,” he muttered, as he shoved aside the twisted remains of a bed frame. “The fire got just about everythin’.” Except for the frame, a small stove, and a few unrecognizable metal fragments, the flames had consumed the contents of Cruz’s small home.
Jim poked through the ashes for some time, the only solid piece of evidence he could find the fire-blackened and warped barrel, breech, and other surviving metal parts of an old Henry rifle. “Mebbe Cruz managed to wing one of the hombres before they nailed him,” he thought, as inspected the gun’s remains. “The magazine didn’t explode, so that means his gun was empty.” As Jim continued to explore the shack, Sam twice whinnied piercingly from alongside the creek. “Just keep still, bud,” Jim shouted back. “I’m still lookin’ around in here.” He spent a few more minutes digging through the ruins of the shack before he decided, “I’m not gonna learn anythin’ much here. Might as well take a look around this canyon, then head back to town.” As he neared the doorway, Sam suddenly whinnied again, more urgently this time. Just in front of Jim’s feet, a bullet tore a furrow in the adobe’s dirt floor, followed by the crack of a rifle.
“You in the shack!” a voice ordered, “Come out with your hands up…slow and easy.”
“I’m a dang fool,” Jim muttered to himself, “I really messed up this time, so busy lookin’ around I let that hombre sneak up on me. And I didn’t pay any attention when Sam tried to warn me. If I get drilled it’ll serve me right.” For a moment, Jim considered taking cover and firing back, then realized that would be almost sure suicide. Since he’d heard the rifle shot at almost the same moment the bullet plowed into the floor, the shooter must have gotten well within range of the shack’s windows. “Least he didn’t put a bullet through me without warnin’ me first,” Jim ruefully thought. Aloud he shouted, “Hold your fire! I’m comin’ out.” He raised his hands shoulder high and stepped through the doorway.
“Don’t try anythin’ funny, or my next slug’ll be right in your belly,” the rifleman ordered as Jim walked out of the shack. “Andy, get his gun.” Blinded by the bright sunshine after the relative darkness of the adobe’s interior, the Ranger was helpless as another man stepped from his horse to lift Jim’s Peacemaker from its holster.
“Now, you mind tellin’ us what in blazes you’re up to, snoopin’ through Pablo’s house?” The speaker sat his blocky grulla easily, his rifle steadily aimed at Jim’s belt buckle despite the nervous prancing of his mettlesome horse. The second gunman had his .44 Remington revolver pointed straight at Jim’s ribs. Beyond them, Sam snorted anxiously as he eyed the two strangers with their guns pointed at his rider.
“Not at all,” Jim easily replied, “I’m a Texas Ranger. Jim Blawcyzk’s the name. I’m tryin’ to get to the bottom of all the killin’s around here.”
“You got any proof of that?”
“My badge is in my shirt pocket, and I’ve got my papers in my billfold.”
“All right, dig ‘em out. Nice and easy. One false move and we’ll blow you to Kingdom Come.”
Carefully, being sure his actions weren’t misconstrued, Jim reached into his pocket and produced the silver star on silver circle badge, the unofficial emblem of the Texas Rangers, and handed it to Andy.
“Sure appears to be a Ranger’s badge,” Andy noted, as he studied the insignia. “How about those papers?”
“Sure,” Jim easily agreed, producing his documents from Austin and handing them to the cowboy, who passed them to his mounted partner.
“All right, Ranger. I guess you’re who you claim you are,” the rider stated, as he studied Jim’s papers, then passed them back to the Ranger. “You can put your hands down. I’m Luke Evans, and my pard there is Andy Nelson. Andy, give him back his gun and badge.”
“Thanks, Mister,” Jim gratefully replied, taking his Colt and sliding it back in its holster, replacing the badge and papers in his shirt pocket. He whistled to Sam, who trotted up and nuzzled Jim’s neck, then dropped his nose to the Ranger’s hip pocket. As Jim gave Sam a peppermint he asked Evans “Now, you mind tellin’ me what you two are doin’ here?”
“Nope,” Evans answered, as he swung out of his saddle. “We work for the Triangle T. Lots of our stray cows seem to end up in Gypsum Creek Canyon. Whenever we headed over this way to look for ‘em, we’d stop in and visit Pablo. He always had a pot of coffee on the stove.”
“And a bottle of mescal in the cabinet,” Nelson added.
“That’s right,” Evans laughed. “Anyway, we were huntin’ strays as usual awhile back when we saw smoke comin’ from this way. Hurried on over and found Pablo’s shack on fire. We managed to pull him out, but it was too late.”
“Not because of the fire, but because he’d been shot,” Jim finished.
“That’s right. How’d you know that, Ranger?”
“Sheriff Crowe over to Sanderson told me. I’m surprised you didn’t figure that.”
“We don’t get to town all that often,” Evans explained. “Hey, what happened with that other Ranger, the one who was supposed to have killed Rebecca Jef-fers? We did hear about that.”
“Mob led by a couple of Rafter Q punchers tried to lynch him,” Jim explained, “I stopped ‘em. Didn’t do any good though, because someone back-shot him through his cell window. He’s dyin’, and the worst of it is he didn’t kill that woman, and I can prove it.”
“Truth to tell, Monte Tremblay, our boss at the Triangle T, never bought that story about Mrs. Jeffers’ killin’,” Nelson explained. “Hope you can find whoever really did it.”
“I will, and you can be sure of that,” Jim replied. “Mebbe you two can help. Was there any trace of whoever shot Cruz when you found him?”
“A few hoofprints, but they disappeared once we hit the main trail, mixed in with all the others,” Nelson explained.
“I figured as much,” Jim answered. “You got any idea who might’ve killed Pablo Cruz, and why?”
“Not a clue,” Evans shrugged. “Pablo was a real decent sort, especially for a Mex. Kept to himself pretty much, and didn’t bother anybody. Ran a few cattle and some goats.”
“He ever say why he took up a homestead here?” Jim asked. “Sure don’t look like the place to raise much of anythin’, either livestock or crops.”
“Only thing he ever said was he liked the peace and quiet out here,” Nelson replied. “About the only folks who ever come by this way are us Triangle T boys.”
“And lots of Anglos ain’t too friendly toward Mexicans, as you know, Ranger,” Evans added. “Probably Pablo figured this sorry patch of dirt was the only place around here no one’d bother him about. Looks like he was wrong.”
“Mebbe,” Jim answered. “You don’t think by any chance this was a robbery?”
“Not at all,” Evans responded, “Pablo didn’t have much more than the shirt on his back and those few scrawny cows and goats.”
“Still, someone had a reason for killin’ him,” Jim noted. “I’m gonna check the canyon. I’d appreciate it if you’d ride along with me.”
“Sure, Ranger,” Evans readily agreed, “We were headin’ in there to check for strays anyway. I’ve got a question for you before we mount up, though.”
“Sure,” Jim agreed, “What is it?”
Evans ran his admiring gaze over Jim’s gelding. “You ever thought of sellin’ that paint? He’s some animal.”
“Not a chance,” Jim replied. “Besides, ol’ Sam here’s a one-man horse, aint’cha bud? He won’t let anyone else near him, unless I say so.” As Sam whickered in agreement, Jim continued, “In fact, if you hadn’t taken your gun offa me Andy, I was gonna have Sam take care of you.”
“What d’ya mean, Ranger?” Nelson puzzled.
“Just this.” Jim motioned slightly with his right hand, and Sam, ears pinned and teeth bared, whirled on the hapless cowboy. “Easy Sam, hold it,” Jim ordered, as his paint reared high, “It’s all right, boy.” Snorting and plunging, Sam retreated to Jim’s side, still eyeing Nelson suspiciously. “Sorry for that Andy, but it was the best way to get my point across. Sam would’ve got me
outta that fix. When he went after you, Luke would just naturally have taken his attention off me, and before he even knew what happened, I would’ve gotten the drop on your pardner…or put a slug through him if I had to. And Sam would already have sunk his teeth into your guts.”
“I see what you mean about that horse,” a shaken Nelson replied. “I won’t be caught dead near him.”
“More likely that’s exactly how you’d be caught if you went near him…dead,” Evans laughed. “Ranger, I’m sure glad you didn’t turn him loose on us. If you’re ready, let’s get ridin’.”
Gypsum Creek Canyon, if anything, was even less hospitable than it appeared at first glance. The creek which gave the canyon its name was fouled with dissolved minerals, the little vegetation its water supported thorny mes-quite, cactus, and scrub, unpalatable to most animals.
“You say a lot of Triangle T stock wanders in here,” Jim questioned, as they reached the end of the narrow box canyon. “Sure can’t see why.”
“Neither can we,” Evans agreed.
“You think perhaps they don’t just ‘wander’ in here?” Jim asked. “Mebbe they have some help. Could be that’s why Cruz was killed, because he saw someone rustlin’ your beefs.”
“I doubt it,” Evans answered. “We always find most of ‘em. Few that don’t turn up are probably taken by cougars or wolves. Not enough missin’ to make me believe there’s rustlin’ involved.”
“Seems to me those cows just think it’s a good hidin’ place,” Nelson added. “It’s not easy chousin’ ‘em out of that brush. And it sure don’t look like we’re gonna find many today.”
“Reckon you’re right,” Jim agreed. “Well, I’m not gonna find any reason for someone to kill Cruz in here, that’s for certain. Guess I’ll leave you boys to your searchin’ and head back to town. If you think of anythin’ that might be helpful, you can get in touch with me at the Terrell Hotel. I’m in Room 15.”
“Will do, Ranger,” Evans replied, “Adios, and good luck.”
After arriving back in Sanderson, Jim put up Sam and headed to Doctor Sweeney’s office to check on Steve Masters and John Crowe. The physician informed him that while Steve was still in a coma and gripped by a high fever, Sheriff Crowe had passed his crisis, and had in fact been conscious for a short
time earlier in the day. Jim spent a few minutes visiting with Steve, speaking to the unconscious Ranger in hopes he might somehow hear Jim’s voice.
Leaving the doctor’s office, Jim headed back to his room, cleaned up, then had an early supper at the Bon Ton. Once his appetite had been satisfied, he returned to the bank where, as promised, Leah Collins had the books ready for his perusal. After assuring her that he would return the ledgers as soon as the bank opened the next morning, Jim headed back to the hotel.
When night fell, it brought no relief from the blazing heat of the day, the air thick with humidity as thunder rumbled in the distance. Jim’s cramped, dingy room was like an oven, even with the window open to catch any vagrant breeze. He’d unbuttoned his sweat-soaked shirt as he pored over the bank’s journals.
“Mebbe we’re in for a little rain,” he muttered, as the thunder increased in volume, lightning flashed over the rooftops, and storm clouds overtook the western horizon. “That’ll cool things off a little.” He pulled the bandanna from his neck to wipe perspiration from his brow and the thick blonde hair matting his chest, then tossed it aside as he resumed his examination.
Half an hour later, the tattletale gray curtains at the window fluttered in a freshening breeze, and rain spattered on the sill. “Better close that window,” Jim mused, when the coal oil lamp’s flame flickered and nearly went out.
As Jim reached up for the sash a shot rang out, shattering the glass just above his head, the bullet burying itself in the wall opposite. He dove to the floor and rolled across the room, jerking his Colt from the gunbelt hanging on the bedpost. He bellied back across the floor, gun at the ready, and poked his head just above the windowsill. Instantly, another shot rang out, this bullet splatting into the outside wall just below the sill. Jim snapped a shot at the gun’s flash in answer, and was rewarded with a yelp of pain.
Cautiously, Jim peered over the windowsill, and when no return shot was forthcoming, he leapt to his feet and raced down the stairs into the alleyway. “Blasted rain,” he exclaimed, as the thunderstorm broke in earnest, rain and hail coming down in wind-driven sheets. Evidently his bullet had just clipped the hidden drygulcher, and the rain was rapidly washing away any trace of his footprints or spots of blood.
As Jim turned back toward the street Rick Lewis called out, “Hey, what’s goin’ on back there?”
“It’s only me, Rick,” Jim wearily replied as Lewis came up to him. As usual, the deputy carried his Colt Lightning rifle.
“Jim? What’re you up to? I heard shots.”
“Somebody tried to drill me through my hotel window,” Jim exclaimed. “I thought I hit him when I shot back, but I must’ve just grazed him. No chance of findin’ him now.”
“You all right?” Lewis queried.
“I’m fine,” Jim answered with a rueful chuckle, “but the hotel needs a new window.”
“That’s not much of a problem,” Lewis responded, clearly relieved. “Glass can be replaced pretty easy, but it’s a heckuva job to find another Texas Ranger.”
“I won’t argue with you there,” Jim laughed. “Well, there’s nothin’ more we can do here, and I’m tired. Time for me to get some shuteye. I’ll see you in the mornin’. G’night, Rick.”
“’Night, Jim. And you might want to stay away from any more windows.”
“I will. They just ain’t safe,” Jim grinned.